RODERICK HUDSON
cerity of sorrow. She too was in the blighting circle of her daughter's contact, and this exposure, shared with the others who were more interesting, almost gave her, with the crudity of her candour, something of their dignity.
"Speak to her, plead with her, don't leave her till you 've moved her!" she cried, pressing and shaking his hands. "She 'll not heed us, no more than if we were a pair of running fountains. Perhaps she 'll listen to you; she always liked you."
"She always disliked me," said Rowland. "But that does n't matter now. I 've come here simply because you sent for me—not because I can help you. I can't advise your daughter."
"Oh, if you think I 'm going to take that from you—! You must advise her; you sha'n't leave this house till you 've advised her!" the poor woman passionately retorted. "Look at me in my misery and refuse to help me! You need n't be afraid, I know I 'm a fright, I have n't an idea what I 've on. If this goes on she and I may both as well turn scarecrows. If ever a woman was desperate and heartbroken, such a woman speaks to you now! I can't begin to tell you. To have nourished a serpent, sir, all these years! To have lavished one's self upon a viper that turns and stings her own devoted mother! To have toiled and prayed, to have pushed and struggled, to have eaten the bread of bitterness and gone through fire and water—and at the end of all things to find myself at this pass! It can't be, it's too cruel, such things don't happen, the Lord don't allow it. I 'm a religious
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