“I wish with all my heart, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, in a highly superior manner; somehow she seemed, in a moment, to have established a right to pity him ever afterwards; “that you may be in all respects very happy.”
“Well, ma’am,” returned Bounderby, with some resentment in his tone: which was clearly lowered, though in spite of himself, “I am obliged to you. I hope I shall be.”
“Do you, sir!” said Mrs. Sparsit, with great affability. “But naturally you do; of course you do.”
A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby’s part, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work, and occasionally gave a small cough, which sounded like the cough of conscious strength and forbearance.
“Well, ma’am,” resumed Bounderby, “under these circumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable to a character like yours to remain here, though you would be very welcome here?”
“Oh dear no, sir, I could on no account think of that!” Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her highly superior manner, and a little changed the small cough – coughing now, as if the spirit of prophecy rose within her, but had better be coughed down.
“However, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “there are apartments at the Bank, where a born and bred lady, as keeper of the place, would be rather a catch than otherwise; and if the same terms – ”
“I beg your pardon, sir. You were so good as to promise that you would always substitute the phrase, annual compliment.”
“Well, ma’am, annual compliment. If the same annual compliment would be acceptable there, why, I see nothing to part us unless you do.”
“Sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “the proposal is like yourself, and if the position I shall assume at the Bank is one that I could occupy without descending lower in the social scale – ”
“Why, of course it is,” said Bounderby. “If it was not, ma’am, you don’t suppose that I should offer it to a lady who has moved in the society you have moved in. Not that I care for such society, you know! But you do.”
“Mr. Bounderby, you are very considerate.”
“You’ll have your own private apartments, and you’ll have your coals and your candles and all the rest of it, and you’ll have your maid to attend upon you, and you’ll have your light porter to protect you, and you’ll be what I take the liberty of considering precious comfortable,” said Bounderby.
“Sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, “say no more. In yielding up my trust here, I shall not be freed from the necessity of eating the bread of dependence;” she might have said the sweet-bread, for that delicate article in a savoury brown sauce was her favourite supper; “and I would rather receive it from your hand, than from any other. Therefore, sir, I accept your offer gratefully, and with many sincere acknowledgments for past favors. And I hope sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, concluding in an impressively compassionate manner, “I fondly hope that Miss Gradgrind may be all you desire, and deserve!”
Nothing moved Mrs. Sparsit from that position any more. It was in vain for Bounderby to bluster, or to assert himself in any of his explosive ways; Mrs. Sparsit was resolved to have compassion on him, as a Victim. She was polite, obliging, cheerful, hopeful; but, the more polite, the more obliging, the more cheerful, the more hopeful, the more exemplary altogether, she; the forlorner Sacrifice and the Victim, he. She had that tenderness for his melancholy fate, that his great red countenance used to break out into cold perspirations when she looked at him.
Meanwhile the marriage was appointed to be solemnised in eight weeks time, and Mr. Bounderby went every evening to Stone Lodge as an accepted wooer. Love was made on these occasions in the form of bracelets; and, on all occasions during the period of betrothal, took a manufacturing aspect. Dresses were made, jewellery was made, cakes and gloves were made, settlements were made, and an extensive assortment of Facts did appropriate honour to the contract. The business was all Fact, from first to last. The Hours did not go through any of those rosy performances, which foolish poets have ascribed to them at such times; neither did the clocks go any faster, or any slower, than at any other seasons. The deadly statistical recorder in the Gradgrind observatory knocked every second on the head as it was born, and buried it with his accustomed regularity.