Чарльз Диккенс
Dombey and Son
Turning into a silent little square or court-yard that had a great church tower rising above it, and a packer’s warehouse, and a bottle-maker’s warehouse, for its places of business, Rob the Grinder delivered the white-legged horse to the hostler of a quaint stable at the corner; and inviting Mrs Brown and her daughter to seat themselves upon a stone bench at the gate of that establishment, soon reappeared from a neighbouring public-house with a pewter measure and a glass.
‘Here’s master – Mr Carker, child!’ said the old woman, slowly, as her sentiment before drinking. ‘Lord bless him!’
‘Why, I didn’t tell you who he was,’ observed Rob, with staring eyes.
‘We know him by sight,’ said Mrs Brown, whose working mouth and nodding head stopped for the moment, in the fixedness of her attention. ‘We saw him pass this morning, afore he got off his horse; when you were ready to take it.’
‘Ay, ay,’ returned Rob, appearing to wish that his readiness had carried him to any other place. – ‘What’s the matter with her? Won’t she drink?’
This inquiry had reference to Alice, who, folded in her cloak, sat a little apart, profoundly inattentive to his offer of the replenished glass.
The old woman shook her head. ‘Don’t mind her,’ she said; ‘she’s a strange creetur, if you know’d her, Rob. But Mr Carker – ’
‘Hush!’ said Rob, glancing cautiously up at the packer’s, and at the bottle-maker’s, as if, from any one of the tiers of warehouses, Mr Carker might be looking down. ‘Softly.’
‘Why, he ain’t here!’ cried Mrs Brown.
‘I don’t know that,’ muttered Rob, whose glance even wandered to the church tower, as if he might be there, with a supernatural power of hearing.
‘Good master?’ inquired Mrs Brown.
Rob nodded; and added, in a low voice, ‘precious sharp.’
‘Lives out of town, don’t he, lovey?’ said the old woman.
‘When he’s at home,’ returned Rob; ‘but we don’t live at home just now.’
‘Where then?’ asked the old woman.
‘Lodgings; up near Mr Dombey’s,’ returned Rob.
The younger woman fixed her eyes so searchingly upon him, and so suddenly, that Rob was quite confounded, and offered the glass again, but with no more effect upon her than before.
‘Mr Dombey – you and I used to talk about him, sometimes, you know,’ said Rob to Mrs Brown. ‘You used to get me to talk about him.’
The old woman nodded.
‘Well, Mr Dombey, he’s had a fall from his horse,’ said Rob, unwillingly; ‘and my master has to be up there, more than usual, either with him, or Mrs Dombey, or some of ‘em; and so we’ve come to town.’
‘Are they good friends, lovey?’ asked the old woman.
‘Who?’ retorted Rob.
‘He and she?’
‘What, Mr and Mrs Dombey?’ said Rob. ‘How should I know!’
‘Not them – Master and Mrs Dombey, chick,’ replied the old woman, coaxingly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Rob, looking round him again. ‘I suppose so. How curious you are, Misses Brown! Least said, soonest mended.’
‘Why there’s no harm in it!’ exclaimed the old woman, with a laugh, and a clap of her hands. ‘Sprightly Rob, has grown tame since he has been well off! There’s no harm in it.’
‘No, there’s no harm in it, I know,’ returned Rob, with the same distrustful glance at the packer’s and the bottle-maker’s, and the church; ‘but blabbing, if it’s only about the number of buttons on my master’s coat, won’t do. I tell you it won’t do with him. A cove had better drown himself. He says so. I shouldn’t have so much as told you what his name was, if you hadn’t known it. Talk about somebody else.’
As Rob took another cautious survey of the yard, the old woman made a secret motion to her daughter. It was momentary, but the daughter, with a slight look of intelligence, withdrew her eyes from the boy’s face, and sat folded in her cloak as before.
‘Rob, lovey!’ said the old woman, beckoning him to the other end of the bench. ‘You were always a pet and favourite of mine. Now, weren’t you? Don’t you know you were?’
‘Yes, Misses Brown,’ replied the Grinder, with a very bad grace.
‘And you could leave me!’ said the old woman, flinging her arms about his neck. ‘You could go away, and grow almost out of knowledge, and never come to tell your poor old friend how fortunate you were, proud lad! Oho, Oho!’
‘Oh here’s a dreadful go for a cove that’s got a master wide awake in the neighbourhood!’ exclaimed the wretched Grinder. ‘To be howled over like this here!’
‘Won’t you come and see me, Robby?’ cried Mrs Brown. ‘Oho, won’t you ever come and see me?’
‘Yes, I tell you! Yes, I will!’ returned the Grinder.
‘That’s my own Rob! That’s my lovey!’ said Mrs Brown, drying the tears upon her shrivelled face, and giving him a tender squeeze. ‘At the old place, Rob?’
‘Yes,’ replied the Grinder.
‘Soon, Robby dear?’ cried Mrs Brown; ‘and often?’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes,’ replied Rob. ‘I will indeed, upon my soul and body.’
‘And then,’ said Mrs Brown, with her arms uplifted towards the sky, and her head thrown back and shaking, ‘if he’s true to his word, I’ll never come a-near him though I know where he is, and never breathe a syllable about him! Never!’
This ejaculation seemed a drop of comfort to the miserable Grinder, who shook Mrs Brown by the hand upon it, and implored her with tears in his eyes, to leave a cove and not destroy his prospects. Mrs Brown, with another fond embrace, assented; but in the act of following her daughter, turned back, with her finger stealthily raised, and asked in a hoarse whisper for some money.
‘A shilling, dear!’ she said, with her eager avaricious face, ‘or sixpence! For old acquaintance sake. I’m so poor. And my handsome gal’ – looking over her shoulder – ‘she’s my gal, Rob – half starves me.’
But as the reluctant Grinder put it in her hand, her daughter, coming quietly back, caught the hand in hers, and twisted out the coin.
‘What,’ she said, ‘mother! always money! money from the first, and to the last. Do you mind so little what I said but now? Here. Take it!’
The old woman uttered a moan as the money was restored, but without in any other way opposing its restoration, hobbled at her daughter’s side out of the yard, and along the by-street upon which it opened. The astonished and dismayed Rob staring after them, saw that they stopped, and fell to earnest conversation very soon; and more than once observed a darkly threatening action of the younger woman’s hand (obviously having reference to someone of whom they spoke), and a crooning feeble imitation of it on the part of Mrs Brown, that made him earnestly hope he might not be the subject of their discourse.
With the present consolation that they were gone, and with the prospective comfort that Mrs Brown could not live for ever, and was not likely to live long to trouble him, the Grinder, not otherwise regretting his misdeeds than as they were attended with such disagreeable incidental consequences, composed his ruffled features to a more serene expression by thinking of the admirable manner in which he had disposed of Captain Cuttle (a reflection that seldom failed to put him in a flow of spirits), and went to the Dombey Counting House to receive his master’s orders.
There his master, so subtle and vigilant of eye, that Rob quaked before him, more than half expecting to be taxed with Mrs Brown, gave him the usual morning’s box of papers for Mr Dombey, and a note for Mrs Dombey: merely nodding his head as an enjoinder to be careful, and to use dispatch – a mysterious admonition, fraught in the Grinder’s imagination with dismal warnings and threats; and more powerful with him than any words.
Alone again, in his own room, Mr Carker applied himself to work, and worked all day. He saw many visitors; overlooked a number of documents; went in and out, to and from, sundry places of mercantile resort; and indulged in no more abstraction until the day’s business was done. But, when the usual clearance of papers from his table was made at last, he fell into his thoughtful mood once more.
He was standing in his accustomed place and attitude, with his eyes intently fixed upon the ground, when his brother entered to bring back some letters that had been taken out in the course of the day. He put them quietly on the table, and was going immediately, when Mr Carker the Manager, whose eyes had rested on him, on his entrance, as if they had all this time had him for the subject of their contemplation, instead of the office-floor, said:
‘Well, John Carker, and what brings you here?’
His brother pointed to the letters, and was again withdrawing.
‘I wonder,’ said the Manager, ‘that you can come and go, without inquiring how our master is’.
‘We had word this morning in the Counting House, that Mr Dombey was doing well,’ replied his brother.
‘You are such a meek fellow,’ said the Manager, with a smile, – ‘but you have grown so, in the course of years – that if any harm came to him, you’d be miserable, I dare swear now.’
‘I should be truly sorry, James,’ returned the other.
‘He would be sorry!’ said the Manager, pointing at him, as if there were some other person present to whom he was appealing. ‘He would be truly sorry! This brother of mine! This junior of the place, this slighted piece of lumber, pushed aside with his face to the wall, like a rotten picture, and left so, for Heaven knows how many years he’s all gratitude and respect, and devotion too, he would have me believe!’
‘I would have you believe nothing, James,’ returned the other. ‘Be as just to me as you would to any other man below you. You ask a question, and I answer it.’
‘And have you nothing, Spaniel,’ said the Manager, with unusual irascibility, ‘to complain of in him? No proud treatment to resent, no insolence, no foolery of state, no exaction of any sort! What the devil! are you man or mouse?’
‘It would be strange if any two persons could be together for so many years, especially as superior and inferior, without each having something to complain of in the other – as he thought, at all events,’ replied John Carker. ‘But apart from my history here – ’
‘His history here!’ exclaimed the Manager. ‘Why, there it is. The very fact that makes him an extreme case, puts him out of the whole chapter! Well?’
‘Apart from that, which, as you hint, gives me a reason to be thankful that I alone (happily for all the rest) possess, surely there is no one in the House who would not say and feel at least as much. You do not think that anybody here would be indifferent to a mischance or misfortune happening to the head of the House, or anything than truly sorry for it?’
‘You have good reason to be bound to him too!’ said the Manager, contemptuously. ‘Why, don’t you believe that you are kept here, as a cheap example, and a famous instance of the clemency of Dombey and Son, redounding to the credit of the illustrious House?’
‘No,’ replied his brother, mildly, ‘I have long believed that I am kept here for more kind and disinterested reasons.’
‘But you were going,’ said the Manager, with the snarl of a tiger-cat, ‘to recite some Christian precept, I observed.’
‘Nay, James,’ returned the other, ‘though the tie of brotherhood between us has been long broken and thrown away – ’
‘Who broke it, good Sir?’ said the Manager.
‘I, by my misconduct. I do not charge it upon you.’
The Manager replied, with that mute action of his bristling mouth, ‘Oh, you don’t charge it upon me!’ and bade him go on.
‘I say, though there is not that tie between us, do not, I entreat, assail me with unnecessary taunts, or misinterpret what I say, or would say. I was only going to suggest to you that it would be a mistake to suppose that it is only you, who have been selected here, above all others, for advancement, confidence and distinction (selected, in the beginning, I know, for your great ability and trustfulness), and who communicate more freely with Mr Dombey than anyone, and stand, it may be said, on equal terms with him, and have been favoured and enriched by him – that it would be a mistake to suppose that it is only you who are tender of his welfare and reputation. There is no one in the House, from yourself down to the lowest, I sincerely believe, who does not participate in that feeling.’
‘You lie!’ said the Manager, red with sudden anger. ‘You’re a hypocrite, John Carker, and you lie.’
‘James!’ cried the other, flushing in his turn. ‘What do you mean by these insulting words? Why do you so basely use them to me, unprovoked?’
‘I tell you,’ said the Manager, ‘that your hypocrisy and meekness – that all the hypocrisy and meekness of this place – is not worth that to me,’ snapping his thumb and finger, ‘and that I see through it as if it were air! There is not a man employed here, standing between myself and the lowest in place (of whom you are very considerate, and with reason, for he is not far off), who wouldn’t be glad at heart to see his master humbled: who does not hate him, secretly: who does not wish him evil rather than good: and who would not turn upon him, if he had the power and boldness. The nearer to his favour, the nearer to his insolence; the closer to him, the farther from him. That’s the creed here!’
‘I don’t know,’ said his brother, whose roused feelings had soon yielded to surprise, ‘who may have abused your ear with such representations; or why you have chosen to try me, rather than another. But that you have been trying me, and tampering with me, I am now sure. You have a different manner and a different aspect from any that I ever saw in you. I will only say to you, once more, you are deceived.’
‘I know I am,’ said the Manager. ‘I have told you so.’
‘Not by me,’ returned his brother. ‘By your informant, if you have one. If not, by your own thoughts and suspicions.’
‘I have no suspicions,’ said the Manager. ‘Mine are certainties. You pusillanimous, abject, cringing dogs! All making the same show, all canting the same story, all whining the same professions, all harbouring the same transparent secret.’
His brother withdrew, without saying more, and shut the door as he concluded. Mr Carker the Manager drew a chair close before the fire, and fell to beating the coals softly with the poker.
‘The faint-hearted, fawning knaves,’ he muttered, with his two shining rows of teeth laid bare. ‘There’s not one among them, who wouldn’t feign to be so shocked and outraged – ! Bah! There’s not one among them, but if he had at once the power, and the wit and daring to use it, would scatter Dombey’s pride and lay it low, as ruthlessly as I rake out these ashes.’
As he broke them up and strewed them in the grate, he looked on with a thoughtful smile at what he was doing. ‘Without the same queen beckoner too!’ he added presently; ‘and there is pride there, not to be forgotten – witness our own acquaintance!’ With that he fell into a deeper reverie, and sat pondering over the blackening grate, until he rose up like a man who had been absorbed in a book, and looking round him took his hat and gloves, went to where his horse was waiting, mounted, and rode away through the lighted streets, for it was evening.
He rode near Mr Dombey’s house; and falling into a walk as he approached it, looked up at the windows The window where he had once seen Florence sitting with her dog attracted his attention first, though there was no light in it; but he smiled as he carried his eyes up the tall front of the house, and seemed to leave that object superciliously behind.
‘Time was,’ he said, ‘when it was well to watch even your rising little star, and know in what quarter there were clouds, to shadow you if needful. But a planet has arisen, and you are lost in its light.’
He turned the white-legged horse round the street corner, and sought one shining window from among those at the back of the house. Associated with it was a certain stately presence, a gloved hand, the remembrance how the feathers of a beautiful bird’s wing had been showered down upon the floor, and how the light white down upon a robe had stirred and rustled, as in the rising of a distant storm. These were the things he carried with him as he turned away again, and rode through the darkening and deserted Parks at a quick rate.
In fatal truth, these were associated with a woman, a proud woman, who hated him, but who by slow and sure degrees had been led on by his craft, and her pride and resentment, to endure his company, and little by little to receive him as one who had the privilege to talk to her of her own defiant disregard of her own husband, and her abandonment of high consideration for herself. They were associated with a woman who hated him deeply, and who knew him, and who mistrusted him because she knew him, and because he knew her; but who fed her fierce resentment by suffering him to draw nearer and yet nearer to her every day, in spite of the hate she cherished for him. In spite of it! For that very reason; since in its depths, too far down for her threatening eye to pierce, though she could see into them dimly, lay the dark retaliation, whose faintest shadow seen once and shuddered at, and never seen again, would have been sufficient stain upon her soul.
Did the phantom of such a woman flit about him on his ride; true to the reality, and obvious to him?
Yes. He saw her in his mind, exactly as she was. She bore him company with her pride, resentment, hatred, all as plain to him as her beauty; with nothing plainer to him than her hatred of him. He saw her sometimes haughty and repellent at his side, and some times down among his horse’s feet, fallen and in the dust. But he always saw her as she was, without disguise, and watched her on the dangerous way that she was going.
And when his ride was over, and he was newly dressed, and came into the light of her bright room with his bent head, soft voice, and soothing smile, he saw her yet as plainly. He even suspected the mystery of the gloved hand, and held it all the longer in his own for that suspicion. Upon the dangerous way that she was going, he was, still; and not a footprint did she mark upon it, but he set his own there, straight.
CHAPTER 47. The Thunderbolt
The barrier between Mr Dombey and his wife was not weakened by time. Ill-assorted couple, unhappy in themselves and in each other, bound together by no tie but the manacle that joined their fettered hands, and straining that so harshly, in their shrinking asunder, that it wore and chafed to the bone, Time, consoler of affliction and softener of anger, could do nothing to help them. Their pride, however different in kind and object, was equal in degree; and, in their flinty opposition, struck out fire between them which might smoulder or might blaze, as circumstances were, but burned up everything within their mutual reach, and made their marriage way a road of ashes.
Let us be just to him. In the monstrous delusion of his life, swelling with every grain of sand that shifted in its glass, he urged her on, he little thought to what, or considered how; but still his feeling towards her, such as it was, remained as at first. She had the grand demerit of unaccountably putting herself in opposition to the recognition of his vast importance, and to the acknowledgment of her complete submission to it, and so far it was necessary to correct and reduce her; but otherwise he still considered her, in his cold way, a lady capable of doing honour, if she would, to his choice and name, and of reflecting credit on his proprietorship.
Now, she, with all her might of passionate and proud resentment, bent her dark glance from day to day, and hour to hour – from that night in her own chamber, when she had sat gazing at the shadows on the wall, to the deeper night fast coming – upon one figure directing a crowd of humiliations and exasperations against her; and that figure, still her husband’s.
Was Mr Dombey’s master-vice, that ruled him so inexorably, an unnatural characteristic? It might be worthwhile, sometimes, to inquire what Nature is, and how men work to change her, and whether, in the enforced distortions so produced, it is not natural to be unnatural. Coop any son or daughter of our mighty mother within narrow range, and bind the prisoner to one idea, and foster it by servile worship of it on the part of the few timid or designing people standing round, and what is Nature to the willing captive who has never risen up upon the wings of a free mind – drooping and useless soon – to see her in her comprehensive truth!
Alas! are there so few things in the world, about us, most unnatural, and yet most natural in being so? Hear the magistrate or judge admonish the unnatural outcasts of society; unnatural in brutal habits, unnatural in want of decency, unnatural in losing and confounding all distinctions between good and evil; unnatural in ignorance, in vice, in recklessness, in contumacy, in mind, in looks, in everything. But follow the good clergyman or doctor, who, with his life imperilled at every breath he draws, goes down into their dens, lying within the echoes of our carriage wheels and daily tread upon the pavement stones. Look round upon the world of odious sights – millions of immortal creatures have no other world on earth – at the lightest mention of which humanity revolts, and dainty delicacy living in the next street, stops her ears, and lisps ‘I don’t believe it!’ Breathe the polluted air, foul with every impurity that is poisonous to health and life; and have every sense, conferred upon our race for its delight and happiness, offended, sickened and disgusted, and made a channel by which misery and death alone can enter. Vainly attempt to think of any simple plant, or flower, or wholesome weed, that, set in this foetid bed, could have its natural growth, or put its little leaves off to the sun as GOD designed it. And then, calling up some ghastly child, with stunted form and wicked face, hold forth on its unnatural sinfulness, and lament its being, so early, far away from Heaven – but think a little of its having been conceived, and born and bred, in Hell!
Those who study the physical sciences, and bring them to bear upon the health of Man, tell us that if the noxious particles that rise from vitiated air were palpable to the sight, we should see them lowering in a dense black cloud above such haunts, and rolling slowly on to corrupt the better portions of a town. But if the moral pestilence that rises with them, and in the eternal laws of our Nature, is inseparable from them, could be made discernible too, how terrible the revelation! Then should we see depravity, impiety, drunkenness, theft, murder, and a long train of nameless sins against the natural affections and repulsions of mankind, overhanging the devoted spots, and creeping on, to blight the innocent and spread contagion among the pure. Then should we see how the same poisoned fountains that flow into our hospitals and lazar-houses, inundate the jails, and make the convict-ships swim deep, and roll across the seas, and over-run vast continents with crime. Then should we stand appalled to know, that where we generate disease to strike our children down and entail itself on unborn generations, there also we breed, by the same certain process, infancy that knows no innocence, youth without modesty or shame, maturity that is mature in nothing but in suffering and guilt, blasted old age that is a scandal on the form we bear, unnatural humanity! When we shall gather grapes from thorns, and figs from thistles; when fields of grain shall spring up from the offal in the bye-ways of our wicked cities, and roses bloom in the fat churchyards that they cherish; then we may look for natural humanity, and find it growing from such seed.
Oh for a good spirit who would take the house-tops off, with a more potent and benignant hand than the lame demon in the tale, and show a Christian people what dark shapes issue from amidst their homes, to swell the retinue of the Destroying Angel as he moves forth among them! For only one night’s view of the pale phantoms rising from the scenes of our too-long neglect; and from the thick and sullen air where Vice and Fever propagate together, raining the tremendous social retributions which are ever pouring down, and ever coming thicker! Bright and blest the morning that should rise on such a night: for men, delayed no more by stumbling-blocks of their own making, which are but specks of dust upon the path between them and eternity, would then apply themselves, like creatures of one common origin, owing one duty to the Father of one family, and tending to one common end, to make the world a better place!
Not the less bright and blest would that day be for rousing some who never have looked out upon the world of human life around them, to a knowledge of their own relation to it, and for making them acquainted with a perversion of nature in their own contracted sympathies and estimates; as great, and yet as natural in its development when once begun, as the lowest degradation known.
But no such day had ever dawned on Mr Dombey, or his wife; and the course of each was taken.
Through six months that ensued upon his accident, they held the same relations one towards the other. A marble rock could not have stood more obdurately in his way than she; and no chilled spring, lying uncheered by any ray of light in the depths of a deep cave, could be more sullen or more cold than he.
The hope that had fluttered within her when the promise of her new home dawned, was quite gone from the heart of Florence now. That home was nearly two years old; and even the patient trust that was in her, could not survive the daily blight of such experience. If she had any lingering fancy in the nature of hope left, that Edith and her father might be happier together, in some distant time, she had none, now, that her father would ever love her. The little interval in which she had imagined that she saw some small relenting in him, was forgotten in the long remembrance of his coldness since and before, or only remembered as a sorrowful delusion.
Florence loved him still, but, by degrees, had come to love him rather as some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as the hard reality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness with which she loved the memory of little Paul, or of her mother, seemed to enter now into her thoughts of him, and to make them, as it were, a dear remembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and that partly for this reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her affection, and partly for the long association of him with hopes that were withered and tendernesses he had frozen, she could not have told; but the father whom she loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her: hardly more substantially connected with her real life, than the image she would sometimes conjure up, of her dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a man, who would protect and cherish her.
The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the change from childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence was almost seventeen, when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of these thoughts.
She was often alone now, for the old association between her and her Mama was greatly changed. At the time of her father’s accident, and when he was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first observed that Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable to reconcile this with her affection when they did meet, she sought her in her own room at night, once more.
‘Mama,’ said Florence, stealing softly to her side, ‘have I offended you?’
Edith answered ‘No.’
‘I must have done something,’ said Florence. ‘Tell me what it is. You have changed your manner to me, dear Mama. I cannot say how instantly I feel the least change; for I love you with my whole heart.’
‘As I do you,’ said Edith. ‘Ah, Florence, believe me never more than now!’
‘Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?’ asked Florence. ‘And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear Mama? You do so, do you not?’
Edith signified assent with her dark eyes.
‘Why?’ returned Florence imploringly. ‘Tell me why, that I may know how to please you better; and tell me this shall not be so any more.’
‘My Florence,’ answered Edith, taking the hand that embraced her neck, and looking into the eyes that looked into hers so lovingly, as Florence knelt upon the ground before her; ‘why it is, I cannot tell you. It is neither for me to say, nor you to hear; but that it is, and that it must be, I know. Should I do it if I did not?’
‘Are we to be estranged, Mama?’ asked Florence, gazing at her like one frightened.
Edith’s silent lips formed ‘Yes.’
Florence looked at her with increasing fear and wonder, until she could see her no more through the blinding tears that ran down her face.
‘Florence! my life!’ said Edith, hurriedly, ‘listen to me. I cannot bear to see this grief. Be calmer. You see that I am composed, and is it nothing to me?’
She resumed her steady voice and manner as she said the latter words, and added presently:
‘Not wholly estranged. Partially: and only that, in appearance, Florence, for in my own breast I am still the same to you, and ever will be. But what I do is not done for myself.’
‘Is it for me, Mama?’ asked Florence.
‘It is enough,’ said Edith, after a pause, ‘to know what it is; why, matters little. Dear Florence, it is better – it is necessary – it must be – that our association should be less frequent. The confidence there has been between us must be broken off.’
‘When?’ cried Florence. ‘Oh, Mama, when?’
‘Now,’ said Edith.
‘For all time to come?’ asked Florence.
‘I do not say that,’ answered Edith. ‘I do not know that. Nor will I say that companionship between us is, at the best, an ill-assorted and unholy union, of which I might have known no good could come. My way here has been through paths that you will never tread, and my way henceforth may lie – God knows – I do not see it – ’
Her voice died away into silence; and she sat, looking at Florence, and almost shrinking from her, with the same strange dread and wild avoidance that Florence had noticed once before. The same dark pride and rage succeeded, sweeping over her form and features like an angry chord across the strings of a wild harp. But no softness or humility ensued on that. She did not lay her head down now, and weep, and say that she had no hope but in Florence. She held it up as if she were a beautiful Medusa, looking on him, face to face, to strike him dead. Yes, and she would have done it, if she had had the charm.
