CHAPTER X STEPHEN BLACKPOOL

ndcarryondebates.Thousandsofhiscompeerscouldtalkmuchbetterthanhe,atanytime.Hewasagoodpower-loomweaver,andamanofperfectintegrity.Whatmorehewas,orwhatelsehehadinhim,ifanything,lethimshowforhimself. Thelightsinthegreatfactories,whichlooked,whentheywereilluminated,likeFairypalaces—orthetravellersbyexpress-trainsaidso—wereallextinguishedandthebellshadrungforknockingoffforthenight,andhadceasedagainandtheHands,menandwomen,boyandgirl,wereclatteringhome.OldStephenwasstandinginthestreet,withtheoldsensationuponhimwhichthestoppageofthemachineryalwaysproduced—thesensationofitshavingworkedandstoppedinhisownhead. ‘YetIdon’tseeRachael,still!’saidhe. Itwasawetnight,andmanygroupsofyoungwomenpassedhim,withtheirshawlsdrawnovertheirbareheadsandheldcloseundertheirchinstokeeptherainout.HeknewRachaelwell,foraglanceatanyoneofthesegroupswassufficienttoshowhimthatshewasnotthere.Atlast,therewerenomoretocomeandthenheturnedaway,sayinginatoneofdisappointment,‘Why,then,ha’missedher!’ But,hehadnotgonethelengthofthreestreets,whenhesawanotheroftheshawledfiguresinadvanceofhim,atwhichhelookedsokeenlythatperhapsitsmereshadowindistinctlyreflectedonthewetpavement—ifhecouldhaveseenitwithoutthefigureitselfmovingalongfromlamptolamp,brighteningandfadingasitwent—wouldhavebeenenoughtotellhimwhowasthere.Makinghispaceatoncemuchquickerandmuchsofter,hedartedonuntilhewasverynearthisfigure,thenfellintohisformerwalk,andcalled‘Rachael!’ Sheturned,beingtheninthebrightnessofalampandraisingherhoodalittle,showedaquietovalface,darkandratherdelicate,irradiatedbyapairofverygentleeyes,andfurthersetoffbytheperfectorderofhershiningblackhair.Itwasnotafaceinitsfirstbloomshewasawomanfiveandthirtyyearsofage. ‘Ah,lad!’Tisthou?’Whenshehadsaidthis,withasmilewhichwouldhavebeenquiteexpressed,thoughnothingofherhadbeenseenbutherpleasanteyes,shereplacedherhoodagain,andtheywentontogeth