Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.
“Sir, I canna, wi’ my little learning an my common way, tell the genelman what will be better aw this – though some workingmen o’ this town could, above my powers – but I can tell him what I know will never do ‘t. The strong hand will never do ‘t. Vict’ry and triumph will never do ‘t. Agreeing for to mak one side unnat’rally awlus and forever right, and toother side unnat’rally awlus forever wrong, will never, never do ‘t. Nor yet lettin alone will never do ‘t. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leadin the like lives and aw faw’en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi’ a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sitch-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi’ kindness and patience an cheery ways, that so draws nigh to one another in their monny trobles, and so cherishes one another in their distresses wi’ what they need themseln – like, I humbly believe, as no people the genelman ha seen in aw his travels can beat – will never do ‘t till th’ Sun turns t’ ice. Most o’ aw, ratin ’em as so much Power, and reg’latin ’em as if they was figures in a soom or machines: wi’out loves and likens, wi’out memories and inclinations, wi’out souls to weary and souls to hope – when aw goes quiet, draggin on wi’ ’em as if they’d nowt o’ th’ kind, and when aw goes onquiet, reproachin ’em for their want o’ sitch humanly feelins in their dealins wi’ yo – this will never do ‘t, sir, till God’s work is unmade.”
Stephen stood with the open door in his hand, waiting to know if anything more were expected of him.
“Just stop a moment,” said Mr. Bounderby, excessively red in the face. “I told you, the last time you were here with a grievance, that you had better turn about and come out of that. And I also told you, if you remember, that I was up to the gold spo’on look-out.”
“I were not up to ‘t myseln, sir; I do assure yo.”
“Now it’s clear to me,” said Mr. Bounderby, “that you are one of those chaps who have always got a grievance. And you go about, sowing it and raising crops. That’s the business of your life, my friend.”
Stephen shook his head, mutely protesting that indeed he had other business to do for his life.
“You are such a waspish, raspish, ill-conditioned chap, you see,” said Mr. Bounderby, “that even your own Union, the men who know you best, will have nothing to do with you. I never thought those fellows could be right in anything; but I tell you what! I so far go along with them for a novelty that I’ll have nothing to do with you either.”
Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face.
“You can finish off what you’re at,” said Mr. Bounderby, with a meaning nod, “and then go elsewhere.”
“Sir, yo know weel,” said Stephen expressively, “that if I canna get work wi’ yo, I canna get it else-wheer.”
The reply was, “What I know, I know; and what you know, you know. I have no more to say about it.”
Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her eyes were raised to his no more; therefore, with a sigh, and saying, barely above his breath, “Heaven help us aw in this world!” he departed.
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.