“Of course there is.”

“If I flee from her, there’s a law to punish me?”

“Of course there is.”

“If I marry t’oother dear lass, there’s a law to punish me?”

“Of course there is.”

“If I was to live wi’ her an’ not marry her⁠—saying such a thing could be, which it never could or would, an’ her so good⁠—there’s a law to punish me, in every innocent child belonging to me?”

“Of course there is.”

“Now, a’ God’s name,” said Stephen Blackpool, “show me the law to help me!”

“Hem! There’s a sanctity in this relation of life,” said Mr. Bounderby, “and⁠—and⁠—it must be kept up.”

“No no, dunnot say that, sir. ’Tan’t kep’ up that way. Not that way. ’Tis kep’ down that way. I’m a weaver, I were in a fact’ry when a chilt, but I ha’ gotten een to see wi’ and eern to year wi’. I read in th’ papers every ’Sizes, every Sessions⁠—and you read too⁠—I know it!⁠—with dismay⁠—how th’ supposed unpossibility o’ ever getting unchained from one another, at any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many common married fok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Let us ha’ this, right understood. Mine’s a grievous case, an’ I want⁠—if yo will be so good⁠—t’ know the law that helps me.”

“Now, I tell you what!” said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets. “There is such a law.”

Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and never wandering in his attention, gave a nod.

“But it’s not for you at all. It costs money. It costs a mint of money.”

“How much might that be?” Stephen calmly asked.

“Why, you’d have to go to Doctors’ Commons with a suit, and you’d have to go to a court of Common Law with a suit, and you’d have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, and you’d have to get an Act of Parliament to enable you to marry again, and it would cost you (if it was a case of very plain sailing), I suppose from a thousand to fifteen hundred pound,” said Mr. Bounderby. “Perhaps twice the money.”

“There’s no other law?”

“Certainly not.”

“Why then, sir,” said Stephen, turning white, and motioning with that right hand of his, as if he gave everything to the four winds, “ ’tis a muddle. ’Tis just a muddle a’toogether, an’ the sooner I am dead, the better.”

( Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the impiety of the people.)

“ ’Tis a muddle,” said Stephen, shaking his head as he moved to the door. “ ’Tis a’ a muddle!”

The Old Woman