“I remember,” said Louisa, reddening at her mistake; “I recollect, now, to have heard your domestic misfortunes spoken of, though I was not attending to the particulars at the time. It was not my meaning to ask a question that would give pain to any one here. If I should ask any other question that may happen to have that result, give me credit, if you please, for being in ignorance how to speak to you as I ought.”
As Stephen had but a little while ago instinctively addressed himself to her, so she now instinctively addressed herself to Rachael. Her manner was short and abrupt, yet faltering and timid.
“He has told you what has passed between himself and my husband? You would be his first resource, I think.”
“I have heard the end of it, young lady,” said Rachael.
“Did I understand, that, being rejected by one employer, he would probably be rejected by all? I thought he said as much?”
“The chances are very small, young lady—next to nothing—for a man who gets a bad name among them.”
“What shall I understand that you mean by a bad name?”
“The name of being troublesome.”
“Then, by the prejudices of his own class, and by the prejudices of the other, he is sacrificed alike? Are the two so deeply separated in this town, that there is no place whatever for an honest workman between them?”
Rachael shook her head in silence.
“He fell into suspicion,” said Louisa, “with his fellow-weavers, because—he had made a promise not to be one of them. I think it must have been to you that he made that promise. Might I ask you why he made it?”
Rachael burst into tears. “I didn't seek it of him, poor lad. I prayed him to avoid trouble for his own good, little thinking he'd come to it through me. But I know he'd die a hundred deaths, ere ever he'd break his word. I know that of him well.”
Stephen had remained quietly attentive, in his usual thoughtful attitude, with his hand at his chin. He now spoke in a voice rather less steady than usual.
“No one, excepting myseln, can ever know what honour, an” what love, an” respect, I bear to Rachael, or wi” what cause. When I passed that promess, I towd her true, she were th” Angel o” my life. “Twere a solemn promess. “Tis gone fro” me, for ever.”
Louisa turned her head to him, and bent it with a deference that was new in her. She looked from him to Rachael, and her features softened. “What will you do?” she asked him. And her voice had softened too.
“Weel, ma'am,” said Stephen, making the best of it, with a smile; “when I ha finished off, I mun quit this part, and try another. Fortnet or misfortnet, a man can but try; there's nowt to be done wi'out tryin'—cept laying down and dying.”
“How will you travel?”
“Afoot, my kind ledy, afoot.”
Louisa coloured, and a purse appeared in her hand. The rustling of a bank-note was audible, as she unfolded one and laid it on the table.
“Rachael, will you tell him—for you know how, without offence—that this is freely his, to help him on his way? Will you entreat him to take it?”
“I canna do that, young lady,” she answered, turning her head aside. “Bless you for thinking o” the poor lad wi” such tenderness. But “tis for him to know his heart, and what is right according to it.”
Louisa looked, in part incredulous, in part frightened, in part overcome with quick sympathy, when this man of so much selfcommand, who had been so plain and steady through the late interview, lost his composure in a moment, and now stood with his hand before his face. She stretched out hers, as if she would have touched him; then checked herself, and remained still.
“Not e'en Rachael,” said Stephen, when he stood again with his face uncovered, “could mak sitch a kind offerin, by onny words, kinder. T” show that I'm not a man wi'out reason and gratitude, I'll tak two pound. I'll borrow “t for t” pay “t back. “Twill be the sweetest work as ever I ha done, that puts it in my power t” acknowledge once more my lastin thankfulness for this present action.”
She was fain to take up the note again, and to substitute the much smaller sum he had named. He was neither courtly, nor handsome, nor picturesque, in any respect; and yet his manner of accepting it, and of expressing his thanks without more words, had a grace in it that Lord Chesterfield could not have taught his son in a century.
Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one leg and sucking his walkingstick with sufficient unconcern, until the visit had attained this stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, he got up, rather hurriedly, and put in a word.
“Just wait a moment, Loo! Before we go, I should like to speak to him a moment. Something comes into my head. If you'll step out on the stairs, Blackpool , I'll mention it. Never mind a light, man!” Tom was remarkably impatient of his moving towards the cupboard, to get one. “It don't want a light.”
Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed the room door, and held the lock in his hand.
“I say!” he whispered. “I think I can do you a good turn. Don't ask me what it is, because it may not come to anything. But there's no harm in my trying.”
His breath fell like a flame of fire on Stephen's ear, it was so hot.
“That was our light porter at the Bank,” said Tom, “who brought you the message to-night. I call him our light porter, because I belong to the Bank too.”
Stephen thought, “What a hurry he is in!” He spoke so confusedly.
“Well!” said Tom. “Now look here! When are you off?”
“T” day's Monday,” replied Stephen, considering. “Why, sir, Friday or Saturday, nigh “bout.”
“Friday or Saturday,” said Tom. “Now look here! I am not sure that I can do you the good turn I want to do you—that's my sister, you know, in your room—but I may be able to, and if I should not be able to, there's no harm done. So I tell you what. You'll know our light porter again?”
“Yes, sure,” said Stephen.
“Very well,” returned Tom. “When you leave work of a night, between this and your going away, just hang about the Bank an hour or so, will you? Don't take on, as if you meant anything, if he should see you hanging about there; because I shan't put him up to speak to you, unless I find I can do you the service I want to do you. In that case he'll have a note or a message for you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you understand.”
He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of Stephen's coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary manner.
“I understand, sir,” said Stephen.
“Now look here!” repeated Tom. “Be sure you don't make any mistake then, and don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!”
He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm.
Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, “because she was such a pretty dear.” Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers” Coffee House, where they parted from her.
They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak.
“I shall strive t” see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not—”
“Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. “Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi” one another.”
“Thou'rt awlus right. “Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as “tis but a day or two that remains, “twere better for thee, my dear, not t” be seen wi” me. “T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good.”
