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was a better and brighter face than hers had ever been； had seen
in it； not without a rising feeling of resentment； even in that place
and at that time； something of the gentleness of the other face in
the room： the sweet face with the trusting eyes； made paler than
watching and sympathy made it； by the rich dark hair。
Left alone with her mother； Louisa saw her lying with an awful
lull upon her face； like one who was floating away upon some great
water； all resistance over； content to be carried down the stream。
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She put the shadow of a hand to her lips again； and recalled her。
“You were going to speak to me； mother。”
“Eh？ Yes； to be sure； my dear。 You know that your father is
almost always away now； and therefore I must write to him about
it。”
“About what； mother？ Don’t be troubled。 About what！”
“You must remember； my dear； that whenever I have said
anything； on any subject； I have never heard the last of it： and
consequently； that I have long left off saying anything。”
“I can hear you； mother。” But it was only by dint of bending
down her ear； and at the same time attentively watching the lips as
they moved； that she could link such faint and broken sounds into
any chain of connection。
“You learnt a great deal； Louisa； and so did your brother。
Ologies of all kinds from morning to night。 If there is any Ology
left； of any description； that has not been worn to rags in this
house； all I can say is； I hope I shall never hear its name。”
“I can hear you； mother； when you have strength to go on。”
This； to keep her from floating away。
“But there is something—not an Ology at all—that your father
has missed； or forgotten； Louisa。 I don’t know what it is。 I have
often sat with Sissy near me； and thought about it。 I shall never get
its name now。 But your father may。 It makes me restless。 I want to
write to him； to find out for God’s sake what it is。 Give me a pen；
give me a pen。”
Even the power of restlessness was gone； except from the poor
head； which could just turn from side to side。
She fancied； however； that her request had been complied with；
and that the pen she could not have held was in her hand。 It
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matters little what figures of wonderful no…meaning she began to
trace upon her wrappers。 The hand soon stopped in the midst of
them； the light that had always been feeble and dim behind the
weak transparency； went out； and even Mrs Gradgrind； emerged
from the shadow in which man walketh and disquieteth himself in
vain； took upon her the dread solemnity of the sages； and
patriarchs。
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Chapter 10
Mrs Sparsit’s Staircase
rs Sparsit’s nerves being slow to recover their tone； the
worthy woman made a stay of some weeks in duration
M
at Mr Bounderby’s retreat； where； notwithstanding her
anchorite turn of mind based upon her becoming consciousness of
her altered station； she resigned herself with noble fortitude to
lodging； as one may say； in clover； and feeding on the fat of the
land。 During the whole term of this recess from the guardianship
of the Bank； Mrs Sparsit was a pattern of consistency； continuing
to take such pity on Mr Bounderby to his face； as is rarely taken
on man； and to call his portrait a Noodle to its face； with the
greatest acrimony and contempt。
Mr Bounderby； having got it into his explosive composition that
Mrs Sparsit was a highly superior woman to perceive that he had
that general cross upon him in his deserts （for he had not yet
settled what it was）； and further； that Louisa would have objected
to her as a frequent visitor if it had comported with his greatness
that she should object to anything he choose to do； resolved not to
lose sight of Mrs Sparsit easily。 So when her nerves were strung
up to the pitch of again consuming sweet…breads in solitude； he
said to her at the dinner…table； on the day before her departure； “I
tell you what； ma’am； you shall come down here of a Saturday；
while the fine weather lasts； and stay till Monday。” To which Mrs
Sparsit returned； in effect； though not of the Mohammedan
persuasion： “To hear is to obey。”
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Now Mrs Sparsit was not a poetical woman； but she took an
idea in the nature of an allegorical fancy； into her head。 Much
watching of Louisa； and much consequent observation of her
impenetrable demeanour； which keenly whetted and sharpened
Mrs Sparsit’s edge； must have given her as it were a lift； in the way
of inspiration。 She erected in her mind a mighty Staircase； with a
dark pit of shame and ruin at the bottom； and down those stairs；
from day to day and hour to hour； she saw Louisa coming。
It became the business of Mrs Sparsit’s life； to look up at her
staircase； and to watch Louisa coming down。 Sometimes slowly；
sometimes quickly； sometimes several steps at one bout；
sometimes stopping； never turning back。 If she had once turned
back； it might have been the death of Mrs Sparsit in spleen and
grief。
She had been descending steadily； to the day； and on the day；
when Mr Bounderby issued the weekly invitation recorded above。
Mrs Sparsit was in good spirits； and inclined to be conversational。
“And pray； sir；” said she； “if I may venture to ask a question
appertaining to any subject on which you show reserve—which is
indeed hardly in me； for I well know you have a reas