THE Sunday was a bright Sunday in autumn, clear and cool, when
early in the morning Sissy and Rachael met, to walk in the country.
As Coketown cast ashes not only on its own head but on the neighbourhood's
too - after the manner of those pious persons who do penance for their own sins
by putting other people into sackcloth - it was customary for those who now and
then thirsted for a draught of pure air, which is not absolutely the most wicked
among the vanities of life, to get a few miles away by the railroad, and then
begin their walk, or their lounge in the fields. Sissy and Rachael helped
themselves out of the smoke by the usual means, and were put down at a station
about midway between the town and Mr. Bounderby's retreat.
Though the green landscape was blotted here and there with heaps of coal, it
was green elsewhere, and there were trees to see, and there were larks singing
(though it was Sunday), and there were pleasant scents in the air, and all was
over-arched by a bright blue sky. In the distance one way, Coketown showed as a
black mist; in another distance hills began to rise; in a third, there was a
faint change in the light of the horizon where it shone upon the far-off sea.
Under their feet, the grass was fresh; beautiful shadows of branches flickered
upon it, and speckled it; hedgerows were luxuriant; everything was at peace.
Engines at pits' mouths, and lean old horses that had worn the circle of their
daily labour into the ground, were alike quiet; wheels had ceased for a short
space to turn; and the great wheel of earth seemed to revolve without the shocks
and noises of another time.
They walked on across the fields and down the shady lanes, sometimes getting
over a fragment of a fence so rotten that it dropped at a touch of the foot,
sometimes passing near a wreck of bricks and beams overgrown with grass, marking
the site of deserted works. They followed paths and tracks, however slight.
Mounds where the grass was rank and high, and where brambles, dock-weed, and
such-like vegetation, were confusedly heaped together, they always avoided; for
dismal stories were told in that country of the old pits hidden beneath such
indications.
The sun was high when they sat down to rest. They had seen no one, near or
distant, for a long time; and the solitude remained unbroken. 'It is so still
here, Rachael, and the way is so untrodden, that I think we must be the first
who have been here all the summer.'
As Sissy said it, her eyes were attracted by another of those rotten
fragments of fence upon the ground. She got up to look at it. 'And yet I don't
know. This has not been broken very long. The wood is quite fresh where it gave
way. Here are footsteps too. - O Rachael!'
She ran back, and caught her round the neck. Rachael had already started up.
'What is the matter?'
'I don't know. There is a hat lying in the grass.' They went forward
together. Rachael took it up, shaking from head to foot. She broke into a
passion of tears and lamentations: Stephen Blackpool was written in his own hand
on the inside.
'O the poor lad, the poor lad! He has been made away with. He is lying
murdered here!'
'Is there - has the hat any blood upon it?' Sissy faltered.
They were afraid to look; but they did examine it, and found no mark of
violence, inside or out. It had been lying there some days, for rain and dew had
stained it, and the mark of its shape was on the grass where it had fallen. They
looked fearfully about them, without moving, but could see nothing more.
'Rachael,' Sissy whispered, 'I will go on a little by myself.'
She had unclasped her hand, and was in the act of stepping forward, when
Rachael caught her in both arms with a scream that resounded over the wide
landscape. Before them, at their very feet, was the brink of a black ragged
chasm hidden by the thick grass. They sprang back, and fell upon their knees,
each hiding her face upon the other's neck.
'O, my good Lord! He's down there! Down there!' At first this, and her
terrific screams, were all that could be got from Rachael, by any tears, by any
prayers, by any representations, by any means. It was impossible to hush her;
and it was deadly necessary to hold her, or she would have flung herself down
the shaft.
'Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachael, for the love of Heaven, not these
dreadful cries! Think of Stephen, think of Stephen, think of Stephen!'
By an earnest repetition of this entreaty, poured out in all the agony of
such a moment, Sissy at last brought her to be silent, and to look at her with a
tearless face of stone.
'Rachael, Stephen may be living. You wouldn't leave him lying maimed at the
bottom of this dreadful place, a moment, if you could bring help to him?'
'No, no, no!'
'Don't stir from here, for his sake! Let me go and listen.'
She shuddered to approach the pit; but she crept towards it on her hands and
knees, and called to him as loud as she could call. She listened, but no sound
replied. She called again and listened; still no answering sound. She did this,
twenty, thirty times. She took a little clod of earth from the broken ground
where he had stumbled, and threw it in. She could not hear it fall.
The wide prospect, so beautiful in its stillness but a few minutes ago,
almost carried despair to her brave heart, as she rose and looked all round her,
seeing no help. 'Rachael, we must lose not a moment. We must go in different
directions, seeking aid. You shall go by the way we have come, and I will go
forward by the path. Tell any one you see, and every one what has happened.
Think of Stephen, think of Stephen!'
She knew by Rachael's face that she might trust her now. And after standing
for a moment to see her running, wringing her hands as she ran, she turned and
went upon her own search; she stopped at the hedge to tie her shawl there as a
guide to the place, then threw her bonnet aside, and ran as she had never run
before.
Run, Sissy, run, in Heaven's name! Don't stop for breath. Run, run!
Quickening herself by carrying such entreaties in her thoughts, she ran from
field to field, and lane to lane, and place to place, as she had never run
before; until she came to a shed by an engine-house, where two men lay in the
shade, asleep on straw.
First to wake them, and next to tell them, all so wild and breathless as she
was, what had brought her there, were difficulties; but they no sooner
understood her than their spirits were on fire like hers. One of the men was in
a drunken slumber, but on his comrade's shouting to him that a man had fallen
down the Old Hell Shaft, he started out to a pool of dirty water, put his head
in it, and came back sober.
With these two men she ran to another half-a-mile further, and with that one
to another, while they ran elsewhere. Then a horse was found; and she got
another man to ride for life or death to the railroad, and send a message to
Louisa, which she wrote and gave him. By this time a whole village was up: and
windlasses, ropes, poles, candles, lanterns, all things necessary, were fast
collecting and being brought into one place, to be carried to the Old Hell
Shaft.
It seemed now hours and hours since she had left the lost man lying in the
grave where he had been buried alive. She could not bear to remain away from it
any longer - it was like deserting him - and she hurried swiftly back,
accompanied by half-a-dozen labourers, including the drunken man whom the news
had sobered, and who was the best man of all. When they came to the Old Hell
Shaft, they found it as lonely as she had left it. The men called and listened
as she had done, and examined the edge of the chasm, and settled how it had
happened, and then sat down to wait until the implements they wanted should come
up.
Every sound of insects in the air, every stirring of the leaves, every
whisper among these men, made Sissy tremble, for she thought it was a cry at the
bottom of the pit. But the wind blew idly over it, and no sound arose to the
surface, and they sat upon the grass, waiting and waiting. After they had waited
some time, straggling people who had heard of the accident began to come up;
then the real help of implements began to arrive. In the midst of this, Rachael
returned; and with her party there was a surgeon, who brought some wine and
medicines. But, the expectation among the people that the man would be found
alive was very slight indeed.
There being now people enough present to impede the work, the sobered man put
himself at the head of the rest, or was put there by the general consent, and
made a large ring round the Old Hell Shaft, and appointed men to keep it.
Besides such volunteers as were accepted to work, only Sissy and Rachael were at
first permitted within this ring; but, later in the day, when the message
brought an express from Coketown, Mr. Gradgrind and Louisa, and Mr. Bounderby,
and the whelp, were also there.
The sun was four hours lower than when Sissy and Rachael had first sat down
upon the grass, before a means of enabling two men to descend securely was
rigged with poles and ropes. Difficulties had arisen in the construction of this
machine, simple as it was; requisites had been found wanting, and messages had
had to go and return. It was five o'clock in the afternoon of the bright
autumnal Sunday, before a candle was sent down to try the air, while three or
four rough faces stood crowded close together, attentively watching it: the man
at the windlass lowering as they were told. The candle was brought up again,
feebly burning, and then some water was cast in. Then the bucket was hooked on;
and the sobered man and another got in with lights, giving the word 'Lower
away!'
As the rope went out, tight and strained, and the windlass creaked, there was
not a breath among the one or two hundred men and women looking on, that came as
it was wont to come. The signal was given and the windlass stopped, with
abundant rope to spare. Apparently so long an interval ensued with the men at
the windlass standing idle, that some women shrieked that another accident had
happened! But the surgeon who held the watch, declared five minutes not to have
elapsed yet, and sternly admonished them to keep silence. He had not well done
speaking, when the windlass was reversed and worked again. Practised eyes knew
that it did not go as heavily as it would if both workmen had been coming up,
and that only one was returning.
The rope came in tight and strained; and ring after ring was coiled upon the
barrel of the windlass, and all eyes were fastened on the pit. The sobered man
was brought up and leaped out briskly on the grass. There was an universal cry
of 'Alive or dead?' and then a deep, profound hush.
When he said 'Alive!' a great shout arose and many eyes had tears in them.
'But he's hurt very bad,' he added, as soon as he could make himself heard
again. 'Where's doctor? He's hurt so very bad, sir, that we donno how to get him
up.'
They all consulted together, and looked anxiously at the surgeon, as he asked
some questions, and shook his head on receiving the replies. The sun was setting
now; and the red light in the evening sky touched every face there, and caused
it to be distinctly seen in all its rapt suspense.
The consultation ended in the men returning to the windlass, and the pitman
going down again, carrying the wine and some other small matters with him. Then
the other man came up. In the meantime, under the surgeon's directions, some men
brought a hurdle, on which others made a thick bed of spare clothes covered with
loose straw, while he himself contrived some bandages and slings from shawls and
handkerchiefs. As these were made, they were hung upon an arm of the pitman who
had last come up, with instructions how to use them: and as he stood, shown by
the light he carried, leaning his powerful loose hand upon one of the poles, and
sometimes glancing down the pit, and sometimes glancing round upon the people,
he was not the least conspicuous figure in the scene. It was dark now, and
torches were kindled.
It appeared from the little this man said to those about him, which was
quickly repeated all over the circle, that the lost man had fallen upon a mass
of crumbled rubbish with which the pit was half choked up, and that his fall had
been further broken by some jagged earth at the side. He lay upon his back with
one arm doubled under him, and according to his own belief had hardly stirred
since he fell, except that he had moved his free hand to a side pocket, in which
he remembered to have some bread and meat (of which he had swallowed crumbs),
and had likewise scooped up a little water in it now and then. He had come
straight away from his work, on being written to, and had walked the whole
journey; and was on his way to Mr. Bounderby's country house after dark, when he
fell. He was crossing that dangerous country at such a dangerous time, because
he was innocent of what was laid to his charge, and couldn't rest from coming
the nearest way to deliver himself up. The Old Hell Shaft, the pitman said, with
a curse upon it, was worthy of its bad name to the last; for though Stephen
could speak now, he believed it would soon be found to have mangled the life out
of him.
When all was ready, this man, still taking his last hurried charges from his
comrades and the surgeon after the windlass had begun to lower him, disappeared
into the pit. The rope went out as before, the signal was made as before, and
the windlass stopped. No man removed his hand from it now. Every one waited with
his grasp set, and his body bent down to the work, ready to reverse and wind in.
At length the signal was given, and all the ring leaned forward.
For, now, the rope came in, tightened and strained to its utmost as it
appeared, and the men turned heavily, and the windlass complained. It was
scarcely endurable to look at the rope, and think of its giving way. But, ring
after ring was coiled upon the barrel of the windlass safely, and the connecting
chains appeared, and finally the bucket with the two men holding on at the sides
- a sight to make the head swim, and oppress the heart - and tenderly supporting
between them, slung and tied within, the figure of a poor, crushed, human
creature.
A low murmur of pity went round the throng, and the women wept aloud, as this
form, almost without form, was moved very slowly from its iron deliverance, and
laid upon the bed of straw. At first, none but the surgeon went close to it. He
did what he could in its adjustment on the couch, but the best that he could do
was to cover it. That gently done, he called to him Rachael and Sissy. And at
that time the pale, worn, patient face was seen looking up at the sky, with the
broken right hand lying bare on the outside of the covering garments, as if
waiting to be taken by another hand.
They gave him drink, moistened his face with water, and administered some
drops of cordial and wine. Though he lay quite motionless looking up at the sky,
he smiled and said, 'Rachael.' She stooped down on the grass at his side, and
bent over him until her eyes were between his and the sky, for he could not so
much as turn them to look at her.
'Rachael, my dear.'
She took his hand. He smiled again and said, 'Don't let 't go.'
'Thou'rt in great pain, my own dear Stephen?'
'I ha' been, but not now. I ha' been - dreadful, and dree, and long, my dear
- but 'tis ower now. Ah, Rachael, aw a muddle! Fro' first to last, a muddle!'
The spectre of his old look seemed to pass as he said the word.
'I ha' fell into th' pit, my dear, as have cost wi'in the knowledge o' old
fok now livin, hundreds and hundreds o' men's lives - fathers, sons, brothers,
dear to thousands an' thousands, an' keeping 'em fro' want and hunger. I ha'
fell into a pit that ha' been wi' th' Firedamp crueller than battle. I ha' read
on 't in the public petition, as onny one may read, fro' the men that works in
pits, in which they ha' pray'n and pray'n the lawmakers for Christ's sake not to
let their work be murder to 'em, but to spare 'em for th' wives and children
that they loves as well as gentlefok loves theirs. When it were in work, it
killed wi'out need; when 'tis let alone, it kills wi'out need. See how we die
an' no need, one way an' another - in a muddle - every day!'
He faintly said it, without any anger against any one. Merely as the truth.
'Thy little sister, Rachael, thou hast not forgot her. Thou'rt not like to
forget her now, and me so nigh her. Thou know'st - poor, patient, suff'rin, dear
- how thou didst work for her, seet'n all day long in her little chair at thy
winder, and how she died, young and misshapen, awlung o' sickly air as had'n no
need to be, an' awlung o' working people's miserable homes. A muddle! Aw a
muddle!'
Louisa approached him; but he could not see her, lying with his face turned
up to the night sky.
'If aw th' things that tooches us, my dear, was not so muddled, I should'n
ha' had'n need to coom heer. If we was not in a muddle among ourseln, I should'n
ha' been, by my own fellow weavers and workin' brothers, so mistook. If Mr.
Bounderby had ever know'd me right - if he'd ever know'd me at aw - he would'n
ha' took'n offence wi' me. He would'n ha' suspect'n me. But look up yonder,
Rachael! Look aboove!'
Following his eyes, she saw that he was gazing at a star.
'It ha' shined upon me,' he said reverently, 'in my pain and trouble down
below. It ha' shined into my mind. I ha' look'n at 't and thowt o' thee,
Rachael, till the muddle in my mind have cleared awa, above a bit, I hope. If
soom ha' been wantin' in unnerstan'in me better, I, too, ha' been wantin' in
unnerstan'in them better. When I got thy letter, I easily believen that what the
yoong ledy sen and done to me, and what her brother sen and done to me, was one,
and that there were a wicked plot betwixt 'em. When I fell, I were in anger wi'
her, an' hurryin on t' be as onjust t' her as oothers was t' me. But in our
judgments, like as in our doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my pain an'
trouble, lookin up yonder, - wi' it shinin on me - I ha' seen more clear, and
ha' made it my dyin prayer that aw th' world may on'y coom toogether more, an'
get a better unnerstan'in o' one another, than when I were in 't my own weak
seln.'
Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him on the opposite side to Rachael,
so that he could see her.
'You ha' heard?' he said, after a few moments' silence. 'I ha' not forgot
you, ledy.'
'Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your prayer is mine.'
'You ha' a father. Will yo tak' a message to him?'
'He is here,' said Louisa, with dread. 'Shall I bring him to you?'
'If yo please.'
Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, they both looked down
upon the solemn countenance.
'Sir, yo will clear me an' mak my name good wi' aw men. This I leave to yo.'
Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how?
'Sir,' was the reply: 'yor son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak no charges: I
leave none ahint me: not a single word. I ha' seen an' spok'n wi' yor son, one
night. I ask no more o' yo than that yo clear me - an' I trust to yo to do 't.'
The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious
for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of
the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he
said to Rachael, looking upward at the star:
'Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my
trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust
think it be the very star!'
They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take
him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.
'Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night,
my dear!'
'I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way.'
'Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!'
They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over
the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers
broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The star had shown
him where to find the God of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and
forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest.
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