Dombey and Son
In uttering this last word, the old woman shrunk and recoiled, as if
with sudden fear that her daughter would strike her. But though the
daughter’s face was fixed upon her, and expressed the most vehement
passion, she remained still: except that she clenched her arms tighter
and tighter within each other, on her bosom, as if to restrain them by
that means from doing an injury to herself, or someone else, in the
blind fury of the wrath that suddenly possessed her.
“Little he thought who I was!” said the old woman, shaking her clenched
hand.
“And little he cared!” muttered her daughter, between her teeth.
“But there we were, said the old woman, “face to face. I spoke to him,
and he spoke to me. I sat and watched him as he went away down a long
grove of trees: and at every step he took, I cursed him soul and body.”
“He will thrive in spite of that,” returned the daughter disdainfully.
“Ay, he is thriving,” said the mother.
She held her peace; for the face and form before her were unshaped by
rage. It seemed as if the bosom would burst with the emotions that
strove within it. The effort that constrained and held it pent up, was
no less formidable than the rage itself: no less bespeaking the violent
and dangerous character of the woman who made it. But it succeeded, and
she asked, after a silence:
“Is he married?”
“No, deary,” said the mother.
“Going to be?”
“Not that I know of, deary. But his master and friend is married. Oh,
we may give him joy! We may give ’em all joy!” cried the old woman,
hugging herself with her lean arms in her exultation. “Nothing but joy
to us will come of that marriage. Mind me!”
The daughter looked at her for an explanation.
“But you are wet and tired; hungry and thirsty,” said the old woman,
hobbling to the cupboard; “and there’s little here, and little”—diving
down into her pocket, and jingling a few half—pence on the
table—“little here. Have you any money, Alice, deary?”
The covetous, sharp, eager face, with which she asked the question and
looked on, as her daughter took out of her bosom the little gift she
had so lately received, told almost as much of the history of this
parent and child as the child herself had told in words.
“Is that all?” said the mother.
“I have no more. I should not have this, but for charity.”
“But for charity, eh, deary?” said the old woman, bending greedily over
the table to look at the money, which she appeared distrustful of her
daughter’s still retaining in her hand, and gazing on. “Humph! six and
six is twelve, and six eighteen—so—we must make the most of it. I’ll go
buy something to eat and drink.”
With greater alacrity than might have been expected in one of her
appearance—for age and misery seemed to have made her as decrepit as
ugly—she began to occupy her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet on
her head, and folding a torn shawl about herself: still eyeing the
money in her daughter’s hand, with the same sharp desire.
“What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother?” asked the
daughter. “You have not told me that.”
“The joy,” she replied, attiring herself, with fumbling fingers, “of no
love at all, and much pride and hate, my deary. The joy of confusion
and strife among ’em, proud as they are, and of danger—danger, Alice!”
“What danger?”
“I have seen what I have seen. I know what I know!” chuckled the
mother. “Let some look to it. Let some be upon their guard. My gal may
keep good company yet!”
Then, seeing that in the wondering earnestness with which her daughter
regarded her, her hand involuntarily closed upon the money, the old
woman made more speed to secure it, and hurriedly added, “but I’ll go
buy something; I’ll go buy something.”
As she stood with her hand stretched out before her daughter, her
daughter, glancing again at the money, put it to her lips before
parting with it.
“What, Ally! Do you kiss it?” chuckled the old woman. “That’s like me—I
often do. Oh, it’s so good to us!” squeezing her own tarnished
halfpence up to her bag of a throat, “so good to us in everything but
not coming in heaps!”
“I kiss it, mother,” said the daughter, “or I did then—I don’t know
that I ever did before—for the giver’s sake.”
“The giver, eh, deary?” retorted the old woman, whose dimmed eyes
glistened as she took it. “Ay! I’ll kiss it for the giver’s sake, too,
when the giver can make it go farther. But I’ll go spend it, deary.
I’ll be back directly.”
“You seem to say you know a great deal, mother,” said the daughter,
following her to the door with her eyes. “You have grown very wise
since we parted.”
“Know!” croaked the old woman, coming back a step or two, “I know more
than you think I know more than he thinks, deary, as I’ll tell you by
and bye. I know all.”
The daughter smiled incredulously.
“I know of his brother, Alice,” said the old woman, stretching out her
neck with a leer of malice absolutely frightful, “who might have been
where you have been—for stealing money—and who lives with his sister,
over yonder, by the north road out of London.”
“Where?”
“By the north road out of London, deary. You shall see the house if you
like. It ain’t much to boast of, genteel as his own is. No, no, no,”
cried the old woman, shaking her head and laughing; for her daughter
had started up, “not now; it’s too far off; it’s by the milestone,
where the stones are heaped;—to-morrow, deary, if it’s fine, and you
are in the humour. But I’ll go spend—”
“Stop!” and the daughter flung herself upon her, with her former
passion raging like a fire. “The sister is a fair-faced Devil, with
brown hair?”
The old woman, amazed and terrified, nodded her head.
“I see the shadow of him in her face! It’s a red house standing by
itself. Before the door there is a small green porch.”
Again the old woman nodded.
“In which I sat today! Give me back the money.”
“Alice! Deary!”
“Give me back the money, or you’ll be hurt.”
She forced it from the old woman’s hand as she spoke, and utterly
indifferent to her complainings and entreaties, threw on the garments
she had taken off, and hurried out, with headlong speed.
The mother followed, limping after her as she could, and expostulating
with no more effect upon her than upon the wind and rain and darkness
that encompassed them. Obdurate and fierce in her own purpose, and
indifferent to all besides, the daughter defied the weather and the
distance, as if she had known no travel or fatigue, and made for the
house where she had been relieved. After some quarter of an hour’s
walking, the old woman, spent and out of breath, ventured to hold by
her skirts; but she ventured no more, and they travelled on in silence
through the wet and gloom. If the mother now and then uttered a word of
complaint, she stifled it lest her daughter should break away from her
and leave her behind; and the daughter was dumb.
It was within an hour or so of midnight, when they left the regular
streets behind them, and entered on the deeper gloom of that neutral
ground where the house was situated. The town lay in the distance,
lurid and lowering; the bleak wind howled over the open space; all
around was black, wild, desolate.
“This is a fit place for me!” said the daughter, stopping to look back.
“I thought so, when I was here before, today.”
“Alice, my deary,” cried the mother, pulling her gently by the skirt.
“Alice!”
“What now, mother?”
“Don’t give the money back, my darling; please don’t. We can’t afford
it. We want supper, deary. Money is money, whoever gives it. Say what
you will, but keep the money.”
“See there!” was all the daughter’s answer. “That is the house I mean.
Is that it?”
The old woman nodded in the affirmative; and a few more paces brought
them to the threshold. There was the light of fire and candle in the
room where Alice had sat to dry her clothes; and on her knocking at the
door, John Carker appeared from that room.
He was surprised to see such visitors at such an hour, and asked Alice
what she wanted.
“I want your sister,” she said. “The woman who gave me money today.”
At the sound of her raised voice, Harriet came out.
“Oh!” said Alice. “You are here! Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” she answered, wondering.
The face that had humbled itself before her, looked on her now with
such invincible hatred and defiance; and the hand that had gently
touched her arm, was clenched with such a show of evil purpose, as if
it would gladly strangle her; that she drew close to her brother for
protection.
“That I could speak with you, and not know you! That I could come near
you, and not feel what blood was running in your veins, by the tingling
of my own!” said Alice, with a menacing gesture.
“What do you mean? What have I done?”
“Done!” returned the other. “You have sat me by your fire; you have
given me food and money; you have bestowed your compassion on me! You!
whose name I spit upon!”
The old woman, with a malevolence that made her ugliness quite awful,
shook her withered hand at the brother and sister in confirmation of
her daughter, but plucked her by the skirts again, nevertheless,
imploring her to keep the money.
“If I dropped a tear upon your hand, may it wither it up! If I spoke a
gentle word in your hearing, may it deafen you! If I touched you with
my lips, may the touch be poison to you! A curse upon this roof that
gave me shelter! Sorrow and shame upon your head! Ruin upon all
belonging to you!”
As she said the words, she threw the money down upon the ground, and
spurned it with her foot.
“I tread it in the dust: I wouldn’t take it if it paved my way to
Heaven! I would the bleeding foot that brought me here today, had
rotted off, before it led me to your house!”
Harriet, pale and trembling, restrained her brother, and suffered her
to go on uninterrupted.
“It was well that I should be pitied and forgiven by you, or anyone of
your name, in the first hour of my return! It was well that you should
act the kind good lady to me! I’ll thank you when I die; I’ll pray for
you, and all your race, you may be sure!”
With a fierce action of her hand, as if she sprinkled hatred on the
ground, and with it devoted those who were standing there to
destruction, she looked up once at the black sky, and strode out into
the wild night.
The mother, who had plucked at her skirts again and again in vain, and
had eyed the money lying on the threshold with an absorbing greed that
seemed to concentrate her faculties upon it, would have prowled about,
until the house was dark, and then groped in the mire on the chance of
repossessing herself of it. But the daughter drew her away, and they
set forth, straight, on their return to their dwelling; the old woman
whimpering and bemoaning their loss upon the road, and fretfully
bewailing, as openly as she dared, the undutiful conduct of her
handsome girl in depriving her of a supper, on the very first night of
their reunion.
Supperless to bed she went, saving for a few coarse fragments; and
those she sat mumbling and munching over a scrap of fire, long after
her undutiful daughter lay asleep.
Were this miserable mother, and this miserable daughter, only the
reduction to their lowest grade, of certain social vices sometimes
prevailing higher up? In this round world of many circles within
circles, do we make a weary journey from the high grade to the low, to
find at last that they lie close together, that the two extremes touch,
and that our journey’s end is but our starting-place? Allowing for
great difference of stuff and texture, was the pattern of this woof
repeated among gentle blood at all?
Say, Edith Dombey! And Cleopatra, best of mothers, let us have your
testimony!
CHAPTER XXXV.
The Happy Pair