Mrs. Sparsit sat waiting in another corner. Both listened to the thunder, which was loud, and to the rain, as it washed off the roof, and pattered on the parapets of the arches. Two or three lamps were rained out and blown out, so both saw the lightning to advantage as it quivered and zig-zagged on the iron tracks.

The seizure of the station with a fit of trembling, gradually deepening to a complaint of the heart, announced the train. Fire and steam, and smoke, and red light; a hiss, a crash, a bell, and a shriek; Louisa put into one carriage, Mrs. Sparsit put into another: the little station a desert speck in the thunderstorm.

Though her teeth chattered in her head from wet and cold, Mrs. Sparsit exulted hugely. The figure had plunged down the precipice, and she felt herself, as it were, attending on the body. Could she, who had been so active in the getting up of the funeral triumph, do less than exult? “She will be at Coketown long before him,” thought Mrs. Sparsit, “though his horse is never so good. Where will she wait for him? And where will they go together? Patience. We shall see.”

The tremendous rain occasioned infinite confusion when the train stopped at its destination. Gutters and pipes had burst, drains had overflowed, and streets were under water. In the first instant of alighting, Mrs. Sparsit turned her distracted eyes towards the waiting coaches, which were in great request. “She will get into one,” she considered, “and will be away before I can follow in another. At all risks of being run over, I must see the number, and hear the order given to the coachman.”

But Mrs. Sparsit was wrong in her calculation. Louisa got into no coach, and was already gone. The black eyes kept upon the railroad-carriage in which she had travelled settled upon it a moment too late. The door not being opened after several minutes, Mrs. Sparsit passed it and repassed it, saw nothing, looked in, and found it empty. Wet through and through, with her feet squelching and squashing in her shoes whenever she moved, with a rash of rain upon her classical visage, with a bonnet like an overripe fig, with all her clothes spoiled, with damp impressions of every button, string, and hook-and-eye she wore printed off upon her highly connected back, with a stagnant verdure on her general exterior such as accumulates on an old park fence in a mouldy lane, Mrs. Sparsit had no resource but to burst into tears of bitterness and say, “I have lost her!”

CHAPTER XII

Down

THE national dustmen, after entertaining one another with a great many noisy little fights among themselves, had dispersed for the present, and Mr. Gradgrind was at home for the vacation.

He sat writing in the room with the deadly statistical clock, proving something no doubt—probably, in the main, that the Good Samaritan was a Bad Economist. The noise of the rain did not disturb him much, but it attracted his attention sufficiently to make him raise his head sometimes, as if he were rather remonstrating with the elements. When it thundered very loudly, he glanced towards Coketown, having it in his mind that some of the tall chimneys might be struck by lightning.

The thunder was rolling into distance, and the rain was pouring down like a deluge, when the door of his room opened. He looked round the lamp upon his table and saw, with amazement, his eldest daughter.

“Louisa!”

“Father, I want to speak to you.”

“What is the matter? How strange you look! And good Heaven,” said Mr. Gradgrind, wondering more and more, “have you come here exposed to this storm?”

She put her hands to her dress, as if she hardly knew. “Yes.” Then she uncovered her head, and, letting her cloak and hood fall where they might, stood looking at him, so colourless, so dishevelled, so defiant and despairing, that he was afraid of her.

“What is it? I conjure you, Louisa, tell me what is the matter.”

She dropped into a chair before him, and put her cold hand on his arm.

“Father, you have trained me from my cradle?”

“Yes, Louisa.”

“I curse the hour in which I was born to such a destiny.” He looked at her in doubt and dread, vacantly repeating: “Curse the hour? Curse the hour?”

“How could you give me life, and take from me all the inappreciable things that raise it from the state of conscious death? Where are the graces of my soul? Where