CHAPTER VIII

EXPLOSION

THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse

rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room,

smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his

young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his

eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so

rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an

idle winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the time,

and could give his mind to it.

He had established a confidence with her, from which her husband was

excluded. He had established a confidence with her, that absolutely

turned upon her indifference towards her husband, and the absence, now

and at all times, of any congeniality between them. He had artfully, but

plainly, assured her that he knew her heart in its last most delicate

recesses; he had come so near to her through its tenderest sentiment; he

had associated himself with that feeling; and the barrier behind which

she lived, had melted away. All very odd, and very satisfactory!

And yet he had not, even now, any earnest wickedness of purpose in him.

Publicly and privately, it were much better for the age in which he

lived, that he and the legion of whom he was one were designedly bad,

than indifferent and purposeless. It is the drifting icebergs setting

with any current anywhere, that wreck the ships.

When the Devil goeth about like a roaring lion, he goeth about in a shape

by which few but savages and hunters are attracted. But, when he is

trimmed, smoothed, and varnished, according to the mode; when he is

aweary of vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to brimstone, and used

up as to bliss; then, whether he take to the serving out of red tape, or

to the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil.

So James Harthouse reclined in the window, indolently smoking, and

reckoning up the steps he had taken on the road by which he happened to

be travelling. The end to which it led was before him, pretty plainly;

but he troubled himself with no calculations about it. What will be,

will be.

As he had rather a long ride to take that day—for there was a public

occasion ‘to do’ at some distance, which afforded a tolerable opportunity

of going in for the Gradgrind men—he dressed early and went down to

breakfast. He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since the previous

evening. No. He resumed where he had left off. There was a look of

interest for him again.

He got through the day as much (or as little) to his own satisfaction, as

was to be expected under the fatiguing circumstances; and came riding

back at six o’clock. There was a sweep of some half-mile between the

lodge and the house, and he was riding along at a foot pace over the

smooth gravel, once Nickits’s, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the

shrubbery, with such violence as to make his horse shy across the road.

‘Harthouse!’ cried Mr. Bounderby. ‘Have you heard?’

‘Heard what?’ said Harthouse, soothing his horse, and inwardly favouring

Mr. Bounderby with no good wishes.

‘Then you _haven’t_ heard!’

‘I have heard you, and so has this brute. I have heard nothing else.’

Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself in the centre of the path

before the horse’s head, to explode his bombshell with more effect.

‘The Bank’s robbed!’

‘You don’t mean it!’

‘Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary manner. Robbed with

a false key.’

‘Of much?’

Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the most of it, really seemed

mortified by being obliged to reply, ‘Why, no; not of very much. But it

might have been.’

‘Of how much?’

‘Oh! as a sum—if you stick to a sum—of not more than a hundred and fifty

pound,’ said Bounderby, with impatience. ‘But it’s not the sum; it’s the

fact. It’s the fact of the Bank being robbed, that’s the important

circumstance. I am surprised you don’t see it.’

‘My dear Bounderby,’ said James, dismounting, and giving his bridle to

his servant, ‘I _do_ see it; and am as overcome as you can possibly

desire me to be, by the spectacle afforded to my mental view.

Nevertheless, I may be allowed, I hope, to congratulate you—which I do

with all my soul, I assure you—on your not having sustained a greater

loss.’

‘Thank’ee,’ replied Bounderby, in a short, ungracious manner. ‘But I

tell you what. It might have been twenty thousand pound.’

‘I suppose it might.’

‘Suppose it might! By the Lord, you _may_ suppose so. By George!’ said

Mr. Bounderby, with sundry menacing nods and shakes of his head. ‘It

might have been twice twenty. There’s no knowing what it would have

been, or wouldn’t have been, as it was, but for the fellows’ being

disturbed.’

Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit, and Bitzer.

‘Here’s Tom Gradgrind’s daughter knows pretty well what it might have

been, if you don’t,’ blustered Bounderby. ‘Dropped, sir, as if she was

shot when I told her! Never knew her do such a thing before. Does her

credit, under the circumstances, in my opinion!’

She still looked faint and pale. James Harthouse begged her to take his

arm; and as they moved on very slowly, asked her how the robbery had been

committed.

‘Why, I am going to tell you,’ said Bounderby, irritably giving his arm

to Mrs. Sparsit. ‘If you hadn’t been so mighty particular about the sum,

I should have begun to tell you before. You know this lady (for she _is_

a lady), Mrs. Sparsit?’

‘I have already had the honour—’

‘Very well. And this young man, Bitzer, you saw him too on the same

occasion?’ Mr. Harthouse inclined his head in assent, and Bitzer

knuckled his forehead.

‘Very well. They live at the Bank. You know they live at the Bank,

perhaps? Very well. Yesterday afternoon, at the close of business

hours, everything was put away as usual. In the iron room that this

young fellow sleeps outside of, there was never mind how much. In the

little safe in young Tom’s closet, the safe used for petty purposes,

there was a hundred and fifty odd pound.’

‘A hundred and fifty-four, seven, one,’ said Bitzer.

‘Come!’ retorted Bounderby, stopping to wheel round upon him, ‘let’s have

none of _your_ interruptions. It’s enough to be robbed while you’re

snoring because you’re too comfortable, without being put right with

_your_ four seven ones. I didn’t snore, myself, when I was your age, let

me tell you. I hadn’t victuals enough to snore. And I didn’t four seven

one. Not if I knew it.’

Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, in a sneaking manner, and seemed at

once particularly impressed and depressed by the instance last given of

Mr. Bounderby’s moral abstinence.

‘A hundred and fifty odd pound,’ resumed Mr. Bounderby. ‘That sum of

money, young Tom locked in his safe, not a very strong safe, but that’s

no matter now. Everything was left, all right. Some time in the night,

while this young fellow snored—Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, you say you have

heard him snore?’

‘Sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘I cannot say that I have heard him

precisely snore, and therefore must not make that statement. But on

winter evenings, when he has fallen asleep at his table, I have heard

him, what I should prefer to describe as partially choke. I have heard

him on such occasions produce sounds of a nature similar to what may be

sometimes heard in Dutch clocks. Not,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, with a lofty

sense of giving strict evidence, ‘that I would convey any imputation on

his moral character. Far from it. I have always considered Bitzer a

young man of the most upright principle; and to that I beg to bear my

testimony.’

‘Well!’ said the exasperated Bounderby, ‘while he was snoring, _or_

choking, _or_ Dutch-clocking, _or_ something _or_ other—being asleep—some

fellows, somehow, whether previously concealed in the house or not

remains to be seen, got to young Tom’s safe, forced it, and abstracted

the contents. Being then disturbed, they made off; letting themselves

out at the main door, and double-locking it again (it was double-locked,

and the key under Mrs. Sparsit’s pillow) with a false key, which was

picked up in the street near the Bank, about twelve o’clock to-day. No

alarm takes place, till this chap, Bitzer, turns out this morning, and

begins to open and prepare the offices for business. Then, looking at

Tom’s safe, he sees the door ajar, and finds the lock forced, and the

money gone.’

‘Where is Tom, by the by?’ asked Harthouse, glancing round.

‘He has been helping the police,’ said Bounderby, ‘and stays behind at

the Bank. I wish these fellows had tried to rob me when I was at his

time of life. They would have been out of pocket if they had invested

eighteenpence in the job; I can tell ’em that.’

‘Is anybody suspected?’

‘Suspected? I should think there was somebody suspected. Egod!’ said

Bounderby, relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit’s arm to wipe his heated head.

‘Josiah Bounderby of Coketown is not to be plundered and nobody

suspected. No, thank you!’

Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was suspected?

‘Well,’ said Bounderby, stopping and facing about to confront them all,

‘I’ll tell you. It’s not to be mentioned everywhere; it’s not to be

mentioned anywhere: in order that the scoundrels concerned (there’s a

gang of ’em) may be thrown off their guard. So take this in confidence.

Now wait a bit.’ Mr. Bounderby wiped his head again. ‘What should you

say to;’ here he violently exploded: ‘to a Hand being in it?’

‘I hope,’ said Harthouse, lazily, ‘not our friend Blackpot?’

‘Say Pool instead of Pot, sir,’ returned Bounderby, ‘and that’s the man.’

Louisa faintly uttered some word of incredulity and surprise.

‘O yes! I know!’ said Bounderby, immediately catching at the sound. ‘I

know! I am used to that. I know all about it. They are the finest

people in the world, these fellows are. They have got the gift of the

gab, they have. They only want to have their rights explained to them,

they do. But I tell you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and I’ll

show you a man that’s fit for anything bad, I don’t care what it is.’

Another of the popular fictions of Coketown, which some pains had been

taken to disseminate—and which some people really believed.

‘But I am acquainted with these chaps,’ said Bounderby. ‘I can read ’em

off, like books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, I appeal to you. What warning did

I give that fellow, the first time he set foot in the house, when the

express object of his visit was to know how he could knock Religion over,

and floor the Established Church? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high

connexions, you are on a level with the aristocracy,—did I say, or did I

not say, to that fellow, “you can’t hide the truth from me: you are not

the kind of fellow I like; you’ll come to no good”?’

‘Assuredly, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘you did, in a highly impressive

manner, give him such an admonition.’

‘When he shocked you, ma’am,’ said Bounderby; ‘when he shocked your

feelings?’

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, ‘he

certainly did so. Though I do not mean to say but that my feelings may

be weaker on such points—more foolish if the term is preferred—than they

might have been, if I had always occupied my present position.’

Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr. Harthouse, as much as

to say, ‘I am the proprietor of this female, and she’s worth your

attention, I think.’ Then, resumed his discourse.

‘You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said to him when you saw

him. I didn’t mince the matter with him. I am never mealy with ’em. I

KNOW ’em. Very well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. Went off,

nobody knows where: as my mother did in my infancy—only with this

difference, that he is a worse subject than my mother, if possible. What

did he do before he went? What do you say;’ Mr. Bounderby, with his hat

in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every little division of his

sentences, as if it were a tambourine; ‘to his being seen—night after

night—watching the Bank?—to his lurking about there—after dark?—To its

striking Mrs. Sparsit—that he could be lurking for no good—To her calling

Bitzer’s attention to him, and their both taking notice of him—And to its

appearing on inquiry to-day—that he was also noticed by the neighbours?’

Having come to the climax, Mr. Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put

his tambourine on his head.

‘Suspicious,’ said James Harthouse, ‘certainly.’

‘I think so, sir,’ said Bounderby, with a defiant nod. ‘I think so. But

there are more of ’em in it. There’s an old woman. One never hears of

these things till the mischief’s done; all sorts of defects are found out

in the stable door after the horse is stolen; there’s an old woman turns

up now. An old woman who seems to have been flying into town on a

broomstick, every now and then. _She_ watches the place a whole day

before this fellow begins, and on the night when you saw him, she steals

away with him and holds a council with him—I suppose, to make her report

on going off duty, and be damned to her.’

There was such a person in the room that night, and she shrunk from

observation, thought Louisa.

‘This is not all of ’em, even as we already know ’em,’ said Bounderby,

with many nods of hidden meaning. ‘But I have said enough for the

present. You’ll have the goodness to keep it quiet, and mention it to no

one. It may take time, but we shall have ’em. It’s policy to give ’em

line enough, and there’s no objection to that.’

‘Of course, they will be punished with the utmost rigour of the law, as

notice-boards observe,’ replied James Harthouse, ‘and serve them right.

Fellows who go in for Banks must take the consequences. If there were no

consequences, we should all go in for Banks.’ He had gently taken

Louisa’s parasol from her hand, and had put it up for her; and she walked

under its shade, though the sun did not shine there.

‘For the present, Loo Bounderby,’ said her husband, ‘here’s Mrs. Sparsit

to look after. Mrs. Sparsit’s nerves have been acted upon by this

business, and she’ll stay here a day or two. So make her comfortable.’

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ that discreet lady observed, ‘but pray do not

let My comfort be a consideration. Anything will do for Me.’

It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a failing in her association

with that domestic establishment, it was that she was so excessively

regardless of herself and regardful of others, as to be a nuisance. On

being shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts

as to suggest the inference that she would have preferred to pass the

night on the mangle in the laundry. True, the Powlers and the Scadgerses

were accustomed to splendour, ‘but it is my duty to remember,’ Mrs.

Sparsit was fond of observing with a lofty grace: particularly when any

of the domestics were present, ‘that what I was, I am no longer.

Indeed,’ said she, ‘if I could altogether cancel the remembrance that Mr.

Sparsit was a Powler, or that I myself am related to the Scadgers family;

or if I could even revoke the fact, and make myself a person of common

descent and ordinary connexions; I would gladly do so. I should think

it, under existing circumstances, right to do so.’ The same Hermitical

state of mind led to her renunciation of made dishes and wines at dinner,

until fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby to take them; when she said,

‘Indeed you are very good, sir;’ and departed from a resolution of which

she had made rather formal and public announcement, to ‘wait for the

simple mutton.’ She was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt;

and, feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest

extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back

in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large

dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must

be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose.

But Mrs. Sparsit’s greatest point, first and last, was her determination

to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she

was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, ‘Alas, poor

Yorick!’ After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of

emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully

cheerful, and would say, ‘You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful

to find;’ and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr.

Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often

apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a

curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby ‘Miss Gradgrind,’ and yielded

to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her

repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion;

but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind:

whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the

happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs.

Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of

this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more

impossible it appeared; ‘the differences,’ she observed, ‘being such.’

In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the

robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the

suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of

the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to

recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train.

When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, ‘Don’t be low, sir.

Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do.’ Mr. Bounderby, upon

whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in

a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large

sea-animal. ‘I cannot bear to see you so, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparsit. ‘Try

a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of

living under your roof.’ ‘I haven’t played backgammon, ma’am,’ said Mr.

Bounderby, ‘since that time.’ ‘No, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly,

‘I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no

interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will

condescend.’

They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night:

not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse

strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the

stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at

the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the

shadows without. ‘What’s the matter, ma’am?’ said Mr. Bounderby; ‘you

don’t see a Fire, do you?’ ‘Oh dear no, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘I

was thinking of the dew.’ ‘What have you got to do with the dew, ma’am?’

said Mr. Bounderby. ‘It’s not myself, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘I am

fearful of Miss Gradgrind’s taking cold.’ ‘She never takes cold,’ said

Mr. Bounderby. ‘Really, sir?’ said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with

a cough in her throat.

When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of

water. ‘Oh, sir?’ said Mrs. Sparsit. ‘Not your sherry warm, with

lemon-peel and nutmeg?’ ‘Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it

now, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bounderby. ‘The more’s the pity, sir,’ returned

Mrs. Sparsit; ‘you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir!

If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I

have often done.’

Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she

pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr.

Bounderby. ‘It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is

the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir.’ And when Mr.

Bounderby said, ‘Your health, ma’am!’ she answered with great feeling,

‘Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also.’ Finally, she

wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed,

with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender,

though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was.

Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for

her brother’s coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour

past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm

the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the

darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she

heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad

that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its

last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead

again.

She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose,

put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the

staircase to her brother’s room. His door being shut, she softly opened

it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a noiseless step.

She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his neck, and drew his

face to hers. She knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she said

nothing to him.

He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, and asked who that

was, and what was the matter?

‘Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you loved me in your life,

and have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me.’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming.’

‘My dear brother:’ she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair

flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: ‘is

there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me

if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell

me the truth!’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Loo!’

‘As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie

somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left

you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in

darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am

dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!’

‘What is it you want to know?’

‘You may be certain;’ in the energy of her love she took him to her bosom

as if he were a child; ‘that I will not reproach you. You may be certain

that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may be certain that I

will save you at whatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tell me?

Whisper very softly. Say only “yes,” and I shall understand you!’

She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained doggedly silent.

‘Not a word, Tom?’

‘How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I don’t know what you mean?

Loo, you are a brave, kind girl, worthy I begin to think of a better

brother than I am. But I have nothing more to say. Go to bed, go to

bed.’

‘You are tired,’ she whispered presently, more in her usual way.

‘Yes, I am quite tired out.’

‘You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day. Have any fresh

discoveries been made?’

‘Only those you have heard of, from—him.’

‘Tom, have you said to any one that we made a visit to those people, and

that we saw those three together?’

‘No. Didn’t you yourself particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you

asked me to go there with you?’

‘Yes. But I did not know then what was going to happen.’

‘Nor I neither. How could I?’

He was very quick upon her with this retort.

‘Ought I to say, after what has happened,’ said his sister, standing by

the bed—she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, ‘that I made that

visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?’

‘Good Heavens, Loo,’ returned her brother, ‘you are not in the habit of

asking my advice. Say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I

shall keep it to _my_self. If you disclose it, there’s an end of it.’

It was too dark for either to see the other’s face; but each seemed very

attentive, and to consider before speaking.

‘Tom, do you believe the man I gave the money to, is really implicated in

this crime?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t see why he shouldn’t be.’

‘He seemed to me an honest man.’

‘Another person may seem to you dishonest, and yet not be so.’ There was

a pause, for he had hesitated and stopped.

‘In short,’ resumed Tom, as if he had made up his mind, ‘if you come to

that, perhaps I was so far from being altogether in his favour, that I

took him outside the door to tell him quietly, that I thought he might

consider himself very well off to get such a windfall as he had got from

my sister, and that I hoped he would make good use of it. You remember

whether I took him out or not. I say nothing against the man; he may be

a very good fellow, for anything I know; I hope he is.’

‘Was he offended by what you said?’

‘No, he took it pretty well; he was civil enough. Where are you, Loo?’

He sat up in bed and kissed her. ‘Good night, my dear, good night.’

‘You have nothing more to tell me?’

‘No. What should I have? You wouldn’t have me tell you a lie!’

‘I wouldn’t have you do that to-night, Tom, of all the nights in your

life; many and much happier as I hope they will be.’

‘Thank you, my dear Loo. I am so tired, that I am sure I wonder I don’t

say anything to get to sleep. Go to bed, go to bed.’

Kissing her again, he turned round, drew the coverlet over his head, and

lay as still as if that time had come by which she had adjured him. She

stood for some time at the bedside before she slowly moved away. She

stopped at the door, looked back when she had opened it, and asked him if

he had called her? But he lay still, and she softly closed the door and

returned to her room.

Then the wretched boy looked cautiously up and found her gone, crept out

of bed, fastened his door, and threw himself upon his pillow again:

tearing his hair, morosely crying, grudgingly loving her, hatefully but

impenitently spurning himself, and no less hatefully and unprofitably

spurning all the good in the world.