He saw Rachael first, as he had heard her only.
“Ah Rachael, my dear! Missus, thou we’ her!”
“Well, and now you are surprised to be sure, and with reason I must say,” the old woman returned. “Here I am again, you see.”
“But how wi’ Rachael?” said Stephen, falling into their step, walking between them, and looking from the one to the other.
“Why, I come to be with this good lass pretty much as I came to be with you,” said the old woman cheerfully, taking the reply upon herself. “My visiting time is later this year than usual, for I have been rather troubled with shortness of breath, and so put it off till the weather was fine and warm. For the same reason I don’t make all my journey in one day, but divide it into two days, and get a bed to-night at the Travellers’ Coffee House down by the railroad (a nice clean house), and go back Parliamentary, at six in the morning. Well, but what has this to do with this good lass, says you? I’m going to tell you. I have heard of Mr. Bounderby being married. I read it in the paper, where it looked grand – oh, it looked fine!” the old woman dwelt on it with a strange enthusiasm: “and I want to see his wife. I have never seen her yet. Now, if you’ll believe me, she hasn’t come out of that house since noon to-day. So not to give her up too easily, I was waiting about, a little last bit more, when I passed close to this good lass two or three times; and her face being so friendly I spoke to her, and she spoke to me. There!” said the old woman to Stephen, “you can make all the rest out for yourself now, a deal shorter than I can, I dare say!”
Once again, Stephen had to conquer an instinctive propensity to dislike this old woman, though her manner was as honest and simple as a manner possibly could be. With a gentleness that was natural to him as he knew it to be to Rachael, he pursued the subject that interested her in her old age.
“Well, Missus,” said he, “I ha seen the lady, and she were yoong and hansom. Wi’ fine dark thinkin eyes, and a still way, Rachael, as I ha never seen the like on.”
“Young and handsome. Yes!” cried the old woman, quiete delighted. “As bonny as a rose! And what a happy wife!”
“Aye, missus, I suppose she be,” said Stephen. But with a doubtful glance at Rachael.
“Suppose she be? She must be. She’s your master’s wife,” returned the old woman.
Stephen nodded assent. “Though as to master,” said he, glancing again at Rachael, “not master onny more. That’s aw enden twixt him and me.”
“Have you left his work, Stephen?” asked Rachael, anxiously and quickly.
“Why Rachael,” he replied, “whether I ha lef’n his work or whether his work ha lef’n me, cooms t’ th same. His work and me are parted. ‘Tis as weel so – better, I were thinken when yo coom up wi’ me. It would ha brought’n trouble upon trouble if I had stayed theer. Haply ’tis a kindness to monny that I go; haply ’tis a kindness to myseln; anyways it mun be done. I mun turn my face fro Coketown fur th’ time, and seek a fort’n, dear, by beginnin fresh.”
“Where will you go, Stephen?”
“I donno t’night,” said he, lifting off his hat, and smoothing his thin hair with the flat of his hand. “But I’m not goin t’night, Rachael, nor yet t’morrow. Tan’t easy overmuch, t’know weer ‘t turn, but a good heart will coom to me.”
Herein, too, the sense of even thinking unselfishly aided him. Before he had so much as closed Mr. Bounderby’s door, he had reflected that at least his being obliged to go away was good for her, as it would save her from the chance of being brought into question for not withdrawing from him. Though it would cost him a hard pang to leave her, and though he could think of no similar place in which his condemnation would not pursue him, perhaps it was almost a relief to be forced away from the endurance of the last four days, even to unknown difficulties and distresses.