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

looking at her in his kindest manner, and said:

“My dear Louisa, you are a woman!”

She answered with the old, quick, searching look of the night when she was found at the Circus; then cast down her eyes. “Yes, father.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “I must speak with you alone and seriously. Come to me in my room after breakfast tomorrow, will you?”

“Yes, father.”

“Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are you not well?”

“Quite well, father.”

“And cheerful?”

She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar manner. “I am as cheerful, father, as I usually am, or usually have been.”

“That’s well,” said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her and went away; and Louisa returned to the serene apartment of the hair-cutting character, and leaning her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon subsided into ashes.

“Are you there, Loo?” said her brother, looking in at the door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing one.

“Dear Tom,” she answered, rising and embracing him, “how long it is since you have been to see me!”

“Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been keeping me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes it too strong, and so we preserve an understanding. I say! Has father said anything particular to you today or yesterday, Loo?”

“No, Tom. But he told me tonight that he wished to do so in the morning.”

“Ah! That’s what I mean,” said Tom. “Do you know where he is tonight?”⁠—with a very deep expression.

“No.”

“Then I’ll tell you. He’s with old Bounderby. They are having a regular confab together up at the Bank. Why at the Bank, do you think? Well, I’ll tell you again. To keep Mrs. Sparsit’s ears as far off as possible, I expect.”

With her hand upon her brother’s shoulder, Louisa still stood looking at the fire. Her brother glanced at her face with greater interest than usual, and, encircling her waist with his arm, drew her coaxingly to him.

“You are very fond of me, an’t you, Loo?”

“Indeed I am, Tom, though you do let such long intervals go by without coming to see me.”

“Well, sister of mine,” said Tom, “when you say that, you are near my thoughts. We might be so much oftener together⁠—mightn’t we? Always together, almost⁠—mightn’t we? It would do me a great deal of good if you were to make up your mind to I know what, Loo. It would be a splendid thing for me. It would be uncommonly jolly!”

Her thoughtfulness baffled his cunning scrutiny. He could make nothing of her face. He pressed her in his arm, and kissed her cheek. She returned the kiss, but still looked at the fire.

“I say, Loo! I thought I’d come, and just hint to you what was going on: though I supposed you’d most likely guess, even if you didn’t know. I can’t stay, because I’m engaged to some fellows tonight. You won’t forget how fond you are of me?”

“No, dear Tom, I won’t forget.”

“That’s a capital girl,” said Tom. “Goodbye, Loo.”

She gave him an affectionate good night, and went out with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown could be seen, making the distance lurid. She stood there, looking steadfastly towards them, and listening to his departing steps. They retreated quickly, as glad to get away from Stone Lodge; and she stood there yet, when he was gone and all was quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire within the house, and then in the fiery haze without, she tried to discover what kind of woof Old Time, that greatest and longest-established Spinner of all, would weave from the threads he had already spun into a woman. But his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his hands are mutes.

XV Father and Daughter

Although Mr. Gradgrind did not take after Bluebeard, his room was quite a blue chamber in its abundance of blue books. Whatever they could prove (which is usually anything you like), they proved there, in an army constantly strengthening by the arrival of new recruits. In that charmed apartment, the most complicated social questions were cast up, got into exact totals, and finally settled⁠—if those concerned could only have been brought to know it. As if an astronomical observatory should be made without any windows, and the astronomer within should arrange the starry universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in his Observatory (and there are many like it), had no need to cast an eye upon the teeming myriads of human beings around him, but could settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all their tears with one dirty little bit of sponge.

To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with a deadly statistical clock in it, which measured every second with a beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid; Louisa repaired on the appointed morning. A window looked towards Coketown; and when she sat down near her father’s table, she saw the high chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy distance gloomily.

“My dear Louisa,” said her father, “I prepared you last night to give me your serious attention in the conversation we are now going to have together. You have been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate.”

He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But she said never a word.

“Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me.”

Again he waited, and