money!—­has he got the face to say it?  Nay, don’t talk to me, girl; I’ll say what I think. if it’s the last I speak in this world.  Don’t let him come to me!  Never a word again shall he have from me as long as I live.  He’s disgraced himself, an’ me his mother, an’ his father in the grave.  A poor girl as couldn’t help herself, as trusted him an’ wouldn’t hear not a word against him, for all he kep’ away from her in her trouble.  I’d a fear o’ this, but I wouldn’t believe it of Dick; I wouldn’t believe it of a son o’ mine.  An’ ’Arry ’ll go the same way.  It’s all the money, an a curse go with all the money as ever was made!  An’ you too, Alice, wi’ your fine dresses, an’ your piannerin’, an’ your faldedals.  But I warn you, my girl.  There ’ll no good come of it.  I warn you, Alice!  You’re ashamed o’ your own mother—­oh, I’ve seen it!  But it’s a mercy if you’re not a disgrace to her.  I’m thankful as I was always poor; I might ’a been tempted i’ the same way.’

The dogma of a rude nature full of secret forces found utterance at length under the scourge of a resentment of very mingled quality.  Let half be put to the various forms of disinterested feeling, at least half was due to personal exasperation.  The whole change that her life had perforce undergone was an outrage upon the stubbornness of uninstructed habit; the old woman could see nothing but evil omens in a revolution which cost her bodily discomfort and the misery of a mind perplexed amid alien conditions.  She was prepared for evil; for months she had brooded over every sign which seemed to foretell its approach; the egoism of the unconscious had made it plain to her that the world must suffer in a state of things which so grievously affected herself.  Maternal solicitude kept her restlessly swaying between apprehension for her children and injury in the thought of their estrangement from her.  And now at length a bitter shame added itself to her torments.  She was shamed in her pride as a mother, shamed before the girl for whom she nourished a deep affection.  Emma’s injuries she felt charged upon herself; she would never dare to stand before her again.  Her moral code, as much a part of her as the sap of the plant and as little the result of conscious absorption, declared itself on the side of all these rushing impulses; she was borne blindly on an exhaustless flux of words.  After vain attempts to make herself heard, Alice turned away and sat sullenly waiting for the outburst to spend itself.  Herself comparatively unaffected by the feelings strongest in her mother, this ear-afflicting clamour altogether checked her sympathy, and in a great measure overcame those personal reasons which had made her annoyed with Richard.  She found herself taking his side, even knew something of his impatience with Emma and her sorrows.  When it came to rebukes and charges against herself her impatience grew active.  She stood up again and endeavoured to make herself heard.

’What’s the good of going on like this, mother?  Just because you’re angry, that’s no reason you should call us all the names you can turn your tongue to.  It’s over and done with, and there’s an end of it.  I don’t know what you mean about disgracing you; I think you might wait till the time comes.  I don’t see what I’ve done as you can complain of.’