CHAPTER XII THE OLD WOMAN

OldStephendescendedthetwowhitesteps,shuttingtheblackdoorwiththebrazendoor-plate,bytheaidofthebrazenfull-stop,towhichhegaveapartingpolishwiththesleeveofhiscoat,observingthathishothandcloudedit.Hecrossedthestreetwithhiseyesbentupontheground,andthuswaswalkingsorrowfullyaway,whenhefeltatouchuponhisarm. Itwasnotthetouchheneededmostatsuchamoment—thetouchthatcouldcalmthewildwatersofhissoul,astheupliftedhandofthesublimestloveandpatiencecouldabatetheragingofthesea—yetitwasawoman’shandtoo.Itwasanoldwoman,tallandshapelystill,thoughwitheredbytime,onwhomhiseyesfellwhenhestoppedandturned.Shewasverycleanlyandplainlydressed,hadcountrymuduponhershoes,andwasnewlycomefromajourney.Theflutterofhermanner,intheunwontednoiseofthestreetsthespareshawl,carriedunfoldedonherarmtheheavyumbrella,andlittlebasketthelooselong-fingeredgloves,towhichherhandswereunusedallbespokeanoldwomanfromthecountry,inherplainholidayclothes,comeintoCoketownonanexpeditionofrareoccurrence.Remarkingthisataglance,withthequickobservationofhisclass,StephenBlackpoolbenthisattentiveface—hisface,which,likethefacesofmanyofhisorder,bydintoflongworkingwitheyesandhandsinthemidstofaprodigiousnoise,hadacquiredtheconcentratedlookwithwhichwearefamiliarinthecountenancesofthedeaf—thebettertohearwhatsheaskedhim. ‘Pray,sir,’saidtheoldwoman,‘didn’tIseeyoucomeoutofthatgentleman’shouse?’pointingbacktoMr.Bounderby’s.‘Ibelieveitwasyou,unlessIhavehadthebadlucktomistakethepersoninfollowing?’ ‘Yes,missus,’returnedStephen,‘itwereme.’ ‘Haveyou—you’llexcuseanoldwoman’scuriosity—haveyouseenthegentleman?’ ‘Yes,missus.’ ‘Andhowdidhelook,sir?Washeportly,bold,outspoken,andhearty?’Asshestraightenedher