Hard Times

by Dickens, Charles

  I, that ha' ett'n an' droonken wi' 'em, an' seet'n wi' 'em, and

  toil'n wi' 'em, and lov'n 'em, should fail fur to stan by 'em wi'

  the truth, let 'em ha' doon to me what they may!'

  He spoke with the rugged earnestness of his place and character -

  deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that he was faithful to

  his class under all their mistrust; but he fully remembered where

  he was, and did not even raise his voice.

  'No, ma'am, no. They're true to one another, faithfo' to one

  another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong

  'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny

  causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be

  tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo.

  Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd

  be different.'

  'In short,' said Mr. Bounderby, 'it's because they are so full of

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  virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while

  you are about it. Out with it.'

  'How 'tis, ma'am,' resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his

  natural refuge in Louisa's face, 'that what is best in us fok,

  seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I

  dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me

  ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do

  right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us.'

  'Now, my friend,' said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have

  exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by

  seeming to appeal to any one else, 'if you will favour me with your

  attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two

  with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about

  this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any

  further.'

  'Sir, I am sure on 't.'

  'Here's a gentleman from London present,' Mr. Bounderby made a

  backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, 'a

  Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of

  dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it

  - for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody

  knows better than I do, take notice! - instead of receiving it on

  trust from my mouth.'

  Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a

  rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes

  involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter

  (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr.

  Bounderby's face.

  'Now, what do you complain of?' asked Mr. Bounderby.

  'I ha' not coom here, sir,' Stephen reminded him, 'to complain. I

  coom for that I were sent for.'

  'What,' repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, 'do you people,

  in a general way, complain of?'

  Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment,

  and then seemed to make up his mind.

  'Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share

  in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town -

  so rich as 'tis - and see the numbers o' people as has been

  broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece

  out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles

  and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what

  numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how

  the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to

  ony dis'ant object - ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers

  of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor

  deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus

  right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us

  sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir,

  bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year

  to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir,

  and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?'

  'Of course,' said Mr. Bounderby. 'Now perhaps you'll let the

  gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of

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  calling it) to rights.'

  'I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should

  be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower

  aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to

  do't?'

  'I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate,' returned Mr.

  Bounderby. 'We will make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges.

  We'll indict the blackguards for felony, and get 'em shipped off to

  penal settlements.'

  Stephen gravely shook his head.

  'Don't tell me we won't, man,' said Mr. Bounderby, by this time

  blowing a hurricane, 'because we will, I tell you!'

  'Sir,' returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute

  certainty, 'if yo was t' tak a hundred Slackbridges - aw as there

  is, and aw the number ten times towd - an' was t' sew 'em up in

  separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made ere

  ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle just wheer 'tis.

  Mischeevous strangers!' said Stephen, with an anxious smile; 'when

  ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o' th'

  mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by them the trouble's made, sir.

  'Tis not wi' them 't commences. I ha no favour for 'em - I ha no

  reason to favour 'em - but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o'

  takin them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro them!

  Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an'

  will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack

  it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same.

  So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit.'

  Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a

  cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back,

  he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his

  own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for

  his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those

  who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.

  'Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the

  genelman what will better aw this - though some working men o' this

  town could, above my powers - but I can tell him what I know will

  never do 't. The strong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry and

  triumph will never do 't. Agreeing fur to mak one side unnat'rally

  awlus and for ever right, and toother side unnat'rally awlus and

  for ever wrong, will never, never do 't. Nor yet lettin alone will

  never do 't. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the

  like lives and aw faw'en into the like muddle, and they will be as

  one, and yo will be as anoother, wi' a black unpassable world

  betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sich-like misery can

  last. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi' kindness and patience an' cheery

  ways, that so dr
aws nigh to one another in their monny troubles,

  and so cherishes one another in their distresses wi' what they need

  themseln - like, I humbly believe, as no people the genelman ha

  seen in aw his travels can beat - will never do 't till th' Sun

  turns t' ice. Most o' aw, rating 'em as so much Power, and

  reg'latin 'em as if they was figures in a soom, or machines:

  wi'out loves and likens, wi'out memories and inclinations, wi'out

  souls to weary and souls to hope - when aw goes quiet, draggin on

  wi' 'em as if they'd nowt o' th' kind, and when aw goes onquiet,

  reproachin 'em for their want o' sitch humanly feelins in their

  dealins wi' yo - this will never do 't, sir, till God's work is

  onmade.'

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  Stephen stood with the open door in his hand, waiting to know if

  anything more were expected of him.

  'Just stop a moment,' said Mr. Bounderby, excessively red in the

  face. 'I told you, the last time you were here with a grievance,

  that you had better turn about and come out of that. And I also

  told you, if you remember, that I was up to the gold spoon lookout.'

  'I were not up to 't myseln, sir; I do assure yo.'

  'Now it's clear to me,' said Mr. Bounderby, 'that you are one of

  those chaps who have always got a grievance. And you go about,

  sowing it and raising crops. That's the business of your life, my

  friend.'

  Stephen shook his head, mutely protesting that indeed he had other

  business to do for his life.

  'You are such a waspish, raspish, ill-conditioned chap, you see,'

  said Mr. Bounderby, 'that even your own Union, the men who know you

  best, will have nothing to do with you. I never thought those

  fellows could be right in anything; but I tell you what! I so far

  go along with them for a novelty, that I'll have nothing to do with

  you either.'

  Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face.

  'You can finish off what you're at,' said Mr. Bounderby, with a

  meaning nod, 'and then go elsewhere.'

  'Sir, yo know weel,' said Stephen expressively, 'that if I canna

  get work wi' yo, I canna get it elsewheer.'

  The reply was, 'What I know, I know; and what you know, you know.

  I have no more to say about it.'

  Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her eyes were raised to his no

  more; therefore, with a sigh, and saying, barely above his breath,

  'Heaven help us aw in this world!' he departed.

  CHAPTER VI - FADING AWAY

  IT was falling dark when Stephen came out of Mr. Bounderby's house.

  The shadows of night had gathered so fast, that he did not look

  about him when he closed the door, but plodded straight along the

  street. Nothing was further from his thoughts than the curious old

  woman he had encountered on his previous visit to the same house,

  when he heard a step behind him that he knew, and turning, saw her

  in Rachael's company.

  He saw Rachael first, as he had heard her only.

  'Ah, Rachael, my dear! Missus, thou wi' her!'

  'Well, and now you are surprised to be sure, and with reason I must

  say,' the old woman returned. 'Here I am again, you see.'

  'But how wi' Rachael?' said Stephen, falling into their step,

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  walking between them, and looking from the one to the other.

  'Why, I come to be with this good lass pretty much as I came to be

  with you,' said the old woman, cheerfully, taking the reply upon

  herself. 'My visiting time is later this year than usual, for I

  have been rather troubled with shortness of breath, and so put it

  off till the weather was fine and warm. For the same reason I

  don't make all my journey in one day, but divide it into two days,

  and get a bed to-night at the Travellers' Coffee House down by the

  railroad (a nice clean house), and go back Parliamentary, at six in

  the morning. Well, but what has this to do with this good lass,

  says you? I'm going to tell you. I have heard of Mr. Bounderby

  being married. I read it in the paper, where it looked grand - oh,

  it looked fine!' the old woman dwelt on it with strange enthusiasm:

  'and I want to see his wife. I have never seen her yet. Now, if

  you'll believe me, she hasn't come out of that house since noon today.

  So not to give her up too easily, I was waiting about, a

  little last bit more, when I passed close to this good lass two or

  three times; and her face being so friendly I spoke to her, and she

  spoke to me. There!' said the old woman to Stephen, 'you can make

  all the rest out for yourself now, a deal shorter than I can, I

  dare say!'

  Once again, Stephen had to conquer an instinctive propensity to

  dislike this old woman, though her manner was as honest and simple

  as a manner possibly could be. With a gentleness that was as

  natural to him as he knew it to be to Rachael, he pursued the

  subject that interested her in her old age.

  'Well, missus,' said he, 'I ha seen the lady, and she were young

  and hansom. Wi' fine dark thinkin eyes, and a still way, Rachael,

  as I ha never seen the like on.'

  'Young and handsome. Yes!' cried the old woman, quite delighted.

  'As bonny as a rose! And what a happy wife!'

  'Aye, missus, I suppose she be,' said Stephen. But with a doubtful

  glance at Rachael.

  'Suppose she be? She must be. She's your master's wife,' returned

  the old woman.

  Stephen nodded assent. 'Though as to master,' said he, glancing

  again at Rachael, 'not master onny more. That's aw enden 'twixt

  him and me.'

  'Have you left his work, Stephen?' asked Rachael, anxiously and

  quickly.

  'Why, Rachael,' he replied, 'whether I ha lef'n his work, or

  whether his work ha lef'n me, cooms t' th' same. His work and me

  are parted. 'Tis as weel so - better, I were thinkin when yo coom

  up wi' me. It would ha brought'n trouble upon trouble if I had

  stayed theer. Haply 'tis a kindness to monny that I go; haply 'tis

  a kindness to myseln; anyways it mun be done. I mun turn my face

  fro Coketown fur th' time, and seek a fort'n, dear, by beginnin

  fresh.'

  'Where will you go, Stephen?'

  'I donno t'night,' said he, lifting off his hat, and smoothing his

  thin hair with the flat of his hand. 'But I'm not goin t'night,

  Rachael, nor yet t'morrow. 'Tan't easy overmuch t' know wheer t'

  turn, but a good heart will coom to me.'

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  Herein, too, the sense of even thinking unselfishly aided him.

  Before he had so much as closed Mr. Bounderby's door, he had

  reflected that at least his being obliged to go away was good for

  her, as it would save her from the chance of being brought into

  question for not withdrawing from him. Though it would cost him a

  hard pang to leave her, and though he could think of no similar

  place in which his condemnation would not pursue him, perhaps it

  was almost a relief to be forced away from the endurance of the

  last four days, even to unknown difficulties and distress
es.

  So he said, with truth, 'I'm more leetsome, Rachael, under 't, than

  I could'n ha believed.' It was not her part to make his burden

  heavier. She answered with her comforting smile, and the three

  walked on together.

  Age, especially when it strives to be self-reliant and cheerful,

  finds much consideration among the poor. The old woman was so

  decent and contented, and made so light of her infirmities, though

  they had increased upon her since her former interview with

  Stephen, that they both took an interest in her. She was too

  sprightly to allow of their walking at a slow pace on her account,

  but she was very grateful to be talked to, and very willing to talk

  to any extent: so, when they came to their part of the town, she

  was more brisk and vivacious than ever.

  'Come to my poor place, missus,' said Stephen, 'and tak a coop o'

  tea. Rachael will coom then; and arterwards I'll see thee safe t'

  thy Travellers' lodgin. 'T may be long, Rachael, ere ever I ha th'

  chance o' thy coompany agen.'

  They complied, and the three went on to the house where he lodged.

  When they turned into a narrow street, Stephen glanced at his

  window with a dread that always haunted his desolate home; but it

  was open, as he had left it, and no one was there. The evil spirit

  of his life had flitted away again, months ago, and he had heard no

  more of her since. The only evidence of her last return now, were

  the scantier moveables in his room, and the grayer hair upon his

  head.

  He lighted a candle, set out his little tea-board, got hot water

  from below, and brought in small portions of tea and sugar, a loaf,

  and some butter from the nearest shop. The bread was new and

  crusty, the butter fresh, and the sugar lump, of course - in

  fulfilment of the standard testimony of the Coketown magnates, that

  these people lived like princes, sir. Rachael made the tea (so

  large a party necessitated the borrowing of a cup), and the visitor

  enjoyed it mightily. It was the first glimpse of sociality the

  host had had for many days. He too, with the world a wide heath

  before him, enjoyed the meal - again in corroboration of the

  magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part

  of these people, sir.

  'I ha never thowt yet, missus,' said Stephen, 'o' askin thy name.'

  The old lady announced herself as 'Mrs. Pegler.'

  'A widder, I think?' said Stephen.