Hard Times

Stephen comes home in the dark to find his room clean and ordered, the fire newly trimmed. Rachael is sitting by his wife's bed. She had been called round at dinner time by the landlady — the wife had come home wandering, wounded, and bruised. Rachael has dressed the wounds, covered the woman, and stayed. Stephen stands looking at Rachael across the dim room and something in his eyes fills with tears. She had known the wife when they were girls. She stayed because she knew Stephen's heart was 'far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid.' He sits. She watches. He dozes into a troubled dream — a marriage ceremony attended by the living and the dead, then a blinding light from the commandments, then an enormous crowd abhorring him as he stands under his own loom condemned to death. He wakes to see the curtain move. His wife has risen, reached toward the table, and chosen the bottle — the one he had already read in large letters and turned deadly pale at. She draws out the cork with her teeth. The draught is at her lips. Rachael starts up with a cry. The wife struggles, strikes her, seizes her by the hair — but Rachael has the cup. She drains it into the ashes and breaks the bottle on the hearth. On the stairs, Stephen goes down on his knee and puts the border of Rachael's shawl to his lips. He tells her that when he saw the poison bottle he had a fright — 'I thowt, how can I say what I might ha' done to myseln, or her, or both!' She puts her hands over his mouth to stop him saying more. He promises that whatever he looks at that angers him, she will be beside it — 'and so I will try t' trust t' th' time, when thou and me at last shall walk together far awa', beyond the deep gulf.' He watches her disappear into the shining street. 'As the shining stars were to the heavy candle in the window, so was Rachael, in the rugged fancy of this man, to the common experiences of his life.'