him changed, and nothing was left as it had been, but himself and the clergyman. They stood in the daylight before a crowd so vast, that if all the people in the world could have been brought together into one space, they could not have looked, he thought, more numerous; and they all abhorred him, and there was not one pitying or friendly eye among the millions that were fastened on his face. He stood on a raised stage, under his own loom; and, looking up at the shape the loom took, and hearing the burial service distinctly read, he knew that he was there to suffer death. In an instant what he stood on fell below him, and he was gone.
—Out of what mystery he came back to his usual life, and to places that he knew, he was unable to consider; but he was back in those places by some means, and with this condemnation upon him, that he was never, in this world or the next, through all the unimaginable ages of eternity, to look on Rachael's face or hear her voice. Wandering to and fro, unceasingly, without hope, and in search of he knew not what (he only knew that he was doomed to seek it), he was the subject of a nameless, horrible dread, a mortal fear of one particular shape which everything took. Whatsoever he looked at, grew into that form sooner or later. The object of his miserable existence was to prevent its recognition by any one among the various people he encountered. Hopeless labour! If he led them out of rooms where it was, if he shut up drawers and closets where it stood, if he drew the curious from places where he knew it to be secreted, and got them out into the streets, the very chimneys of the mills assumed that shape, and round them was the printed word.
The wind was blowing again, the rain was beating on the house-tops, and the larger spaces through which he had strayed contracted to the four walls of his room. Saving that the fire had died out, it was as his eyes had closed upon it. Rachael seemed to have fallen into a doze, in the chair by the bed. She sat wrapped in her shawl, perfectly still. The table stood in the same place, close by the bedside, and on it, in its real proportions and appearance, was the shape so often repeated.
He thought he saw the curtain move. He looked again, and he was sure it moved. He saw a hand come forth and grope about a little. Then the curtain moved more perceptibly, and the woman in the bed put it back, and sat up.
With her woful eyes, so haggard and wild, so heavy and large, she looked all round the room, and passed the corner where he slept in his chair. Her eyes returned to that corner, and she put her hand over them as a shade, while she looked into it. Again they went all round the room, scarcely heeding Rachael if at all, and returned to that corner. He thought, as she once more shaded them—not so much looking at him, as looking for him with a brutish instinct that he was there—that no single trace was left in those debauched features, or in the mind that went along with them, of the woman he had married eighteen years before. But that he had seen her come to this by inches, he never could have believed her to be the same.
All this time, as if a spell were on him, he was motionless and powerless, except to watch her.
Stupidly dozing, or communing with her incapable self about nothing, she sat for a little while with her hands at her ears, and her head resting on them. Presently, she resumed her staring round the room. And now, for the first time, her eyes stopped at the table with the bottles on it.
Straightway she turned her eyes back to his corner, with the defiance of last night, and moving very cautiously and softly, stretched out her greedy hand. She drew a mug into the bed, and sat for a while considering which of the two bottles she should choose. Finally, she laid her insensate grasp upon the bottle that had swift and certain death in it, and, before his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth.
Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had he power to stir. If this be real, and her allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael, wake!
She thought of that, too. She looked at Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously, poured out the contents. The draught was at her lips. A moment and she would be past all help, let the whole world wake and come about her with its utmost power. But in that moment Rachael started up with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her, seized her by the hair; but Rachael had the cup.
Stephen broke out of his chair. “Rachael, am I wakin” or dreamin” this dreadfo” night?”
“'Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep, myself. “Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells.”
The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, and the red marks of fingers on her forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and hearing had been awake. She held the cup in her hand even now.
“I thought it must be near three,” she said, calmly pouring from the cup into the basin, and steeping the linen as before. “I am thankful I stayed! “Tis done now, when I have put this on. There! And now she's quiet again. The few drops in the basin I'll pour away, for “tis bad stuff to leave about, though ever so little of it.” As she spoke, she drained the basin into the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottle on the hearth.
She had nothing to do, then, but to cover herself with her shawl before going out into the wind and rain.
“Thou'lt let me walk wi” thee at this hour, Rachael?”
“No, Stephen. “Tis but a minute, and I'm home.”
“Thou'rt not fearfo';” he said it in a low voice, as they went out at the door; “to leave me alone wi” her!”
As she looked at him, saying, “Stephen?” he went down on his knee before her, on the poor mean stairs, and put an end of her shawl to his lips.
“Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless thee!”
“I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poor friend. Angels are not like me. Between them, and a working woman fu” of faults, there is a deep gulf set. My little sister is among them, but she is changed.”
She raised her eyes for a moment as she said the words; and then they fell again, in all their gentleness and mildness, on his face.
“Thou changest me from bad to good. Thou mak'st me humbly wishfo” to be more like thee, and fearfo” to lose thee when this life is ower, and a” the muddle cleared awa”. Thou'rt an Angel; it may be, thou hast saved my soul alive!”
She looked at him, on his knee at her feet, with her shawl still in his hand, and the reproof on her lips died away when she saw the working of his face.
“I coom home desp'rate. I coom home wi'out a hope, and mad wi” thinking that when I said a word o” complaint I was reckoned a unreasonable Hand. I told thee I had had a fright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. I never hurt a livin” creetur; but happenin” so suddenly upon “t, I thowt, “How can I say what I might ha” done to myseln, or her, or both!'”
She put her two hands on his mouth, with a face of terror, to stop him from saying more. He caught them in his unoccupied hand, and holding them, and still clasping the border of her shawl, said hurriedly:
“But I see thee, Rachael, setten by the bed. I ha” seen thee, aw this night. In my troublous sleep I ha” known thee still to be there. Evermore I will see thee there. I nevermore will see her or think o” her, but thou shalt be beside her. I nevermore will see or think o” anything that angers me, but thou, so much better than me, shalt be by th” side on't. And so I will try t” look t” th” time, and so I will try t” trust t” th” time, when thou and me at last shall walk together far awa”, beyond the deep gulf, in th” country where thy little sister is.”
He kissed the border of her shawl again, and let her go. She bade him good night in a broken voice, and went out into the street.
The wind blew from the quarter where the day would soon appear, and still blew strongly. It had cleared the sky before it, and the rain had spent itself or travelled elsewhere, and the stars were bright. He stood bare-headed in the road, watching her quick disappearance. As the shining stars were to the heavy candle in the window, so was Rachael, in the rugged fancy of this man, to the common experiences of his life.
CHAPTER XIV
THE GREAT MANUFACTURER
TIME went on in Coketown like its own machinery: so much material wrought up, so much fuel consumed, so many powers worn out, so much money made. But, less inexorable than iron, steal, and brass, it brought its varying seasons even into that wilderness of smoke and brick, and made the only stand that ever was made in the place against its direful uniformity.
