Louisa saw that she was sobbing; and going to her, kissed her, took her hand, and sat down beside her.
“Finish by telling me how your father left you, Sissy. Now that I have asked you so much, tell me the end. The blame, if there is any blame, is mine, not yours.”
“Dear Miss Louisa,” said Sissy, covering her eyes, and sobbing yet; “I came home from the school that afternoon, and found poor father just come home too from the booth. And he sat rocking himself over the fire, as if he was in pain. And I said, ‘Have you hurt yourself father?’ (as he did sometimes, like they all did,) and he said, ‘A little, my darling.’ And when I came to stoop down and look up at his face, I saw that he was crying. The more I spoke to him, the more he hid his face; and at first he shook all over, and said nothing but ‘My darling; and ‘My love!'”
Here Tom came lounging in, and stared at the two with a coolness not particularly savouring of interest in anything but himself, and not much of that at present.
“I am asking Sissy a few questions, Tom,” observed his sister. “You have no occasion to go away; but don’t interrupt us for a moment, Tom dear.”
“Oh! very well!” returned Tom. “Only father has brought old Bounderby home, and I want you to come into the drawing-room. Because if you come, there’s a good chance of old Bounderby’s asking me to dinner; and if you don’t there’s none.”
“I’ll come directly.”
“I’ll wait for you,” said Tom, “to make sure.”
Sissy resumed in a lower voice. “At last poor father said that he had given no satisfaction again, and never did give any satisfaction now, and that he was a shame and disgrace, and I should have done better without him all along. I said all the affectionate things to him that came into my heart, and presently he was quiet, and I sat down by him, and told him all about the school and everything that had been said and done there. When I had no more left to tell, he put his arms round my neck, and kissed me a great many times. Then he asked me to fetch some of the stuff he used, for the little hurt he had had, and to get it at the best place, which was at the other end of town from there; and then, after kissing me again, he let me go. When I had gone down-stairs, I turned back that I might be a little bit more company to him yet, and looked in at the door, and said, ‘Father dear, shall I take Merrylegs?’ Father shook his head and said, ‘No, Sissy, no; take nothing that’s known to be mine, my darling;’ and I left him sitting by the fire. Then the thought must have come upon him, poor, poor father! of going away to try something for my sake; for, when I came back he was gone.”
“I say! Look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo!” Tom remonstrated.
“There’s no more to tell, Miss Louisa. I keep the nine oils ready for him and I know he will come back. Every letter that I see in Mr. Gradgrind’s hand takes my breath away and blinds my eyes, for I think it comes from father, or from Mr. Sleary about father. Mr. Sleary promised to write as soon as ever father should be heard of, and I trust to him to keep his word.”
“Do look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo!” said Tom, with an impatient whistle. “He’ll be off if you don’t look sharp!”
After this, whenever Sissy dropped a curtsey to Mr. Gradgrind in the presence of his family, and said in a faltering way, “I beg your pardon, sir, for being troublesome – but – have you had any letter yet about me?” Louisa would suspend the occupation of the moment, whatever it was, and look for the reply as earnestly as Sissy did. And when Mr. Gradgrind regularly answered, “No, Jupe, nothing of the sort,” the trembling of Sissy’s lip would be repeated in Louisa’s face, and her eyes would follow Sissy with compassion to the door. Mr. Gradgrind usually improved these occasions by remarking, when she was gone, that if Jupe had been properly trained from an early age she would have demonstrated to herself on sound principles the baselessness of these fantastic hopes. Yet it did seem (though not to him, for he saw nothing of it) as if fantastic hope could take as strong a hold as Fact.