Mr. Gradgrind seemed to be quite confounded by this speculation.
“Any way,” said Sleary, after putting his lips to his brandy and water, “ith fourteen month ago, Thquire, thinthe we wath at Chethter. We wath getting up our Children in the Wood one morning, when there cometh into our Ring, by the thtage door, a dog. He had travelled a long way, he wath in very bad condithon, he wath lame, and pretty well blind. He went round to our children, one after another, as if he wath a theeking for a child he know’d; and then he come to me, and throwed hithelf up behind, and thood on hith two fore-legth, weak ath he wath, and then he wagged hith tail and died. Thquire, that dog wath Merrylegth.”
“Sissy’s father’s dog!”
“Thethilia’th father’th old dog. Now, Thquire, I can take my oath, from my knowledge of that dog, that that man wath dead – and buried – afore that dog come back to me. Joth’phine and Childerth and me talked it over a long time, whether I thoud write or not. But we agreed, ‘No. There’th nothing comfortable to tell: why unthettle her mind, and make her unhappy?’ Tho, whether her father bathely detherted her; or whether he broke his own heart alone, rather than pull her down along with him; never will be known, now, Thquire, till – no, not till we know how the dog findth uth out!”
“She keeps the bottle that he sent her for, to this hour; and she will believe in his affection to the last moment of her life,” said Mr. Gradgrind.
“It theemth to prethent two thingth to a perthon, don’t it, Thquire?” said Mr. Sleary, musing as he looked down into the depths of his brandy and water: “one, that there ith a love in the world, not all Thelf-intereth after all, but thomething very different; t’other, that it hath a way of ith own of calculating or not calculating, whith thomehow or another ith at leatht ath hard to give a name to, ath the wayth of the dogth ith!”
Mr. Gradgrind looked out of window, and made no reply. Mr. Sleary emptied his glass and recalled the ladies.
“Thethilia my dear, kith me and good-bye! Mith Thquire, to thee you treating of her like a thithter, and a thithter that you trutht, and honour with all your heart and more, ith a very pretty thight to me. I hope your brother may live to be better detherving of you, and a greater comfort to you. Thquire, thake handth, firtht and latht! Don’t be croth with uth poor vagabondth. People mutht be amuthed. They can’t be alwayth a learning, nor yet they can’t be alwayth a working, they an’t made for it. You mutht have uth, Thquire. Do the withe thing and the kind thing too, and make the beth uth: not the wurth!
“And I never thought before,” said Mr. Sleary, putting his head in at the door again to say it, “that I wath tho muth of a Cackler!”
Chapter IX Final
It is a dangerous thing to see anything in the sphere of a vain blusterer, before the vain blusterer sees it himself. Mr. Bounderby felt that Mrs. Sparsit had audaciously anticipated him, and presumed to be wiser than he. Inappeasably indignant with her for her triumphant discovery of Mrs. Pegler, he turned his presumption, on the part of a woman in her dependent position, over and over in his mind, until it accumulated with turning like a great snowball. At last he made the discovery that to discharge this highly connected female – to have it in his power to say, “She was a woman of family, and wanted to stick to me, but I wouldn’t have it, and got rid of her” – would be to get the utmost possible amount of crowning glory out of the connection, and at the same time to punish Mrs. Sparsit according to her deserts.
Filled fuller than ever, with this great idea, Mr. Bounderby came into lunch, and sat himself down in the dining-room of former days, where his portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit sat by the fire, with her foot in her cotton stirrup, little thinking whither she was posting.