01x02 - Episode 2

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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—k*lling'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 m*rder.

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.