much, that I were owd when I were young.”
Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, “The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction.”
“I ha” paid her to keep awa” fra” me. These five year I ha” paid her. I ha” gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha” lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo” a” the minnits o” my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!”
In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time—his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused.
“I was acquainted with all this, you know,” said Mr. Bounderby, “except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that.”
“Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?” asked Mrs. Sparsit.
“You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?” said Mr. Bounderby.
“Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut.”
“Indeed, sir?” said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. “I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years.”
Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry.
“Well? Why don't you go on?” he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool.
“I ha” coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o” this woman.” Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock.
“What do you mean?” said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. “What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse.”
“I mun” be ridden o” her. I cannot bear “t nommore. I ha” lived under “t so long, for that I ha” had'n the pity and comforting words o” th” best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha” gone battering mad.”
“He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir,” observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people.
“I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to “t. I ha” read i” th” papers that great folk (fair faw “em a”! I wishes “em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro” their misfortnet marriages, an” marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o” one kind an” another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha” only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha” gowd an” other cash, an” they can say “This for yo” an” that for me,” an” they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o” all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o” this woman, and I want t” know how?”
“No how,” returned Mr. Bounderby.
“If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punish me?”
“Of course there is.”
“If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?”
“Of course there is.”
“If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law to punish me?”
“Of course there is.”
“If I was to live wi” her an” not marry her—saying such a thing could be, which it never could or would, an” her so good—there's a law to punish me, in every innocent child belonging to me?”
“Of course there is.”
“Now, a” God's name,” said Stephen Blackpool, “show me the law to help me!”
“Hem! There's a sanctity in this relation of life,” said Mr. Bounderby, “and—and—it must be kept up.”
“No no, dunnot say that, sir. “Tan't kep” up that way. Not that way. “Tis kep” down that way. I'm a weaver, I were in a fact'ry when a chilt, but I ha” gotten een to see wi” and eern to year wi”. I read in th” papers every “Sizes, every Sessions—and you read too—I know it!—with dismay—how th” supposed unpossibility o” ever getting unchained from one another, at any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many common married fok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Let us ha” this, right understood. Mine's a grievous case, an” I want—if yo will be so good—t” know the law that helps me.”
“Now, I tell you what!” said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets. “There is such a law.”
Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and never wandering in his attention, gave a nod.
“But it's not for you at all. It costs money. It costs a mint of money.”
“How much might that be?” Stephen calmly asked.
“Why, you'd have to go to Doctors” Commons with a suit, and you'd have to go to a court of Common Law with a suit, and you'd have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, and you'd have to get an Act of Parliament to enable you to marry again, and it would cost you (if it was a case of very plain sailing), I suppose from a thousand to fifteen hundred pound,” said Mr. Bounderby. “Perhaps twice the money.”
“There's no other law?”
“Certainly not.”
“Why then, sir,” said Stephen, turning white, and motioning with that right hand of his, as if he gave everything to the four winds, “'tis a muddle. “Tis just a muddle a'toogether, an” the sooner I am dead, the better.”
(Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the impiety of the people.)
“Pooh, pooh! Don't you talk nonsense, my good fellow,” said Mr. Bounderby, “about things you don't understand; and don't you call the Institutions of your country a muddle, or you'll get yourself into a real muddle one of these fine mornings. The institutions of your country are not your piece-work, and the only thing you have got to do, is, to mind your piece-work. You didn't take your wife for fast and for loose; but for better for worse. If she has turned out worse—why, all we have got to say is, she might have turned out better.”
“'Tis a muddle,” said Stephen, shaking his head as he moved to the door. “'Tis a” a muddle!”
“Now, I'll tell you what!” Mr. Bounderby resumed, as a valedictory address. “With what I shall call your unhallowed opinions, you have been quite shocking this lady: who, as I have already told you, is a born lady, and who, as I have not already told you, has had her own marriage misfortunes to the tune of tens of thousands of pounds—tens of Thousands of Pounds!” (he repeated it with great relish). “Now, you have always been a steady Hand hitherto; but my opinion is, and so I tell you plainly, that you are turning into the wrong road. You have been listening to some mischievous stranger or other—they're always about—and the best thing you can do is, to come out of that. Now you know;” here his countenance expressed marvellous acuteness; “I can see as far into a grindstone as another man; farther than a good many, perhaps, because I had my nose well kept to it when I was young. I see traces of the turtle soup, and venison, and gold spoon in this. Yes, I do!” cried Mr. Bounderby, shaking his head with obstinate cunning. “By the Lord Harry, I do!”
With a very different shake of the head and deep sigh, Stephen said, “Thank you, sir, I wish you good day.” So he left Mr. Bounderby swelling at his own portrait on the wall, as if he were going to explode himself into it; and Mrs. Sparsit still ambling on with her foot in her stirrup, looking quite cast down by the popular vices.
CHAPTER XII
THE OLD WOMAN
OLD STEPHEN descended the two white steps, shutting the black door with the brazen door-plate, by the aid
