The Best of the Bureau/The_Best_of_the_Bureau_Bureau_Development_Inc._1992.iso/dp/0059/00595.txt

Text File | 1992-08-07 | 26KB | 511 lines

$Unique_ID{bob00595}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{Hard Times
Chapter VI}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Dickens, Charles}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{stephen
rachael
now
old
upon
yet
ha
like
thee
tis}
$Date{}
$Log{}
Title:       Hard Times
Book:        Book The Second: Reaping
Author:      Dickens, Charles

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 we' 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, 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 a 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 to-day. 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 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 yoong 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, quiete 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 thinken 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 weer 't turn, but a good heart will
coom to me."

     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 distresses.

     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 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.

     "Coom 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 company
agin."

     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 evidences 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.

     "Oh, many years!" Mrs. Pegler's husband (one of the best on record) was
already dead, by Mrs. Pegler's calculation, when Stephen was born.

     "'Twere a bad job too, to lose so good a one," said Stephen.  "Onny
children?"

     Mrs. Pegler's cup, rattling against her saucer as she held it, denoted
some nervousness on her part.  "No," she said.  "Not now, not now."

     "Dead, Stephen," Rachael softly hinted.

     "I'm sooary I ha' spok'n on 't," said Stephen, "I ought t' hadn in my
mind as I might touch a sore place.  I - I blame myseln."

     While he excused himself, the old lady's cup rattled more and more. "I
had a son," she said, curiously distressed, and not by any of the usual
appearances of sorrow; "and he did well, wonderfully well.  But he is not to
be spoken of if you please.  He is - " Putting down her cup, she moved her
hands as if she would have added, by her action, "dead!" Th