Hard Times - Charles Dickens (the lemonade war series txt) 📗

illuminated, like fairy palaces⁠—or the travellers by express-train said so⁠—were all extinguished; and the bells had rung for knocking off for the night, and had ceased again; and the hands, men and women, boy and girl, were clattering home. Old Stephen was standing in the street, with the old sensation upon him which the stoppage of the machinery always produced⁠—the sensation of its having worked and stopped in his own head.

“Yet I don’t see Rachael, still!” said he.

It was a wet night, and many groups of young women passed him, with their shawls drawn over their bare heads and held close under their chins to keep the rain out. He knew Rachael well, for a glance at any one of these groups was sufficient to show him that she was not there. At last, there were no more to come; and then he turned away, saying in a tone of disappointment, “Why, then, ha’ missed her!”

But, he had not gone the length of three streets, when he saw another of the shawled figures in advance of him, at which he looked so keenly that perhaps its mere shadow indistinctly reflected on the wet pavement⁠—if he could have seen it without the figure itself moving along from lamp to lamp, brightening and fading as it went⁠—would have been enough to tell him who was there. Making his pace at once much quicker and much softer, he darted on until he was very near this figure, then fell into his former walk, and called “Rachael!”

She turned, being then in the brightness of a lamp; and raising her hood a little, showed a quiet oval face, dark and rather delicate, irradiated by a pair of very gentle eyes, and further set off by the perfect order of her shining black hair. It was not a face in its first bloom; she was a woman five and thirty years of age.

“Ah, lad! ’Tis thou?” When she had said this, with a smile which would have been quite expressed, though nothing of her had been seen but her pleasant eyes, she replaced her hood again, and they went on together.

“I thought thou wast ahind me, Rachael?”

“No.”

“Early t’night, lass?”

“ ’Times I’m a little early, Stephen! ’times a little late. I’m never to be counted on, going home.”

“Nor going t’other way, neither, ’t seems to me, Rachael?”

“No, Stephen.”

He looked at her with some disappointment in his face, but with a respectful and patient conviction that she must be right in whatever she did. The expression was not lost upon her; she laid her hand lightly on his arm a moment as if to thank him for it.

“We are such true friends, lad, and such old friends, and getting to be such old folk, now.”

“No, Rachael, thou’rt as young as ever thou wast.”

“One of us would be puzzled how to get old, Stephen, without ’t other getting so too, both being alive,” she answered, laughing; “but, anyways, we’re such old friends, and t’ hide a word of honest truth fro’ one another would be a sin and a pity. ’Tis better not to walk too much together. ’Times, yes! ’Twould be hard, indeed, if ’twas not to be at all,” she said, with a cheerfulness she sought to communicate to him.

“ ’Tis hard, anyways, Rachael.”

“Try to think not; and ’twill seem better.”

“I’ve tried a long time, and ’ta’nt got better. But thou’rt right; ’t might mak fok talk, even of thee. Thou hast been that to me, Rachael, through so many year: thou hast done me so much good, and heartened of me in that cheering way, that thy word is a law to me. Ah, lass, and a bright good law! Better than some real ones.”

“Never fret about them, Stephen,” she answered quickly, and not without an anxious glance at his face. “Let the laws be.”

“Yes,” he said, with a slow nod or two. “Let ’em be. Let everything be. Let all sorts alone. ’Tis a muddle, and that’s aw.”

“Always a muddle?” said Rachael, with another gentle touch upon his arm, as if to recall him out of the thoughtfulness, in which he was biting the long ends of his loose neckerchief as he walked along. The touch had its instantaneous effect. He let them fall, turned a smiling face upon her, and said, as he broke into a good-humoured laugh, “Ay, Rachael, lass, awlus a muddle. That’s where I stick. I come to the muddle many times and agen, and I never get beyond it.”

They had walked some distance, and were near their own homes. The woman’s was the first reached. It was in one of the many small streets for which the favourite undertaker (who turned a handsome sum out of the one poor ghastly pomp of the neighbourhood) kept a black ladder, in order that those who had done their daily groping up and down the narrow stairs might slide out of this working world by the windows. She stopped at the corner, and putting her hand in his, wished him good night.

“Good night, dear lass; good night!”

She went, with her neat figure and her sober womanly step, down the dark street, and he stood looking after her until she turned into one of the small houses. There was not a flutter of her coarse shawl, perhaps, but had its interest in this man’s eyes; not a tone of her voice but had its echo in his innermost heart.

When she was lost to his view, he pursued his homeward way, glancing up sometimes at the sky, where the clouds were sailing fast and wildly. But, they were broken now, and the rain had ceased, and the moon shone⁠—looking down the high chimneys of Coketown on the deep furnaces below, and casting titanic shadows of the steam-engines at rest, upon the walls where they were lodged. The man seemed to have brightened with the night, as he went on.

His home, in such another street as the first, saving that it was narrower, was over a little shop.