“If aw th” things that tooches us, my dear, was not so muddled, I should'n ha” had'n need to coom heer. If we was not in a muddle among ourseln, I should'n ha” been, by my own fellow weavers and workin” brothers, so mistook. If Mr. Bounderby had ever know'd me right—if he'd ever know'd me at aw—he would'n ha” took'n offence wi” me. He would'n ha” suspect'n me. But look up yonder, Rachael! Look aboove!”
Following his eyes, she saw that he was gazing at a star.
“It ha” shined upon me,” he said reverently, “in my pain and trouble down below. It ha” shined into my mind. I ha” look'n at “t and thowt o” thee, Rachael, till the muddle in my mind have cleared awa, above a bit, I hope. If soom ha” been wantin” in unnerstan'in me better, I, too, ha” been wantin” in unnerstan'in them better. When I got thy letter, I easily believen that what the yoong ledy sen and done to me, and what her brother sen and done to me, was one, and that there were a wicked plot betwixt “em. When I fell, I were in anger wi” her, an” hurryin on t” be as onjust t” her as oothers was t” me. But in our judgments, like as in our doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my pain an” trouble, lookin up yonder,—wi” it shinin on me—I ha” seen more clear, and ha” made it my dyin prayer that aw th” world may on'y coom toogether more, an” get a better unnerstan'in o” one another, than when I were in “t my own weak seln.”
Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him on the opposite side to Rachael, so that he could see her.
“You ha” heard?” he said, after a few moments” silence. “I ha” not forgot you, ledy.”
“Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your prayer is mine.”
“You ha” a father. Will yo tak” a message to him?”
“He is here,” said Louisa, with dread. “Shall I bring him to you?”
“If yo please.”
Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon the solemn countenance.
“Sir, yo will clear me an” mak my name good wi” aw men. This I leave to yo.”
Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how?
“Sir,” was the reply: “yor son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahint me: not a single word. I ha” seen an” spok'n wi” yor son, one night. I ask no more o” yo than that yo clear me—an” I trust to yo to do “t.”
The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star:
“Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin” on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!”
They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.
“Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!”
“I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way.”
“Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!”
They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest.
CHAPTER VII
WHELP-HUNTING
BEFORE the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft was broken, one figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadow had not stood near Louisa, who held her father's arm, but in a retired place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow—a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one—and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved.
When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge.
“I believe, father,” said Louisa, “he will not come back to town to-night.” Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more.
In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty.
Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, “Not now, my dears; in the evening.” On their return in the evening, he said, “I am not able yet—to-morrow.” He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night.
But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing—but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away.
“Dear father,” said Louisa, when they kept their appointment, “you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help.”
She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too.
“Your wretched brother,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?”
“I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal.”
“The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?”
“I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him.”
“He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?”
“He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them.”
“Let me know,” said her father, “if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view as mine.”
“I fear, father,” hesitated Louisa, “that he must have made some representation to Stephen Blackpool—perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own—which induced him to do in good faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and to wait about the Bank those two or three nights before he left the town.”
“Too plain!” returned the father. “Too plain!”
He shaded his face, and remained silent for some moments. Recovering himself, he said:
“And now, how is he to be found? How is he to be saved from justice? In the few hours that I can possibly allow to elapse before I publish the truth, how is he to be found by us, and only by us? Ten thousand pounds could not effect it.”
“Sissy has effected it, father.”
He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good fairy in his house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and grateful kindness, “It is always you, my child!”