Original subtitles

Thomas Gradgrind, leading citizen of Coketown,

has brought up his children, Louisa and Tom,

to live in the world of facts and figures, of duty and work.

It's a philosophy he shares with his friend Josiah Bounderby,

another "hard facts" man who owns the mills as of Coketown,

and whose machines rule the lives of all who live there.

Once, a circus came to town,

bringing the world of fantasy and imagination to their cold lives.

And Gradgrind took into his house

one of the circus children, Sissy,

abandoned by her father, a circus clown.

But that was five years ago.

The circus has left the town,

and and Louisa has become a young woman

in her father's image.

Louisa.

You wished to see me, father?

Louisa.

My dear Louisa.

Oh.

I do wish to speak to you.

And I am sure you will listen with attention to what I have to say.

You have been so well trained,

and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you've received,

that I have perfect confidence in your good sense.

You are not impulsive.

You're 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'm going to communicate.

Yes father.

Louisa, my dear,

You are the subject

of a proposal of marriage.

A proposal of marriage my dear.

I'm listening, father.

I heard when you said it first.

Well!

You are even more dispassionate than I expected.

Or perhaps you are not altogether unprepared

- for what I'm going to say. - I can't say that until I hear it,

can I, father?

I wish to hear you state it to me, father.

Yes, well, that's reasonable, my dear.

Very—

reasonable.

Well, in short,

I have undertaken to inform you

that Mr Bounderby

has watched your progress with great interest and pleasure.

And now he offers his hand to you in marriage.

That time, to which he's so long and with great constancy looked forward,

is now come.

And he has asked me to express his hope that you will consider his offer favorably.

Father, do you—

think I love Mr Bounderby?

I really cannot take it upon myself to say.

Do you ask me to love Mr Bounderby?

It's really very difficult

- for me to answer that question. - To answer yes or no?

Well, the reply depends so much on how we use the expression.

Mr Bounderby does not do you or himself the injustice of pretending anything

fanciful,

or sentimental.

Perhaps the expression,

"love," is a little misplaced.

What would you advise me to use instead?

I would advise you to consider this question

as you've been accustomed to deal with every other.

Simply as one of tangible fact.

Mr Bounderby

is, to use round figures,

fifty.

You are, again, in round figures,

twenty.

Very well, there is a disparity in years.

But in your means and positions, there is none at all.

Quite the contrary.

There's a great suitability.

Now to deal with that one disparity.

Now I find, from the statistics,

that a large proportion of marriages in England

and Wales, are between parties of unequal age.

And in three fourths of these instances, it is the bridegroom who is the elder.

It appears to me that the obstacle of unequal age all but disappears.

So.

The fact you have to consider is simply:

Mr Bounderby asks me to marry him.

The sole remaining question is:

Shall I marry him?

Shall I marry him?

Precisely.

I have now stated the case as such cases are usually stated among

practical minds.

The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide.

Are you consulting the chimneys of the Coketown works, Louisa?

There seems to be nothing there but

languid and monotonous smoke.

But when the night comes, fire bursts out.

I do not see the application of the remark.

Father, I've often thought that life is very short.

It is, no doubt, my dear.

But the calculations of the various life assurance

and annuity offices have established the fact,

that the average duration of human life has increased of recent years.

I'm speaking of my own life.

- Well yours are governed by the same laws. - While it lasts,

I would wish to do the little I'm fit for.

I haven't asked you one particular question

because I thought it unnecessary, but perhaps I ought to ask it.

You've never entertained,

in secret,

the possibility of a proposal from any other man, have you?

How would that happen?

Who have I met?

What do I know?

It was merely my duty to ask.

What would I know about

tastes

and fancies

and aspirations and affections?

Where would I have met them in someone else?

You have kept me safe from them.

I've done what's best for you.

What distraction have I had from

problems that could be demonstrated and

realities that could be grasped?

You've kept me safe.

I'm your child.

I've never had a child's belief,

or a child's fear.

My dear Louisa,

you abundantly repay my care.

So what does it matter?

Matter?

What, my dear?

Nothing.

Father, give Mr Bounderby my answer.

Word for word.

As I say it now.

Since Mr Bounderby likes to take me thus,

I'm satisfied to accept his proposal.

That's a sound decision.

And you've made me very happy by it.

Have you any wish in reference to the date of your marriage?

None, father.

What does it matter?

My family,

and friends,

you all know me

and what I am,

and what my lowly extraction was,

and you won't expect much of a speech

from a rough-made,

self-made man,

who, when he sees a post, says,

"That's a post."

And when he sees a pump, says,

"That's a pump."

And is not to be got to call a post a pump,

or a pump a post.

Or either of them a toothpick.

If you wanted a speech today, you should have called upon

my friend and father-in-law, Tom Gradgrind,

now he's a member of Parliament, he's your man for speeches, not Josiah Bounderby.

Two hours long, some of them.

But,

as I look around this table today,

and reflect

how little I ever thought of marrying someone like Tom Gradgrind's daughter,

when I was a. ragged street boy,

who never washed his face once in a fortnight,

and then at the street pump,

when I reflect that, I think I have a right to be excused speeches.

I feel independent.

I hope you like that.

If you don't, I can't help it.

I've long waited for this day.

I've watched the bringing up of Tom Gradgrind's daughter.

And I believe that she is worthy of me.

At the same time,

not to deceive you,

I believe that I am worthy of her.

I thank you all for your goodwill,

and the best wish I can give

to the unmarried part of the present company, is this:

I hope

that every bachelor present

may find as good a wife

as I have found.

And every spinster

as good a husband.

That's Josiah Bounderby of Coketown.

Very jolly, brother-in-law, uncommonly jolly.

What a girl you are, Loo.

Such a first-rate sister.

You should leave us alone.

We can't get on with it, there's nobody else in this country will.

Is there?

Is there?

Would you like anything, Mrs Gradgrind?

I thought this wedding was

one of those subjects I'd never hear the last of.

Oh no, Sissy, please—

Don't— don't touch my right shoulder.

Something—running down it all day long.

Would you like some more port?

He really is a great worry to me.

I don't understand, Mrs Gradgrind.

What ever am I to call Mr Bounderby?

Now that he's married to Louisa.

I must—call him—something?

It's impossible to be constantly addressing him and never giving him a name.

I can't call him Josiah.

The name is insupportable to me.

Mr Gradgrind won't hear of Joe.

Am I to call my own son-in-law Mr—

I should be worrying myself morning, noon, and night.

What am I to call him?

Mrs Sparsit, ma'am.

We come to a parting of the ways, in a domestic sense.

I've been deeply obliged that a lady of your station

should have attended in my house for me.

And I repeat again, you'd be welcome to remain

even under our different circumstances.

Oh dear, no sir, I could never allow that.

Wouldn't be fair to young Miss Gradgrind.

Mrs Bounderby.

In your apartments of my bank you'll have your

coals and your candles and all the rest of it.

And your maid, to see to you,

and a light porter to protect you,

and you’ll be what I take the liberty of calling precious comfortable.

Now, if you'll take the same terms as before—

I beg your pardon, sir.

You were so good as to promise always to substitute the phrase, annual compliment.

Yes, well, call it what you will, the figure is to remain the same,

and then I see nothing to part us, in a business sense.

Mr Bounderby, you're very considerate.

I would rather receive the bread of dependence

from your hand than any other, since my

descent in society dictates that I must.

You have my sincere acknowledgements for past favors,

and I hope—

I fondly hope Miss Gradgrind will be all you desire,

and deserve, and I wish with all my heart that you will,

in all respects,

be very happy.

Well ma'am, I'm obliged to you, I—

hope I shall be.

Do you sir?

But naturally you do.

Of course you do.

I haven't forgotten the plum preserve, ma'am.

Thank you, Bitzer.

We're well locked up, are we?

Fully secured?

Yes ma'am.

Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?

About an average day, ma'am.

But too busy to allow you time to see about the ink wells and pens,

after Mr Bounderby's board meeting of yesterday evening?

Well it was quite busy, ma'am.

I hope you'll be allowing me doing it while you're at tea.

You usually have some questions to ask, ma'am?

I like to make all my time useful.

Twice over when it's possible.

What news have you today?

Anything more about this uniting and leaguing among the hands?

There are more meetings planned, I know that much.

They'll have the military in the streets if they pursue their greedy pestering.

Mr Bounderby is fast losing his patience.

If he locks them out, it wouldn't surprise me.

I don't understand them.

It's their improvidence that keeps them so low.

Look at the size of the families they expect to keep.

In the matter of other people's children, Bitzer,

Are all our clerks continuing to be trustworthy,

punctual, industrious?

Mostly, ma'am.

With the usual exception.

I regret young Mr Thomas very much.

His ways are not right at all.

Bitzer.

Did I ask for names?

I'll say an individual, ma'am.

From what I can see, this individual is a dissipated idler.

If you'll forgive the term, m'lady.

He wouldn't be allowed in the bank another minute,

if it wasn't for a friend and relation at court.

He drinks and sports and gambles.

And that friend and relation knows it as well as I do.

I only hope this

friend and relation isn't the one who

supplies him with a means of carrying on.

Otherwise, ma'am,

you know whose pocket that money must come from.

And that would be a pity.

I may say it's a pity, Bitzer.

Bitzer,

There's a gentleman—

well, I would hazard a gentleman—

who's looking up at the window, coming across to the door.

It's a gentlemen who spends a great deal on his dress.

Remove this, Bitzer.

Hurry down.

I shall receive him.

Right away, ma'am.

Captain Harthouse, ma'am.

Captain Harthouse?

I do beg your pardon.

Pray excuse me.

What an exceedingly odd town, [inaud].

Is it always as black as this?

Often much blacker, sir.

Will you sit down?

You don't sound like a native.

I beg your pardon?

Of the town?

No.

It was once my good fortune, before I became a widow,

to move in a very different sphere.

My husband was a Powler.

Powler?

Ah, Powler family.

Ah, Captain Jem Harthouse, ma'am.

Jem?

James, if you prefer.

You lived here long?

I am the servant of circumstances, sir, I have adapted to them.

Very laudable.

May I ask your purpose here, sir?

Assuredly.

I have a letter of introduction to Mr Bounderby.

I left my sevant at the railway station looking after the luggage.

Great deal of it.

I expect to be here some while.

I'm in politics.

I asked directions of some working fellow,

who appeared to be covered in some flufflike substance,

which I assumed were the raw material of the town.

Oh dear, no.

Very odd.

Anyway, the fellow directed me here.

I don't suppose Mr Bounderby actually lives in this bank, does he?

No, sir.

Well here's the letter, ma'am.

Perhaps you'd be kind enough to tell me where Mr Bounderby does live?

Do you know if he's in town, at present?

He is, sir.

I'll send the light porter with it.

Thousand thanks.

You known Mr Bounderby a long time?

He's been my

patron for seven years.

Ah, quite an eternity.

I think he married Gradgrind's daughter, did he not?

He had that honor.

Yes, my letter's from Gradgrind,

whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London.

I'm in with his parliamentary party.

But I don't need to tell you about changing circumstances, Mrs Powler, I can tell.

No, because of this—

damn new Parliamentary set-up these other fellows have saddled on the country,

one or two of my kind think that we ought to make sure of our representation.

If new towns like this

got to have more voices in the Commons, well then my people think

perhaps we ought to see to it that some of them are ours.

We don't want to hand over altogether to the industrial breed, do we?

Now Gradgrind and the other hard fact men must think that a few of my kind may—

charm votes from your llittle ten-pound rent payers.

I must say, it all looks

* far more bored than I'd hoped it might.

I've tried most other things that are

open to a man.

And Mrs Bounderby's

quite a philosopher, I'm told.

She's read a great deal, so I understand, Captain Harthouse.

Forgive my curiosity, but—

is the lady is so very alarming?

Stunning, clever,

absolutely unapproachable?

The father gives her a hard-headed reputation.

Though I'm told she's a good deal younger than Mr Bounderby.

What is she,—

thirty?

Forty-five?

Twenty, when they married a year ago.

Her father's comments on her intellect and wisdom

prepared me for grim maturity.

I'm obliged to you more, then.

Pray excuse the intrusion.

* If your man has any reply for me, I'll be at the theatre.

Many thanks.

Good day.

Fool!

Noodle!

I suppose you've heard a lot of talk about conditions in our mills.

Some of these fancy London publications are full of it, so I hear.

We've had such a plague of meddling inspectors lately

it's been a wonder we've got any work done at all.

Inspectors of our children,

inspectors of our machines,

inspectors of our lights,

inspectors of our smoke,

they'll inspect us out of business altogether if they're not careful.

And then who's to support these grumbling hands and their brats?

What they want,

the lot of them,

is to be fed on turtle soup

and venison

with a gold spoon.

What's the work like for them, for the hands?

It's the pleasantest work there is.

And it's the lightest work there is.

And it's the best-paid work there is.

More than that, we couldn't improve the mills themselves

unless we laid down Turkey carpets on the floors.

Eh well this is all very instructive.

You get the facts straight from me.

I don't know any other way.

You're a man of family; don't make the mistake of thinking I am.

I'm a bit of dirty riff-raff.

A genuine scrap of rag, tag, and bobtail.

But you and me can shake hands on equal terms,

because in this house,

I'm just as proud as you are in yours.

And that's me.

Yes, well I can't properly say that I've got a house of my own just now.

We've been staying with my brother since I got back from India.

No, no wife,

no acres of my own to look over.

Where the devil [inaud] myself?

Yes, I thought of going back to Jamaica again.

And then my brother put this notion of Parliament to me.

We've lost our country bowers, we might as well make a go of the towns.

That's the feeling.

So, here I am, in your town.

On Gradgrind's nudge.

If Tom Gradgrind says you need helping, then there's no argument to it.

And now, I'd like to introduce you to Gradgrind's daughter.

Loo, this is James Harthouse who's joined your father's muster roll.

Mrs Bounderby.

Mr Harthouse.

He'll be your father's cully for Coketown South before long.

Harthouse.

You'll notice that my wife is my junior.

I don't know what she saw in me but you must have seen something

otherwise she wouldn't have married me.

She's got a gold vault of knowledge—

political and every otherwise—

so if you want cramming for a political career, or anything of that nature,

you won't find a better instructor than Loo Bounderby.

I can't imagine a more agreeable way of being schooled.

If you're in the complimentary line, you won't find much competition here.

I don't understand the art of paying compliments,

in fact, I despise them.

Mr Bounderby is a noble animal in a comparatively natural state.

Quite free from the harness in which a hack like myself works.

You respect Mr Bounderby very much.

It's right that he should be respected.

So you're going to devote yourself to the service of your country.

You're going to show the nation the way out of its difficulties.

Mrs Bounderby, I don't think so.

I shall make no pretence to you.

I've seen the way of the world, here and there, up and down,

and I'm curious to see a bit more.

I'm going in with your respected father's opinions

because my friends have asked me to.

Have you no opinions of your own?

I haven't the slightest predilection left.

I attach not the least importance to any opinions.

The result of the varieties of boredom that I've undergone,

the varieties of opinion that I've heard,

leaves me with the conviction that one set of ideas will do just as much good or

just as much harm as any other set.

You will make a singularly good politician.

A hap'orth of stewed eels,

bought in the street,

and ate in the street.

That was little Josiah Bounderby's dinner.

I was ten years old before I tasted meat.

And that was sure to be horse;

I expected it to be horse.

Washed down with the water they use for laying the dust.

What do you think about that, eh Harthouse?

No water from the dustcart in your upbringing, eh?

No such advantage, sir.

When I was your age, young Tom, I was punctual at my lodgings or I got no dinner.

When you were my age you didn't have a wrong balance to get right

and you didn't have to dress for dinner afterwards.

Dress? Dress?

Mr Harthouse, this is my brother Tom.

Dress—dress for dinner?

No dinner to dress for, in my house, when I was your age.

House? No house to have dinner in.

But rough as we were,

dinner in the yard,

we didn't have rough words between family in front of guests.

I don't think you need fear that Mr Harthouse is so easily embarrassed.

If he is to represent us adequately in Parliament, he'll need to observe our ways.

Old Stephen's here.

Ah Stephen,

you know every man here.

Except Mr Slackbridge,

who's a delegate for our district.

And he's come specially tonight, solving your case.

We asked for it.

Because you've made it hard for us.

Every man on this committee has grown up with you,

worked with you,

we've asked you privately,

begged you to join the union.

You're the one man in your work who's outside.

We've held back,

because we know your troubles are more than most men's.

But we have a duty to our rules.

If we show favour to any man,

let him go his own way, where's our strength?

We have only one strength, and that's to be united.

We've asked Mr Slackbridge to make one last effort with you,

this is his trade.

Now he knows your case, Stephen.

Listen to him.

There's one last chance for you.

Friends and brothers,

what, I ask you, will you say of this working man,

since such I must acknowledge him to be?

Acquainted with the grievances and wrongs of you, the bone and marrow of this land,

and knowing of your resolve,

your noble and majestic unanimity that will make tyrants tremble,

what can we think of this man?

Who deserts his post,

- Nay, give this man a chance. - and sells his flag,

and will not be one of you associated in this fight for freedom?

Why will you not come with us?

It's your chapel, is it?

Yes.

Do you think there are no Methodists in our union, and in others?

They make their own peace; I have to make mine.

Don't you know there are Methodist lay preachers

who are some of the most celebrated men

in the miners' unions in Durham and Yorkshire?

I've heard mention of it, it doesn't change my mind.

Doesn't change what I think is right, according to the teaching.

Why is the same teaching on our side for them,

and against us for you?

It's a matter of being true to something.

There's a right and a wrong—killing's wrong and burning a man out, that's wrong.

And beating a man.

And turning all his friends and lifelong neighbors against him, that's—

well that's wrong.

The unions have done all this and are still doing it.

Doesn't change things because you say just—

just look at the bad we struggle against—

life's bad, I know that as well as any man here.

What I'm told in chapel is to endure it.

And work for betterment through patience.

Not meet bad with bad.

I can't join you.

I've made a promise.

And I've got to hold to it.

There's that much about my life which is not a man's way of living at all.

I'm made less than a man at work.

Like most others I've made friends with.

And I'm less than a man in my home and most of you here know that and why.

But I believe this.

I think you're wrong.

And I made a promise.

I will not join.

We know of your misfortunes, Stephen.

And of your good name.

Men seem to respect you here.

Otherwise you wouldn't have been tolerated as long as you have.

A number of these men have told me they wish your voice

and your honesty

were a part of this committee.

I'll go further.

I'll say you have the merits that would make a leader of many committees.

- Slackbridge, the man's made up— - It takes a man to lead men, Blackpool,

and these men have seen it in you.

So have I.

Your name could be on men's lips in more towns than this one.

The stand's been made, man.

Don't answer it with tricks.

Stephen is known here.

And his capacities.

It's no more than might have been,

what can never be now.

Stephen,

you know what we must do.

You understand.

Oh I know what's in front of me, no working man will speak to me.

You'll all turn your backs.

I'll be called traitor if I'm spoken to at all.

There are faces here I'd have thought once I could trust my life with.

I will ask one thing.

It's like when this is put to all men that

there'll be some who will say I shouldn't be allowed to work

and there'll be a call for a turnout unless I'm put out of the factory.

I remind you that you were once my friends.

And I'll ask you to use your voices if that call's made.

Your word can stop it.

I'm hoping there'll be work.

That's all I've got to live by.

And I'll—

I'll do it solitary.

Good evening, sir.

Take a glass of something before you go?

- Can I get you anything, sir? - A cigar, at least.

Very good of you to guide me.

Must be the blackest town in Europe.

I'm sure I'd have ended in your canal without you.

- Glad to be of service, Mr Harthouse. - The name's Jep, Tom.

Well, you are a piece of caustic, Tom.

What a very comical brother-in-law.

Old Bounderby's a ridiculous sort of brother-in-law.

Ridiculous old Bounderby.

And old is the word,

when you see him beside your sister.

He's a very fortunate fellow to have such a girl to care for him.

What's amusing you?

She never cared for old Bounderby.

Now that's the past tense, Tom, we're in the present now.

Verb neuter, not to care.

Indicative mood,

present tense.

First person singular,

I do not care.

Second person singular,

thou dost not care.

Third person singular,

she does not care.

Very quaint!

Though you don't mean it.

On my honor.

How do you think Loo could care for him?

You know our governor.

Crammed us both wide with all kinds of dry bones and sawdust.

Loo never had a lover.

The governor proposed on old Bounderby's behalf.

So she took him.

She gets on so—

placidly.

Oh, a girl can get on anywhere.

And she's not a common sort of girl.

She can shut herself up inside herself.

She used to say to me she had nothing to fall back on

like girls are supposed to have—

feelings they can trust.

Don't see how she can have got over that.

Unless living with old Bounderby's taught her to feel—against something.

Waiter!

A very good cigar, Jem.

Good night.

Come to your senses man, you can be protected.

I want to hear about this fellow Slackbridge.

He's somewhere in the town,

stirring up the people to mutiny.

We can have him transported.

I'm sorry as you are, sir, when the men's leaders are bad.

They take those that offer.

They're all scoundrels.

And these are the men who are shunning him.

Oh ma'am, they're not what you call—

well they have not done me a kindness, as I know and feel, but—

they believe they've done their duty by each other.

I've known them all my life. God forbid I shouldn't stand by them with the truth;

they're true to one another, even to death.

Be poor among them, be sick among them,

grieve among them for any of all the many causes

that carry grief to a poor man's door,

and they'll be tender with you, gentle with you,

Christian with you.

Be sure of that, ma'am.

If you—if you'd just favor me with your attention sir.

In short, it's because they're so full of the virtues

that they've cut you adrift, is that it?

They're faithful to one another.

How it is that what is best in us,

turns us most to trouble and misfortune,

I don't know.

I can't think the fault is all with us.

Fault?

What do you complain of?

I didn't come here to complain, I came because I was sent for.

What do you people, in a general way,

complain of?

Look around the town and see what wealth is being made here, but not by us.

We work for you and piece out a living.

Look how we live.

Herded and crowded in with no light and no air.

Look how the mills is always working.

How they never work us nearer to any distant object,

except death.

The factory has us when we're children,

and what's to come when you've had all the use out of us,

but to finish in the workhouse, where men are set apart from wives,

and where the feeding and the labor and

every hour and minute are meant to punish us?

And for what?

For nothing except for having nothing.

Look how it's all grown, bigger and bigger,

harder and harder, from generation to generation.

And how do you people propose

that this should be set right?

I don't know.

It's for them who're put over us to repair it.

What do they take upon themselves, if not to do it?

I'll tell you something towards it at any rate.

We'll make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges,

we'll have the blackguards indicted for felony and shipped off to a penal colony—

don't tell me we won't, man, I say we will!

Sir, if you were to take a hundred Slackbridges, or ten times a hundred,

and sew them into sacks and throw them in the deepest ocean there is,

you'd leave the muddle untouched.

I can't tell you what will better on us.

I can tell you what will never do it; the strong hand will never do it.

Victory and triumph will never do it.

Making one side unnaturally always and forever right,

and the other always and forever wrong? That'll never do it.

And letting things alone will never do it.

But most of all, rating people like so much Power,

and regulating them like—

machinery, or figures in a sum, as if they're without

likes and loves,

and memories and hopes.

Well that'll never do it.

- God's work is unmade. - J-j-just stop a moment.

It's clear to me you're one of those people who's always got a grievance.

And you go about sowing it

and raising crops.

Even your own union, the men who know you best, will have nothing to do with you.

Well then.

I'll go along with them.

For a novelty.

You'd best clear out, go elsewhere.

Sir, you know well, if I can't get work with you, I can't get it elsewhere.

What I know, I know.

And what you know, you know.

Went to your house, lass. Forgot you'd be here tonight.

I need to talk to you.

I heard. About the union.

I was going to wait for you at the gate tomorrow.

We women haven't been instructed, but—

you know I could never shut my back to you.

No, no no.

- Do you feel it bad? - it's not that.

I've just seen Mr Bounderby.

He's not master any more.

His work and me have parted.

I'll have to go to another town.

Where will you go?

When?

I'm to finish the week. Where, I don't know.

I'll make it a long journey.

It was bound to come to this in the end.

It's best I should be away.

- But why do you— - You'd be shunned, too, before long;

I can't do that to you.

Are you alone at home?

Yes, I don't know where she is.

I'll come home with you.

We'll take the next opening.

God, these people live foul.

Pigs are cleaner.

You'll remember this night, Loo.

We'll try this one.

I'll go first.

Will you come in, Mrs Bounderby?

Please sit down.

Sir, if you please.

I've come to speak to you because of what passed between you and—

my husband,

- earlier today. - Ah, yes.

My brother and I had difficulty finding you.

He's told you what has happened?

I know your situation.

I understand that if my husband will not employ him,

then neither will any other mill owner in Coketown.

He said something of a promise.

Not to join the union.

Was that made to you?

It was made through me, you might say.

I encouraged him into the chapel.

It became his strength, but,

now it's been the breaking of him.

We share a faith.

It binds us.

Other men take what bits of it suits them.

I honor it all,

as I understand it.

There's no blame on you, lass.

What will you do now?

Now I'll go to another town, far enough away, where I'm not known.

Will you take this?

Freely, as a gift?

To help you?

Very kind, I'll not take a gift as much as that.

Well if I may, I'll—

I'll take two,

to borrow it and pay it back later.

Do you have enough?

Loo, before we go, I'd—

like a quiet word with Blackpool.

Something's come into my mind.

Let's talk outside.

Yes.

You're very young, Mrs Bounderby.

You have a life in front of you.

I hope you have it happy,

to fit your kindness.

Me and Stephen, we're

getting old.

He's tired enough already.

He—

we will take this separation very hard.

Some say we—

should have claimed each other's company,

much closer,

a long time ago.

There is a love between us.

That other way, that's not ours, you understand?

There is love.

I believe you.

You'll know our fellow Bitzer again, our light porter at the bank?

The one who fetched you to Mr Bounderby's.

You will know him again, won't you?

Yes, yes sir, I'll know him, yes.

Well look here.

When you leave work, overnight, between now and Saturday,

just spend an hour or so in the street near the bank.

Just wait about there, do you understand?

No need to approach the door.

Just wait about where Bitzer can see you.

In case he has a note or a message for you.

Do you follow?

Yes sir, I follow you, er,

- I don't quite understand— - You just wait about as I say.

If I can do you this service, Bitzer will give you the message.

You follow?

Yes.

Don't forget now.

An hour every night, that'll do.

Right, sir. Thank you, sir.

Alright Blackpool, that's all.

Louisa.

If I'd stayed, the men would have taken sides before long.

I wouldn't want to be the cause of more bad blood among them.

Ay, it's a muddle.

But I'm lighter of mind than I could have believed.

Heaven be with you.

Heaven thank you and heaven reward you.

And may it bless you in all your wanderings.

And bring you peace and rest at last.

I'm at peace, Rachel. You've changed me from bad to good.

You'll save my soul while I'm still alive.

The good is in you, Stephen.

No.

Do you remember a time, one of the worst times—

when she was half dying, we thought, in my room—

do you remember that night?

I wanted her dead.

I thought of murder.

But I saw you and your goodness there beside the pain and the temptation

and never again will I think or see anything that angers me,

but you'll be there beside it.

And I thank God for you.