Hard Cash is a Webnovel created by Charles Reade.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
And now they must leave the little villa where they had been so happy and so unhappy.
The scanty furniture went first; Mrs. Dodd followed, and arranged it in their apartments. Julia would stay behind to comfort Edward, inconsolable herself. The auction came off. Most of the things went for cruelly little money compared to their value: and with the balance the sad young pair came up to London, and were clasped in their mother’s arms. The tears were in her tender eyes. “It is a poor place to receive my treasures,” she said: Edward looked round astonished: “It was a poor place,” said he, “but you have made a little palace of it, somehow or another.”
“My children’s love can alone do that,” replied Mrs. Dodd, kissing them both again.
Next day they consulted together how they were to live. Edward wished to try and get his father into a public asylum; then his mother would have a balance to live upon out of her income. But Mrs. Dodd rejected this proposal with astonishment. In vain Edward cited the _’Tiser_ that public asylums are patterns of comfort, and cure twice as many patients as the private ones do. She was deaf alike to the _’Tiser_ and to statistics. “Do not argue me out of my common sense,” said she. “My husband, your father, in a public asylum, where anybody can go and stare at my darling!”
She then informed them she had written to her Aunt Bazalgette and her Uncle Fountain, and invited them to contribute something towards David’s maintenance.
Edward was almost angry at this. “Fancy asking favours of _them,_” said he.
“Oh, I must not sacrifice my family to false pride,” said Mrs. Dodd; “besides they are ent.i.tled to know.”
While waiting for their answers, a word about the parties and their niece.
Our Mrs. Dodd, born Lucy Fountain, was left at nineteen to the care of two guardians: 1, her Uncle Fountain, an old bachelor, who loved comfort, pedigree, and his own way; 2, her Aunt Bazalgette, who loved flirting, dressing, and her own way; both charming people, when they got their own way; verjuice, when they didn’t: and, to conclude, egotists deep as ocean. From guardians they grew match-makers and rivals by proxy: uncle schemed to graft Lucy on to a stick called Talboys, that came in with the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, known in pedigrees as “the Norman Conquest.” Aunt, wife of a merchant of no Descent, except from a high stool, devoted her to Richard Hardie. An unlooked-for obstacle encountered both: Lucy was not amorous. She loved these two egotists and their quadrupeds; but there she stopped dead short. They persisted; and, while they pulled her to and fro and ruffled her native calm, David Dodd, first mate of the Something or other East Indiaman–brown cheek, honest speech, heart of gold–fell deep in love and worshipped her at a distance. His timidity and social insignificance made him harmless; so egotist Fountain had him in to dessert to spin yarns; egotist Bazalgette invited him to her house to flirt with. At this latter place he found Hardie and Talboys both courting Lucy; this drove him mad, and in his fury he popped. Lucy declined him _secundum artem:_ he went away blessing her, with a manly sob or two. Lucy cried a little and took a feminine spite against his rivals, who remained to pester her. Now Talboys, spurred by uncle, had often all but popped; only some let, hindrance, or just impediment had still interposed: once her pony kept prancing at each effort he made towards Hymen; they do say the subtle virgin kept probing the brute with a hair pin, and made him caracole and spill the treacle as fast as it came her way. However, now Talboys elected to pop by sea. It was the element his ancestors had invaded fair England by; and on its tranquil bosom a lover is safe from prancing steeds, and the myriad anti-pops of _terra firma._ Miss Lucy consented to the water excursion demurely, designing to bring her sickly wooer to the point and so get rid of him for ever and ever. Plot and counter-plot were baffled by the elements: there came an anti-pop out of the south-west called a gale. Talboys boated so skilfully that he and his intended would have been united without ceremony by Father Nep, at the bottom of the British Channel, but for David Dodd, who was hovering near in jealous anguish and a cutter. He saved them both, but in the doing of it missed his ship, and professional ruin faced him. Then good-hearted Lucy was miserable, and appealed to Mr. Bazalgette, and he managed somehow to get David made captain of the _Rajah._ The poor girl thought she had squared the account with David; but he refused the ship unless she would go halves, and while her egotists bullied and vexed her, he wrought so upon her pity, and teased her so, that to get rid of his importunity she married him. In time she learned to love him ten times better than if she had begun all flames. Uncle and aunt cut her tolerably dead for some years. Uncle came round the first; some antiquarian showed him that Dodd was a much more ancient family than Talboys. “Why, sir, they were lords of sixteen manors under the Heptarchy, and hold some of them to this day.” Mrs. Bazalgette, too, had long corresponded with her periodically, and on friendly terms.
The answers came on the same day, curiously enough. Uncle Fountain, ruined by railway speculation, was living on an allowance from creditors; but his house was at their service, if they liked to live with him–and board themselves.
Mrs. Bazalgette’s was the letter of a smooth woman, who has h.o.a.rded imperishable spite. She reminded her niece after all these years, that her marriage with David was an act of disobedience and ingrat.i.tude. She then enumerated her own heavy expenses, all but the L. 400 a year she spent in bedizening her carca.s.s, and finally, amidst a mult.i.tude of petty insults, she offered to relieve Mrs. Dodd of–Julia. Now Poetry has reconciled us to an asp in a basket of figs; but here was a scorpion in a bundle of nettles. Poor Mrs. Dodd could not speak after reading it. She handed it to Edward, and laid her white forehead wearily in her hand. Edward put the letter in an envelope and sent it back with a line in his own hand declining all further correspondence with the writer.
“Now then, ladies,” said he, “don’t you be cast down. Let this be a warning to us, never to ask favours of anybody. Let us look the thing in the face; we must work or starve: and all the better for us. Hard work suits heavy hearts. Come, have you any plan?”
“To be sure we have,” said Julia eagerly. “I mean to go for a governess, and then I shall cost mamma nothing, and besides I can send her the money the people give me.”
“A pretty plan!” said Edward sadly; “what! we three part company? Don’t you feel lonely enough without that? I do then. How can we bear our burdens at all, if we are not to be all together to cheer one another along the weary road? What! are we to break up? Is it not enough to be bereaved?”
He could say no more for the emotion his own words caused him; thinking of Jane, he broke down altogether, and ran out of the room.
However, he came back in an hour with his eyes red, but his heart indomitable; determined to play a man’s part for all their sakes. “You ladies,” said he, with something of his old genial way, that sounded so strange to one looking at his red eyes, and inspired a desire to hug him, “are full of talent, but empty of invention. The moment you are ruined or that sort of thing, it is, _go_ for a governess, _go_ for a companion, _go_ here, _go_ there, in search of what? Independence? No; dependence. Besides all this _going_ is bosh. Families are strong if they stick together, and if they go to pieces they are weak. I learned one bit of sense out of that ma.s.s of folly they call antiquity; and that was the story of the old bloke with his twelve sons, and f.a.got to match.
‘Break ’em apart,’ he said, and each son broke his stick as easy as sh.e.l.ling peas. ‘Now break the twelve all tied together:’ devil a bit could the duffers break it then. Now we are not twelve, we are but three: easy to break one or two of us apart, but not the lot together.
No; nothing but death shall break this f.a.got, for nothing less shall part us three.”
He stood like a colossus, and held out his hand to them; they clung round his neck in a moment, as if to ill.u.s.trate his words; clung tight, and blessed him for standing so firm and forbidding them to part.
Mrs. Dodd sighed, after the first burst of enthusiastic affection, and said: “If he would only go a step further and tell us what to do in company.”
“Ay, there it is,” said Julia. “Begin with me. What can I do?”
“Why, paint.”
“What, to sell? Oh dear, my daubs are not good enough for that.”
“Stuff! Nothing is too bad to _sell._”
“I really think you might,” said Mrs. Dodd, “and I will help you.”
“No, no, mamma, I want you for something better than the fine arts.
You must go in one of the great grooves: Female vanity: you must be a dressmaker; you are a genius at it.”
“My mamma a dressmaker,” cried Julia; “oh Edward, how can you. How dare you. Poor, poor mamma!”
“Do not be so impetuous, dear. I think he is right: yes, it is all I am fit for. If ever there was a Heaven-born dressmaker, it’s me.”
“As for myself,” said Edward, “I shall look out for some business in which physical strength goes further than intellectual attainments.
Luckily there are plenty such. Breaking stones is one. But I shall try a few others first.”
It is easy to settle on a business, hard to get a footing in one. Edward convinced that the dressmaking was their best card, searched that mine of various knowledge, the _’Tiser,_ for an opening: but none came. At last one of those great miscellaneous houses in the City advertised for a lady to cut cloaks. He proposed to his mother to go with him. She shrank from encountering strangers. No, she would go to a fashionable dressmaker she had employed some years, and ask her advice. Perhaps Madame Blanch would find her something to do. “I have more faith in the _’Tiser,_” said Edward, clinging to his idol.
Mrs. Dodd found Madame Blanch occupied in trying to suit one of those heart-breaking idiots, to whom dress is the one great thing, and all things else, sin included, the little ones. She had tried on a scarf three times; and it discontented her when on, and spoilt all else when off. Mrs. Dodd saw, and said obligingly, “Perhaps were I to put it on, you could better judge.” Mrs. Dodd, you must know, had an admirable art of putting on a shawl or scarf. With apparent _nonchalance_ she settled the scarf on her shapely shoulders so happily that the fish bit, and the scarf went into its carriage; forty guineas, or so. Madame cast a rapid but ardent glance of grat.i.tude Dodd-wards. The customer began to go, and after fidgeting to the door and back for twenty minutes actually went somehow. Then madame turned round, and said, “I’m sure, ma’am, I am much obliged to you; you sold me the scarf: and it is a pity we couldn’t put her on your bust and shoulders, ma’am, then perhaps a scarf might please her. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
Mrs. Dodd blushed, and with subdued agitation told Madame Blanch that this time she was come not to purchase but to ask a favour. Misfortune was heavy on her; and, though not penniless, she was so reduced by her husband’s illness and the loss of L. 14,000 by shipwreck, that she must employ what little talents she had to support her family.
The woman explored her from head to foot to find the change of fortune in some corner of her raiment: but her customer was as well, though plainly dressed as ever, and still looked an easy-going d.u.c.h.ess.
“Could Madame Blanch find her employment in her own line? What talent I have,” said Mrs. Dodd humbly, “lies in that way. I could not cut as well as yourself, of course; but I think I can as well as some of your people.”
“That I’ll be bound you can,” said Madame Blanch drily. “But dear, dear, to think of your having come down so. Have a gla.s.s of wine to cheer you a bit; do now, that is a good soul.”
“Oh no, madam. I thank you; but wine cannot cheer me: a little bit of good news to take back to my anxious children, that would cheer me, madam. _Will_ you be so good?”
The dressmaker coloured and hesitated; she felt the fascination of Dignity donning Humility, and speaking Music: but she resisted. “It won’t do, at least here. I shouldn’t be mistress in my own place. I couldn’t drive you like I am forced to do the rest; and, then, I should be sure to favour you, being a real lady, which is my taste, and you always will be, rich or poor; and then all my ladies would be on the bile with jealousy.”
“Ah, madam,” sighed Mrs. Dodd, “you treat me like a child; you give me sweetmeats, and refuse me food for my family.”
“No, no,” said the woman hastily, “I don’t say I mightn’t send you out some work to do at home.”
“Oh, thank you, madam.” _N.B._ The dressmaker had dropped the Madam, so the lady used it now at every word.
“Now stop a bit,” said Madame Blanch. “I know a firm that’s in want.
Theirs is easy work by mine, and they cut up a piece of stuff every two or three days.” She then wrote on one of her own cards, Messrs. Cross, Fitchett, Copland, and Tylee, 11, 12, 13, and 14, Primrose Lane, City.
“Say, I recommend you. To tell the truth, an old hand of my own was to come here this very morning about it, but she hasn’t kept her time; so this will learn her business doesn’t stand still for lie-a-beds to catch it.”
Mrs. Dodd put the card in her bosom and pressed the hand extended to her by Madame Zaire Blanch; whose name was Sally White, spinster. She went back to her children and showed them the card, and sank gracefully into a chair, exhausted as much by the agitation of asking favours as by the walk. “Cross, Fitchett, Copland? Why they were in the _’Tiser_ yesterday,” said Edward: “look at this; a day lost by being wiser than the _’Tiser._”
“I’ll waste no more then,” said Mrs. Dodd, rising quietly from the chair. They begged her to rest herself first. No, she would not. “I saw this lost by half an hour,” said she. “Succeed or fail, I will have no remissness to reproach myself with.” And she glided off in her quiet way, to encounter Cross, Fitchett, Copland and Tylee, in the lane where a primrose was caught growing–six hundred years ago. She declined Edward’s company rather peremptorily. “Stay and comfort your sister,”
said she. But that was a blind; the truth was, she could not bear her children to mingle in what she was doing. No, her ambition was to ply the scissors and thimble vigorously, and so enable them to be ladies and gentlemen at large. She being gone, Julia made a parcel of water-colour drawings, and sallied forth all on fire to sell them. But, while she was dressing, Edward started on a cruise in search of employment. He failed entirely. They met in the evening, Mrs. Dodd resigned, Edward dogged, Julia rather excited. “Now, let us tell our adventures,” she said. “As for me, shop after shop declined my poor sketches. They all wanted something about as good, only a little different: n.o.body complained of the grand fault, and that is, their utter badness. At last, one old gentleman examined them, and oh! he was so fat; there, round. And he twisted his mouth so” (imitating him) “and squinted into them so. Then I was full of hope; and said to myself; ‘Dear mamma and Edward!’ And so, when he ended by saying, ‘No,’ like all the rest, I burst out crying like a goose.
“My poor girl,” cried Mrs. Dodd, with tears in her own eyes, “why expose yourself to these cruel rebuffs?”
“Oh, don’t waste your pity, mamma; those great babyish tears were a happy thought of mine. He bought two directly to pacify me; and there’s the money. Thirty shillings!” And she laid it proudly on the table.
“The old cheat,” said Edward; “they were worth two guineas apiece, I know.”
“Not they; or why would not anybody else give twopence for them?”
“Because pictures are a drug.”