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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, to-day.'
'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 to-day.'
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 to-day, 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!
The Happy Pair
The dark blot on the street is gone. Mr Dombey's mansion, if it be a
gap among the other houses any longer, is only so because it is not to be
vied with in its brightness, and haughtily casts them off. The saying is,
that home is home, be it never so homely. If it hold good in the opposite
contingency, and home is home be it never so stately, what an altar to the
Household Gods is raised up here!
Lights are sparkling in the windows this evening, and the ruddy glow of
fires is warm and bright upon the hangings and soft carpets, and the dinner
waits to be served, and the dinner-table is handsomely set forth, though
only for four persons, and the side board is cumbrous with plate. It is the
first time that the house has been arranged for occupation since its late
changes, and the happy pair are looked for every minute.
Only second to the wedding morning, in the interest and expectation it
engenders among the household, is this evening of the coming home. Mrs Perch
is in the kitchen taking tea; and has made the tour of the establishment,
and priced the silks and damasks by the yard, and exhausted every
interjection in the dictionary and out of it expressive of admiration and
wonder. The upholsterer's foreman, who has left his hat, with a
pocket-handkerchief in it, both smelling strongly of varnish, under a chair
in the hall, lurks about the house, gazing upwards at the cornices, and
downward at the carpets, and occasionally, in a silent transport of
enjoyment, taking a rule out of his pocket, and skirmishingly measuring
expensive objects, with unutterable feelings. Cook is in high spirits, and
says give her a place where there's plenty of company (as she'll bet you
sixpence there will be now), for she is of a lively disposition, and she
always was from a child, and she don't mind who knows it; which sentiment
elicits from the breast of Mrs Perch a responsive murmur of support and
approbation. All the housemaid hopes is, happiness for 'em - but marriage is
a lottery, and the more she thinks about it, the more she feels the
independence and the safety of a single life. Mr Towlinson is saturnine and
grim' and says that's his opinion too, and give him War besides, and down
with the French - for this young man has a general impression that every
foreigner is a Frenchman, and must be by the laws of nature.
At each new sound of wheels, they all stop> whatever they are saying,
and listen; and more than once there is a general starting up and a cry of
'Here they are!' But here they are not yet; and Cook begins to mourn over
the dinner, which has been put back twice, and the upholsterer's foreman
still goes lurking about the rooms, undisturbed in his blissful reverie!
Florence is ready to receive her father and her new Mama Whether the
emotions that are throbbing in her breast originate In pleasure or in pain,
she hardly knows. But the fluttering heart sends added colour to her cheeks,
and brightness to her eyes; and they say downstairs, drawing their heads
together - for they always speak softly when they speak of her - how
beautiful Miss Florence looks to-night, and what a sweet young lady she has
grown, poor dear! A pause succeeds; and then Cook, feeling, as president,
that her sentiments are waited for, wonders whether - and there stops. The
housemaid wonders too, and so does Mrs Perch, who has the happy social
faculty of always wondering when other people wonder, without being at all
particular what she wonders at. Mr Towlinson, who now descries an
opportunity of bringing down the spirits of the ladies to his own level,
says wait and see; he wishes some people were well out of this. Cook leads a
sigh then, and a murmur of 'Ah, it's a strange world, it is indeed!' and
when it has gone round the table, adds persuasively, 'but Miss Florence
can't well be the worse for any change, Tom.' Mr Towlinson's rejoinder,
pregnant with frightful meaning, is 'Oh, can't she though!' and sensible
that a mere man can scarcely be more prophetic, or improve upon that, he
holds his peace.
Mrs Skewton, prepared to greet her darling daughter and dear son-in-law
with open arms, is appropriately attired for that purpose in a very youthful
costume, with short sleeves. At present, however, her ripe charms are
blooming in the shade of her own apartments, whence she had not emerged
since she took possession of them a few hours ago, and where she is fast
growing fretful, on account of the postponement of dinner. The maid who
ought to be a skeleton, but is in truth a buxom damsel, is, on the other
hand, In a most amiable state: considering her quarterly stipend much safer
than heretofore, and foreseeing a great improvement in her board and
lodging.
Where are the happy pair, for whom this brave home is waiting? Do
steam, tide, wind, and horses, all abate their speed, to linger on such
happiness? Does the swarm of loves and graces hovering about them retard
their progress by its numbers? Are there so many flowers in their happy
path, that they can scarcely move along, without entanglement in thornless
roses, and sweetest briar?
They are here at last! The noise of wheels is heard, grows louder, and
a carriage drives up to the door! A thundering knock from the obnoxious
foreigner anticipates the rush of Mr Towlinson and party to open it; and Mr
Dombey and his bride alight, and walk in arm in arm.
'My sweetest Edith!' cries an agitated voice upon the stairs. 'My
dearest Dombey!' and the short sleeves wreath themselves about the happy
couple in turn, and embrace them.
Florence had come down to the hall too, but did not advance: reserving
her timid welcome until these nearer and dearer transports should subside.
But the eyes of Edith sought her out, upon the threshold; and dismissing her
sensitive parent with a slight kiss on the cheek, she hurried on to Florence
and embraced her.
'How do you do, Florence?' said Mr Dombey, putting out his hand.
As Florence, trembling, raised it to her lips, she met his glance. The
look was cold and distant enough, but it stirred her heart to think that she
observed in it something more of interest than he had ever shown before. It
even expressed a kind of faint surprise, and not a disagreeable surprise, at
sight of her. She dared not raise her eyes to his any more; but she felt
that he looked at her once again, and not less favourably. Oh what a thrill
of joy shot through her, awakened by even this intangible and baseless
confirmation of her hope that she would learn to win him, through her new
and beautiful Mama!
'You will not be long dressing, Mrs Dombey, I presume?' said Mr Dombey.
'I shall be ready immediately.'
'Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour.'
With that Mr Dombey stalked away to his own dressing-room, and Mrs
Dombey went upstairs to hers. Mrs Skewton and Florence repaired to the
drawing-room, where that excellent mother considered it incumbent on her to
shed a few irrepressible tears, supposed to be forced from her by her
daughter's felicity; and which she was still drying, very gingerly, with a
laced corner of her pocket-handkerchief, when her son-in-law appeared.
'And how, my dearest Dombey, did you find that delightfullest of
cities, Paris?' she asked, subduing her emotion.
'It was cold,' returned Mr Dombey.
'Gay as ever,' said Mrs Skewton, 'of course.
'Not particularly. I thought it dull,' said Mr Dombey.
'Fie, my dearest Dombey!' archly; 'dull!'
'It made that impression upon me, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with grave
politeness. 'I believe Mrs Dombey found it dull too. She mentioned once or
twice that she thought it so.'
'Why, you naughty girl!' cried Mrs Skewton, rallying her dear child,
who now entered, 'what dreadfully heretical things have you been saying
about Paris?'
Edith raised her eyebrows with an air of weariness; and passing the
folding-doors which were thrown open to display the suite of rooms in their
new and handsome garniture, and barely glancing at them as she passed, sat
down by Florence.
'My dear Dombey,' said Mrs Skewton, 'how charmingly these people have
carried out every idea that we hinted. They have made a perfect palace of
the house, positively.'
'It is handsome,' said Mr Dombey, looking round. 'I directed that no
expense should be spared; and all that money could do, has been done, I
believe.'
'And what can it not do, dear Dombey?' observed Cleopatra.
'It is powerful, Madam,' said Mr Dombey.
He looked in his solemn way towards his wife, but not a word said she.
'I hope, Mrs Dombey,' addressing her after a moment's silence, with
especial distinctness; 'that these alterations meet with your approval?'
'They are as handsome as they can be,' she returned, with haughty
carelessness. 'They should be so, of' course. And I suppose they are.'
An expression of scorn was habitual to the proud face, and seemed
inseparable from it; but the contempt with which it received any appeal to
admiration, respect, or consideration on the ground of his riches, no matter
how slight or ordinary in itself, was a new and different expression,
unequalled in intensity by any other of which it was capable. Whether Mr
Dombey, wrapped in his own greatness, was at all aware of this, or no, there
had not been wanting opportunities already for his complete enlightenment;
and at that moment it might have been effected by the one glance of the dark
eye that lighted on him, after it had rapidly and scornfully surveyed the
theme of his self-glorification. He might have read in that one glance that
nothing that his wealth could do, though it were increased ten thousand
fold, could win him for its own sake, one look of softened recognition from
the defiant woman, linked to him, but arrayed with her whole soul against
him. He might have read in that one glance that even for its sordid and
mercenary influence upon herself, she spurned it, while she claimed its
utmost power as her right, her bargain - as the base and worthless
recompense for which she had become his wife. He might have read in it that,
ever baring her own head for the lightning of her own contempt and pride to
strike, the most innocent allusion to the power of his riches degraded her
anew, sunk her deeper in her own respect, and made the blight and waste
within her more complete.
But dinner was announced, and Mr Dombey led down Cleopatra; Edith and
his daughter following. Sweeping past the gold and silver demonstration on
the sideboard as if it were heaped-up dirt, and deigning to bestow no look
upon the elegancies around her, she took her place at his board for the
first time, and sat, like a statue, at the feast.
Mr Dombey, being a good deal in the statue way himself, was well enough
pleased to see his handsome wife immovable and proud and cold. Her
deportment being always elegant and graceful, this as a general behaviour
was agreeable and congenial to him. Presiding, therefore, with his
accustomed dignity, and not at all reflecting on his wife by any warmth or
hilarity of his own, he performed his share of the honours of the table with
a cool satisfaction; and the installation dinner, though not regarded
downstairs as a great success, or very promising beginning, passed oil,
above, in a sufficiently polite, genteel, and frosty manner.
Soon after tea' Mrs Skewton, who affected to be quite overcome and worn
Out by her emotions of happiness, arising in the contemplation of her dear
child united to the man of her heart, but who, there is reason to suppose,
found this family party somewhat dull, as she yawned for one hour
continually behind her fan, retired to bed. Edith, also, silently withdrew
and came back' no more. Thus, it happened that Florence, who had been
upstairs to have some conversation with Diogenes, returning to the
drawing-room with her little work-basket, found no one there but her father,
who was walking to and fro, in dreary magnificence.
'I beg your pardon. Shall I go away, Papa?' said Florence faintly,
hesitating at the door.
'No,' returned Mr Dombey, looking round over his shoulder; you can come
and go here, Florence, as you please. This is not my private room.
Florence entered, and sat down at a distant little table with her work:
finding herself for the first time in her life - for the very first time
within her memory from her infancy to that hour - alone with her father, as
his companion. She, his natural companion, his only child, who in her lonely
life and grief had known the suffering of a breaking heart; who, in her
rejected love, had never breathed his name to God at night, but with a
tearful blessing, heavier on him than a curse; who had prayed to die young,
so she might only die in his arms; who had, all through, repaid the agony of
slight and coldness, and dislike, with patient unexacting love, excusing
him, and pleading for him, like his better angel!
She trembled, and her eyes were dim. His figure seemed to grow in
height and bulk before her as he paced the room: now it was all blurred and
indistinct; now clear again, and plain; and now she seemed to think that
this had happened, just the same, a multitude of years ago. She yearned
towards him, and yet shrunk from his approach. Unnatural emotion in a child,
innocent of wrong! Unnatural the hand that had directed the sharp plough,
which furrowed up her gentle nature for the sowing of its seeds!
Bent upon not distressing or offending him by her distress, Florence
controlled herself, and sat quietly at her work. After a few more turns
across and across the room, he left off pacing it; and withdrawing into a
shadowy corner at some distance, where there was an easy chair, covered his
head with a handkerchief, and composed himself to sleep.
It was enough for Florence to sit there watching him; turning her eyes
towards his chair from time to time; watching him with her thoughts, when
her face was intent upon her work; and sorrowfully glad to think that he
could sleep, while she was there, and that he was not made restless by her
strange and long-forbidden presence.
What would have been her thoughts if she had known that he was steadily
regarding her; that the veil upon his face, by accident or by design, was so
adjusted that his sight was free, and that itnever wandered from her face
face an instant That when she looked towards him' In the obscure dark
corner, her speaking eyes, more earnest and pathetic in their voiceless
speech than all the orators of all the world, and impeaching him more nearly
in their mute address, met his, and did not know it! That when she bent her
head again over her work, he drew his breath more easily, but with the same
attention looked upon her still - upon her white brow and her falling hair,
and busy hands; and once attracted, seemed to have no power to turn his eyes
away!
And what were his thoughts meanwhile? With what emotions did he prolong
the attentive gaze covertly directed on his unknown daughter? Was there
reproach to him in the quiet figure and the mild eyes? Had he begun to her
disregarded claims and did they touch him home at last, and waken him to
some sense of his cruel injustice?
There are yielding moments in the lives of the sternest and harshest
men, though such men often keep their secret well. The sight ofher in her
beauty, almost changed into a woman without his knowledge, may have struck
out some such moments even In his life of pride. Some passing thought that
he had had a happy home within his reach-had had a household spirit bending
at has feet - had overlooked it in his stiffnecked sullen arrogance, and
wandered away and lost himself, may have engendered them. Some simple
eloquence distinctly heard, though only uttered in her eyes, unconscious
that he read them' as'By the death-beds I have tended, by the childhood I
have suffered, by our meeting in this dreary house at midnight, by the cry
wrung from me in the anguish of my heart, oh, father, turn to me and seek a
refuge in my love before it is too late!' may have arrested them. Meaner and
lower thoughts, as that his dead boy was now superseded by new ties, and he
could forgive the having been supplanted in his affection, may have
occasioned them. The mere association of her as an ornament, with all the
ornament and pomp about him, may have been sufficient. But as he looked, he
softened to her, more and more. As he looked, she became blended with the
child he had loved, and he could hardly separate the two. As he looked, he
saw her for an instant by a clearer and a brighter light, not bending over
that child's pillow as his rival - monstrous thought - but as the spirit of
his home, and in the action tending himself no less, as he sat once more
with his bowed-down head upon his hand at the foot of the little bed. He
felt inclined to speak to her, and call her to him. The words 'Florence,
come here!' were rising to his lips - but slowly and with difficulty, they
were so very strange - when they were checked and stifled by a footstep on
the stair.
It was his wife's. She had exchanged her dinner dress for a loose robe,
and unbound her hair, which fell freely about her neck. But this was not the
change in her that startled him.
'Florence, dear,' she said, 'I have been looking for you everywhere.'
As she sat down by the side of Florence, she stooped and kissed her
hand. He hardly knew his wife. She was so changed. It was not merely that
her smile was new to him - though that he had never seen; but her manner,
the tone of her voice, the light of her eyes, the interest, and confidence,
and winning wish to please, expressed in all-this was not Edith.
'Softly, dear Mama. Papa is asleep.'
It was Edith now. She looked towards the corner where he was, and he
knew that face and manner very well.
'I scarcely thought you could be here, Florence.'
Again, how altered and how softened, in an instant!
'I left here early,' pursued Edith, 'purposely to sit upstairs and talk
with you. But, going to your room, I found my bird was flown, and I have
been waiting there ever since, expecting its return.
If it had been a bird, indeed, she could not have taken it more
tenderly and gently to her breast, than she did Florence.
'Come, dear!'
'Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, when he wakes,' hesitated
Florence.
'Do you think he will, Florence?' said Edith, looking full upon her.
Florence drooped her head, and rose, and put up her work-basket Edith
drew her hand through her arm, and they went out of the room like sisters.
Her very step was different and new to him' Mr Dombey thought, as his eyes
followed her to the door.
He sat in his shadowy corner so long, that the church clocks struck the
hour three times before he moved that night. All that while his face was
still intent upon the spot where Florence had been seated. The room grew
darker, as the candles waned and went out; but a darkness gathered on his
face, exceeding any that the night could cast, and rested there.
Florence and Edith, seated before the fire in the remote room where
little Paul had died, talked together for a long time. Diogenes, who was of
the party, had at first objected to the admission of Edith, and, even In
deference to his mistress's wish, had only permitted it under growling
protest. But, emerging by little and little from the ante-room, whither he
had retired in dudgeon, he soon appeared to comprehend, that with the most
amiable intentions he had made one of those mistakes which will occasionally
arise in the best-regulated dogs' minds; as a friendly apology for which he
stuck himself up on end between the two, in a very hot place in front of the
fire, and sat panting at it, with his tongue out, and a most imbecile
expression of countenance, listening to the conversation.
It turned, at first, on Florence's books and favourite pursuits, and on
the manner in which she had beguiled the interval since the marriage. The
last theme opened up to her a subject which lay very near her heart, and she
said, with the tears starting to her eyes:
'Oh, Mama! I have had a great sorrow since that day.'
'You a great sorrow, Florence!'
'Yes. Poor Walter is drowned.'
Florence spread her hands before her face, and wept with all her heart.
Many as were the secret tears which Walter's fate had cost her, they flowed
yet, when she thought or spoke of him.
'But tell me, dear,' said Edith, soothing her. 'Who was Walter? What
was he to you?'
'He was my brother, Mama. After dear Paul died, we said we would be
brother and sister. I had known him a long time - from a little child. He
knew Paul, who liked him very much; Paul said, almost at the last, "Take
care of Walter, dear Papa! I was fond of him!" Walter had been brought in to
see him, and was there then - in this room.
'And did he take care of Walter?' inquired Edith, sternly.
'Papa? He appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in shipwreck on
his voyage,' said Florence, sobbing.
'Does he know that he is dead?' asked Edith.
'I cannot tell, Mama. I have no means of knowing. Dear Mama!' cried
Florence, clinging to her as for help, and hiding her face upon her bosom,
'I know that you have seen - '
'Stay! Stop, Florence.' Edith turned so pale, and spoke so earnestly,
that Florence did not need her restraining hand upon her lips. 'Tell me all
about Walter first; let me understand this history all through.'
Florence related it, and everything belonging to it, even down to the
friendship of Mr Toots, of whom she could hardly speak in her distress
without a tearful smile, although she was deeply grateful to him. When she
had concluded her account, to the whole of which Edith, holding her hand,
listened with close attention, and when a silence had succeeded, Edith said:
'What is it that you know I have seen, Florence?'
'That I am not,' said Florence, with the same mute appeal, and the same
quick concealment of her face as before, 'that I am not a favourite child,
Mama. I never have been. I have never known how to be. I have missed the
way, and had no one to show it to me. Oh, let me learn from you how to
become dearer to Papa Teach me! you, who can so well!' and clinging closer
to her, with some broken fervent words of gratitude and endearment,
Florence, relieved of her sad secret, wept long, but not as painfully as of
yore, within the encircling arms of her new mother.
Pale even to her lips, and with a face that strove for composure until
its proud beauty was as fixed as death, Edith looked down upon the weeping
girl, and once kissed her. Then gradually disengaging herself, and putting
Florence away, she said, stately, and quiet as a marble image, and in a
voice that deepened as she spoke, but had no other token of emotion in it:
'Florence, you do not know me! Heaven forbid that you should learn from
me!'
'Not learn from you?' repeated Florence, in surprise.
'That I should teach you how to love, or be loved, Heaven forbid!' said
Edith. 'If you could teach me, that were better; but it is too late. You are
dear to me, Florence. I did not think that anything could ever be so dear to
me, as you are in this little time.'
She saw that Florence would have spoken here, so checked her with her
hand, and went on.
'I will be your true friend always. I will cherish you, as much, if not
as well as anyone in this world could. You may trust in me - I know it and I
say it, dear, - with the whole confidence even of your pure heart. There are
hosts of women whom he might have married, better and truer in all other
respects than I am, Florence; but there is not one who could come here, his
wife, whose heart could beat with greater truth to you than mine does.'
'I know it, dear Mama!' cried Florence. 'From that first most happy day
I have known it.'
'Most happy day!' Edith seemed to repeat the words involuntarily, and
went on. 'Though the merit is not mine, for I thought little of you until I
saw you, let the undeserved reward be mine in your trust and love. And in
this - in this, Florence; on the first night of my taking up my abode here;
I am led on as it is best I should be, to say it for the first and last
time.'
Florence, without knowing why, felt almost afraid to hear her proceed,
but kept her eyes riveted on the beautiful face so fixed upon her own.
'Never seek to find in me,' said Edith, laying her hand upon her
breast, 'what is not here. Never if you can help it, Florence, fall off from
me because it is not here. Little by little you will know me better, and the
time will come when you will know me, as I know myself. Then, be as lenient
to me as you can, and do not turn to bitterness the only sweet remembrance I
shall have.
The tears that were visible in her eyes as she kept them fixed on
Florence, showed that the composed face was but as a handsome mask; but she
preserved it, and continued:
'I have seen what you say, and know how true it is. But believe me -
you will soon, if you cannot now - there is no one on this earth less
qualified to set it right or help you, Florence, than I. Never ask me why,
or speak to me about it or of my husband, more. There should be, so far, a
division, and a silence between us two, like the grave itself.'
She sat for some time silent; Florence scarcely venturing to breathe
meanwhile, as dim and imperfect shadows of the truth, and all its daily
consequences, chased each other through her terrified, yet incredulous
imagination. Almost as soon as she had ceased to speak, Edith's face began
to subside from its set composure to that quieter and more relenting aspect,
which it usually wore when she and Florence were alone together. She shaded
it, after this change, with her hands; and when she arose, and with an
affectionate embrace bade Florence good-night, went quickly, and without
looking round.
But when Florence was in bed, and the room was dark except for the glow
of the fire, Edith returned, and saying that she could not sleep, and that
her dressing-room was lonely, drew a chair upon the hearth, and watched the
embers as they died away. Florence watched them too from her bed, until
they, and the noble figure before them, crowned with its flowing hair, and
in its thoughtful eyes reflecting back their light, became confused and
indistinct, and finally were lost in slumber.
In her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an undefined impression
of what had so recently passed. It formed the subject of her dreams, and
haunted her; now in one shape, now in another; but always oppressively; and
with a sense of fear. She dreamed of seeking her father in wildernesses, of
following his track up fearful heights, and down into deep mines and
caverns; of being charged with something that would release him from
extraordinary suffering - she knew not what, or why - yet never being able
to attain the goal and set him free. Then she saw him dead, upon that very
bed, and in that very room, and knew that he had never loved her to the
last, and fell upon his cold breast, passionately weeping. Then a prospect
opened, and a river flowed, and a plaintive voice she knew, cried, 'It is
running on, Floy! It has never stopped! You are moving with it!' And she saw
him at a distance stretching out his arms towards her, while a figure such
as Walter's used to be, stood near him, awfully serene and still. In every
vision, Edith came and went, sometimes to her joy, sometimes to her sorrow,
until they were alone upon the brink of a dark grave, and Edith pointing
down, she looked and saw - what! - another Edith lying at the bottom.
In the terror of this dream, she cried out and awoke, she thought. A
soft voice seemed to whisper in her ear, 'Florence, dear Florence, it is
nothing but a dream!' and stretching out her arms, she returned the caress
of her new Mama, who then went out at the door in the light of the grey
morning. In a moment, Florence sat up wondering whether this had really
taken place or not; but she was only certain that it was grey morning
indeed, and that the blackened ashes of the fire were on the hearth, and
that she was alone.
So passed the night on which the happy pair came home.
Housewarming
Many succeeding days passed in like manner; except that there were
numerous visits received and paid, and that Mrs Skewton held little levees
in her own apartments, at which Major Bagstock was a frequent attendant, and
that Florence encountered no second look from her father, although she saw
him every day. Nor had she much communication in words with her new Mama,
who was imperious and proud to all the house but her - Florence could not
but observe that - and who, although she always sent for her or went to her
when she came home from visiting, and would always go into her room at
night, before retiring to rest, however late the hour, and never lost an
opportunity of being with her, was often her silent and thoughtful companion
for a long time together.
Florence, who had hoped for so much from this marriage, could not help
sometimes comparing the bright house with the faded dreary place out of
which it had arisen, and wondering when, in any shape, it would begin to be
a home; for that it was no home then, for anyone, though everything went on
luxuriously and regularly, she had always a secret misgiving. Many an hour
of sorrowful reflection by day and night, and many a tear of blighted hope,
Florence bestowed upon the assurance her new Mama had given her so strongly,
that there was no one on the earth more powerless than herself to teach her
how to win her father's heart. And soon Florence began to think - resolved
to think would be the truer phrase - that as no one knew so well, how
hopeless of being subdued or changed her father's coldness to her was, so
she had given her this warning, and forbidden the subject in very
compassion. Unselfish here, as in her every act and fancy, Florence
preferred to bear the pain of this new wound, rather than encourage any
faint foreshadowings of the truth as it concerned her father; tender of him,
even in her wandering thoughts. As for his home, she hoped it would become a
better one, when its state of novelty and transition should be over; and for
herself, thought little and lamented less.
If none of the new family were particularly at home in private, it was
resolved that Mrs Dombey at least should be at home in public, without
delay. A series of entertainments in celebration of the late nuptials, and
in cultivation of society, were arranged, chiefly by Mr Dombey and Mrs
Skewton; and it was settled that the festive proceedings should commence by
Mrs Dombey's being at home upon a certain evening, and by Mr and Mrs
Dombey's requesting the honour of the company of a great many incongruous
people to dinner on the same day.
Accordingly, Mr Dombey produced a list of sundry eastern magnates who
were to be bidden to this feast on his behalf; to which Mrs Skewton, acting
for her dearest child, who was haughtily careless on the subject, subjoined
a western list, comprising Cousin Feenix, not yet returned to Baden-Baden,
greatly to the detriment of his personal estate; and a variety of moths of
various degrees and ages, who had, at various times, fluttered round the
light of her fair daughter, or herself, without any lasting injury to their
wings. Florence was enrolled as a member of the dinner-party, by Edith's
command - elicited by a moment's doubt and hesitation on the part of Mrs
Skewton; and Florence, with a wondering heart, and with a quick instinctive
sense of everything that grated on her father in the least, took her silent
share in the proceedings of the day.
The proceedings commenced by Mr Dombey, in a cravat of extraordinary
height and stiffness, walking restlessly about the drawing-room until the
hour appointed for dinner; punctual to which, an East India Director,' of
immense wealth, in a waistcoat apparently constructed in serviceable deal by
some plain carpenter, but really engendered in the tailor's art, and
composed of the material called nankeen, arrived and was received by Mr
Dombey alone. The next stage of the proceedings was Mr Dombey's sending his
compliments to Mrs Dombey, with a correct statement of the time; and the
next, the East India Director's falling prostrate, in a conversational point
of view, and as Mr Dombey was not the man to pick him up, staring at the
fire until rescue appeared in the shape of Mrs Skewton; whom the director,
as a pleasant start in life for the evening, mistook for Mrs Dombey, and
greeted with enthusiasm.
The next arrival was a Bank Director, reputed to be able to buy up
anything - human Nature generally, if he should take it in his head to
influence the money market in that direction - but who was a wonderfully
modest-spoken man, almost boastfully so, and mentioned his 'little place' at
Kingston-upon-Thames, and its just being barely equal to giving Dombey a bed
and a chop, if he would come and visit it. Ladies, he said, it was not for a
man who lived in his quiet way to take upon himself to invite - but if Mrs
Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Dombey, should ever find themselves in that
direction, and would do him the honour to look at a little bit of a
shrubbery they would find there, and a poor little flower-bed or so, and a
humble apology for a pinery, and two or three little attempts of that sort
without any pretension, they would distinguish him very much. Carrying out
his character, this gentleman was very plainly dressed, in a wisp of cambric
for a neckcloth, big shoes, a coat that was too loose for him, and a pair of
trousers that were too spare; and mention being made of the Opera by Mrs
Skewton, he said he very seldom went there, for he couldn't afford it. It
seemed greatly to delight and exhilarate him to say so: and he beamed on his
audience afterwards, with his hands in his pockets, and excessive
satisfaction twinkling in his eyes.
Now Mrs Dombey appeared, beautiful and proud, and as disdainful and
defiant of them all as if the bridal wreath upon her head had been a garland
of steel spikes put on to force concession from her which she would die
sooner than yield. With her was Florence. When they entered together, the
shadow of the night of the return again darkened Mr Dombey's face. But
unobserved; for Florence did not venture to raise her eyes to his, and
Edith's indifference was too supreme to take the least heed of him.
The arrivals quickly became numerous. More directors, chairmen of
public companies, elderly ladies carrying burdens on their heads for full
dress, Cousin Feenix, Major Bagstock, friends of Mrs Skewton, with the same
bright bloom on their complexion, and very precious necklaces on very
withered necks. Among these, a young lady of sixty-five, remarkably coolly
dressed as to her back and shoulders, who spoke with an engaging lisp, and
whose eyelids wouldn't keep up well, without a great deal of trouble on her
part, and whose manners had that indefinable charm which so frequently
attaches to the giddiness of youth. As the greater part of Mr Dombey's list
were disposed to be taciturn, and the greater part of Mrs Dombey's list were
disposed to be talkative, and there was no sympathy between them, Mrs
Dombey's list, by magnetic agreement, entered into a bond of union against
Mr Dombey's list, who, wandering about the rooms in a desolate manner, or
seeking refuge in corners, entangled themselves with company coming in, and
became barricaded behind sofas, and had doors opened smartly from without
against their heads, and underwent every sort of discomfiture.
When dinner was announced, Mr Dombey took down an old lady like a
crimson velvet pincushion stuffed with bank notes, who might have been the
identical old lady of Threadneedle Street, she was so rich, and looked so
unaccommodating; Cousin Feenix took down Mrs Dombey; Major Bagstock took
down Mrs Skewton; the young thing with the shoulders was bestowed, as an
extinguisher, upon the East India Director; and the remaining ladies were
left on view in the drawing-room by the remaining gentlemen, until a forlorn
hope volunteered to conduct them downstairs, and those brave spirits with
their captives blocked up the dining-room door, shutting out seven mild men
in the stony-hearted hall. When all the rest were got in and were seated,
one of these mild men still appeared, in smiling confusion, totally
destitute and unprovided for, and, escorted by the butler, made the complete
circuit of the table twice before his chair could be found, which it finally
was, on Mrs Dombey's left hand; after which the mild man never held up his
head again.
Now, the spacious dining-room, with the company seated round the
glittering table, busy with their glittering spoons, and knives and forks,
and plates, might have been taken for a grown-up exposition of Tom Tiddler's
ground, where children pick up gold and silver.' Mr Dombey, as Tiddler,
looked his character to admiration; and the long plateau of precious metal
frosted, separating him from Mrs Dombey, whereon frosted Cupids offered
scentless flowers to each of them, was allegorical to see.
Cousin Feenix was in great force, and looked astonishingly young. But
he was sometimes thoughtless in his good humour - his memory occasionally
wandering like his legs - and on this occasion caused the company to
shudder. It happened thus. The young lady with the back, who regarded Cousin
Feenix with sentiments of tenderness, had entrapped the East India Director
into leading her to the chair next him; in return for which good office, she
immediately abandoned the Director, who, being shaded on the other side by a
gloomy black velvet hat surmounting a bony and speechless female with a fan,
yielded to a depression of spirits and withdrew into himself. Cousin Feenix
and the young lady were very lively and humorous, and the young lady laughed
so much at something Cousin Feenix related to her, that Major Bagstock
begged leave to inquire on behalf of Mrs Skewton (they were sitting
opposite, a little lower down), whether that might not be considered public
property.
'Why, upon my life,' said Cousin Feenix, 'there's nothing in it; it
really is not worth repeating: in point of fact, it's merely an anecdote of
Jack Adams. I dare say my friend Dombey;' for the general attention was
concentrated on Cousin Feenix; 'may remember Jack Adams, Jack Adams, not
Joe; that was his brother. Jack - little Jack - man with a cast in his eye,
and slight impediment in his speech - man who sat for somebody's borough. We
used to call him in my parliamentary time W. P. Adams, in consequence of his
being Warming Pan for a young fellow who was in his minority. Perhaps my
friend Dombey may have known the man?'
Mr Dombey, who was as likely to have known Guy Fawkes, replied in the
negative. But one of the seven mild men unexpectedly leaped into
distinction, by saying he had known him, and adding - 'always wore Hessian
boots!'
'Exactly,' said Cousin Feenix, bending forward to see the mild man, and
smile encouragement at him down the table. 'That was Jack. Joe wore - '
'Tops!' cried the mild man, rising in public estimation every Instant.
'Of course,' said Cousin Feenix, 'you were intimate with em?'
'I knew them both,' said the mild man. With whom Mr Dombey immediately
took wine.
'Devilish good fellow, Jack!' said Cousin Feenix, again bending
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, to-day.'
'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 to-day.'
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 to-day, 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!
The Happy Pair
The dark blot on the street is gone. Mr Dombey's mansion, if it be a
gap among the other houses any longer, is only so because it is not to be
vied with in its brightness, and haughtily casts them off. The saying is,
that home is home, be it never so homely. If it hold good in the opposite
contingency, and home is home be it never so stately, what an altar to the
Household Gods is raised up here!
Lights are sparkling in the windows this evening, and the ruddy glow of
fires is warm and bright upon the hangings and soft carpets, and the dinner
waits to be served, and the dinner-table is handsomely set forth, though
only for four persons, and the side board is cumbrous with plate. It is the
first time that the house has been arranged for occupation since its late
changes, and the happy pair are looked for every minute.
Only second to the wedding morning, in the interest and expectation it
engenders among the household, is this evening of the coming home. Mrs Perch
is in the kitchen taking tea; and has made the tour of the establishment,
and priced the silks and damasks by the yard, and exhausted every
interjection in the dictionary and out of it expressive of admiration and
wonder. The upholsterer's foreman, who has left his hat, with a
pocket-handkerchief in it, both smelling strongly of varnish, under a chair
in the hall, lurks about the house, gazing upwards at the cornices, and
downward at the carpets, and occasionally, in a silent transport of
enjoyment, taking a rule out of his pocket, and skirmishingly measuring
expensive objects, with unutterable feelings. Cook is in high spirits, and
says give her a place where there's plenty of company (as she'll bet you
sixpence there will be now), for she is of a lively disposition, and she
always was from a child, and she don't mind who knows it; which sentiment
elicits from the breast of Mrs Perch a responsive murmur of support and
approbation. All the housemaid hopes is, happiness for 'em - but marriage is
a lottery, and the more she thinks about it, the more she feels the
independence and the safety of a single life. Mr Towlinson is saturnine and
grim' and says that's his opinion too, and give him War besides, and down
with the French - for this young man has a general impression that every
foreigner is a Frenchman, and must be by the laws of nature.
At each new sound of wheels, they all stop> whatever they are saying,
and listen; and more than once there is a general starting up and a cry of
'Here they are!' But here they are not yet; and Cook begins to mourn over
the dinner, which has been put back twice, and the upholsterer's foreman
still goes lurking about the rooms, undisturbed in his blissful reverie!
Florence is ready to receive her father and her new Mama Whether the
emotions that are throbbing in her breast originate In pleasure or in pain,
she hardly knows. But the fluttering heart sends added colour to her cheeks,
and brightness to her eyes; and they say downstairs, drawing their heads
together - for they always speak softly when they speak of her - how
beautiful Miss Florence looks to-night, and what a sweet young lady she has
grown, poor dear! A pause succeeds; and then Cook, feeling, as president,
that her sentiments are waited for, wonders whether - and there stops. The
housemaid wonders too, and so does Mrs Perch, who has the happy social
faculty of always wondering when other people wonder, without being at all
particular what she wonders at. Mr Towlinson, who now descries an
opportunity of bringing down the spirits of the ladies to his own level,
says wait and see; he wishes some people were well out of this. Cook leads a
sigh then, and a murmur of 'Ah, it's a strange world, it is indeed!' and
when it has gone round the table, adds persuasively, 'but Miss Florence
can't well be the worse for any change, Tom.' Mr Towlinson's rejoinder,
pregnant with frightful meaning, is 'Oh, can't she though!' and sensible
that a mere man can scarcely be more prophetic, or improve upon that, he
holds his peace.
Mrs Skewton, prepared to greet her darling daughter and dear son-in-law
with open arms, is appropriately attired for that purpose in a very youthful
costume, with short sleeves. At present, however, her ripe charms are
blooming in the shade of her own apartments, whence she had not emerged
since she took possession of them a few hours ago, and where she is fast
growing fretful, on account of the postponement of dinner. The maid who
ought to be a skeleton, but is in truth a buxom damsel, is, on the other
hand, In a most amiable state: considering her quarterly stipend much safer
than heretofore, and foreseeing a great improvement in her board and
lodging.
Where are the happy pair, for whom this brave home is waiting? Do
steam, tide, wind, and horses, all abate their speed, to linger on such
happiness? Does the swarm of loves and graces hovering about them retard
their progress by its numbers? Are there so many flowers in their happy
path, that they can scarcely move along, without entanglement in thornless
roses, and sweetest briar?
They are here at last! The noise of wheels is heard, grows louder, and
a carriage drives up to the door! A thundering knock from the obnoxious
foreigner anticipates the rush of Mr Towlinson and party to open it; and Mr
Dombey and his bride alight, and walk in arm in arm.
'My sweetest Edith!' cries an agitated voice upon the stairs. 'My
dearest Dombey!' and the short sleeves wreath themselves about the happy
couple in turn, and embrace them.
Florence had come down to the hall too, but did not advance: reserving
her timid welcome until these nearer and dearer transports should subside.
But the eyes of Edith sought her out, upon the threshold; and dismissing her
sensitive parent with a slight kiss on the cheek, she hurried on to Florence
and embraced her.
'How do you do, Florence?' said Mr Dombey, putting out his hand.
As Florence, trembling, raised it to her lips, she met his glance. The
look was cold and distant enough, but it stirred her heart to think that she
observed in it something more of interest than he had ever shown before. It
even expressed a kind of faint surprise, and not a disagreeable surprise, at
sight of her. She dared not raise her eyes to his any more; but she felt
that he looked at her once again, and not less favourably. Oh what a thrill
of joy shot through her, awakened by even this intangible and baseless
confirmation of her hope that she would learn to win him, through her new
and beautiful Mama!
'You will not be long dressing, Mrs Dombey, I presume?' said Mr Dombey.
'I shall be ready immediately.'
'Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour.'
With that Mr Dombey stalked away to his own dressing-room, and Mrs
Dombey went upstairs to hers. Mrs Skewton and Florence repaired to the
drawing-room, where that excellent mother considered it incumbent on her to
shed a few irrepressible tears, supposed to be forced from her by her
daughter's felicity; and which she was still drying, very gingerly, with a
laced corner of her pocket-handkerchief, when her son-in-law appeared.
'And how, my dearest Dombey, did you find that delightfullest of
cities, Paris?' she asked, subduing her emotion.
'It was cold,' returned Mr Dombey.
'Gay as ever,' said Mrs Skewton, 'of course.
'Not particularly. I thought it dull,' said Mr Dombey.
'Fie, my dearest Dombey!' archly; 'dull!'
'It made that impression upon me, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with grave
politeness. 'I believe Mrs Dombey found it dull too. She mentioned once or
twice that she thought it so.'
'Why, you naughty girl!' cried Mrs Skewton, rallying her dear child,
who now entered, 'what dreadfully heretical things have you been saying
about Paris?'
Edith raised her eyebrows with an air of weariness; and passing the
folding-doors which were thrown open to display the suite of rooms in their
new and handsome garniture, and barely glancing at them as she passed, sat
down by Florence.
'My dear Dombey,' said Mrs Skewton, 'how charmingly these people have
carried out every idea that we hinted. They have made a perfect palace of
the house, positively.'
'It is handsome,' said Mr Dombey, looking round. 'I directed that no
expense should be spared; and all that money could do, has been done, I
believe.'
'And what can it not do, dear Dombey?' observed Cleopatra.
'It is powerful, Madam,' said Mr Dombey.
He looked in his solemn way towards his wife, but not a word said she.
'I hope, Mrs Dombey,' addressing her after a moment's silence, with
especial distinctness; 'that these alterations meet with your approval?'
'They are as handsome as they can be,' she returned, with haughty
carelessness. 'They should be so, of' course. And I suppose they are.'
An expression of scorn was habitual to the proud face, and seemed
inseparable from it; but the contempt with which it received any appeal to
admiration, respect, or consideration on the ground of his riches, no matter
how slight or ordinary in itself, was a new and different expression,
unequalled in intensity by any other of which it was capable. Whether Mr
Dombey, wrapped in his own greatness, was at all aware of this, or no, there
had not been wanting opportunities already for his complete enlightenment;
and at that moment it might have been effected by the one glance of the dark
eye that lighted on him, after it had rapidly and scornfully surveyed the
theme of his self-glorification. He might have read in that one glance that
nothing that his wealth could do, though it were increased ten thousand
fold, could win him for its own sake, one look of softened recognition from
the defiant woman, linked to him, but arrayed with her whole soul against
him. He might have read in that one glance that even for its sordid and
mercenary influence upon herself, she spurned it, while she claimed its
utmost power as her right, her bargain - as the base and worthless
recompense for which she had become his wife. He might have read in it that,
ever baring her own head for the lightning of her own contempt and pride to
strike, the most innocent allusion to the power of his riches degraded her
anew, sunk her deeper in her own respect, and made the blight and waste
within her more complete.
But dinner was announced, and Mr Dombey led down Cleopatra; Edith and
his daughter following. Sweeping past the gold and silver demonstration on
the sideboard as if it were heaped-up dirt, and deigning to bestow no look
upon the elegancies around her, she took her place at his board for the
first time, and sat, like a statue, at the feast.
Mr Dombey, being a good deal in the statue way himself, was well enough
pleased to see his handsome wife immovable and proud and cold. Her
deportment being always elegant and graceful, this as a general behaviour
was agreeable and congenial to him. Presiding, therefore, with his
accustomed dignity, and not at all reflecting on his wife by any warmth or
hilarity of his own, he performed his share of the honours of the table with
a cool satisfaction; and the installation dinner, though not regarded
downstairs as a great success, or very promising beginning, passed oil,
above, in a sufficiently polite, genteel, and frosty manner.
Soon after tea' Mrs Skewton, who affected to be quite overcome and worn
Out by her emotions of happiness, arising in the contemplation of her dear
child united to the man of her heart, but who, there is reason to suppose,
found this family party somewhat dull, as she yawned for one hour
continually behind her fan, retired to bed. Edith, also, silently withdrew
and came back' no more. Thus, it happened that Florence, who had been
upstairs to have some conversation with Diogenes, returning to the
drawing-room with her little work-basket, found no one there but her father,
who was walking to and fro, in dreary magnificence.
'I beg your pardon. Shall I go away, Papa?' said Florence faintly,
hesitating at the door.
'No,' returned Mr Dombey, looking round over his shoulder; you can come
and go here, Florence, as you please. This is not my private room.
Florence entered, and sat down at a distant little table with her work:
finding herself for the first time in her life - for the very first time
within her memory from her infancy to that hour - alone with her father, as
his companion. She, his natural companion, his only child, who in her lonely
life and grief had known the suffering of a breaking heart; who, in her
rejected love, had never breathed his name to God at night, but with a
tearful blessing, heavier on him than a curse; who had prayed to die young,
so she might only die in his arms; who had, all through, repaid the agony of
slight and coldness, and dislike, with patient unexacting love, excusing
him, and pleading for him, like his better angel!
She trembled, and her eyes were dim. His figure seemed to grow in
height and bulk before her as he paced the room: now it was all blurred and
indistinct; now clear again, and plain; and now she seemed to think that
this had happened, just the same, a multitude of years ago. She yearned
towards him, and yet shrunk from his approach. Unnatural emotion in a child,
innocent of wrong! Unnatural the hand that had directed the sharp plough,
which furrowed up her gentle nature for the sowing of its seeds!
Bent upon not distressing or offending him by her distress, Florence
controlled herself, and sat quietly at her work. After a few more turns
across and across the room, he left off pacing it; and withdrawing into a
shadowy corner at some distance, where there was an easy chair, covered his
head with a handkerchief, and composed himself to sleep.
It was enough for Florence to sit there watching him; turning her eyes
towards his chair from time to time; watching him with her thoughts, when
her face was intent upon her work; and sorrowfully glad to think that he
could sleep, while she was there, and that he was not made restless by her
strange and long-forbidden presence.
What would have been her thoughts if she had known that he was steadily
regarding her; that the veil upon his face, by accident or by design, was so
adjusted that his sight was free, and that itnever wandered from her face
face an instant That when she looked towards him' In the obscure dark
corner, her speaking eyes, more earnest and pathetic in their voiceless
speech than all the orators of all the world, and impeaching him more nearly
in their mute address, met his, and did not know it! That when she bent her
head again over her work, he drew his breath more easily, but with the same
attention looked upon her still - upon her white brow and her falling hair,
and busy hands; and once attracted, seemed to have no power to turn his eyes
away!
And what were his thoughts meanwhile? With what emotions did he prolong
the attentive gaze covertly directed on his unknown daughter? Was there
reproach to him in the quiet figure and the mild eyes? Had he begun to her
disregarded claims and did they touch him home at last, and waken him to
some sense of his cruel injustice?
There are yielding moments in the lives of the sternest and harshest
men, though such men often keep their secret well. The sight ofher in her
beauty, almost changed into a woman without his knowledge, may have struck
out some such moments even In his life of pride. Some passing thought that
he had had a happy home within his reach-had had a household spirit bending
at has feet - had overlooked it in his stiffnecked sullen arrogance, and
wandered away and lost himself, may have engendered them. Some simple
eloquence distinctly heard, though only uttered in her eyes, unconscious
that he read them' as'By the death-beds I have tended, by the childhood I
have suffered, by our meeting in this dreary house at midnight, by the cry
wrung from me in the anguish of my heart, oh, father, turn to me and seek a
refuge in my love before it is too late!' may have arrested them. Meaner and
lower thoughts, as that his dead boy was now superseded by new ties, and he
could forgive the having been supplanted in his affection, may have
occasioned them. The mere association of her as an ornament, with all the
ornament and pomp about him, may have been sufficient. But as he looked, he
softened to her, more and more. As he looked, she became blended with the
child he had loved, and he could hardly separate the two. As he looked, he
saw her for an instant by a clearer and a brighter light, not bending over
that child's pillow as his rival - monstrous thought - but as the spirit of
his home, and in the action tending himself no less, as he sat once more
with his bowed-down head upon his hand at the foot of the little bed. He
felt inclined to speak to her, and call her to him. The words 'Florence,
come here!' were rising to his lips - but slowly and with difficulty, they
were so very strange - when they were checked and stifled by a footstep on
the stair.
It was his wife's. She had exchanged her dinner dress for a loose robe,
and unbound her hair, which fell freely about her neck. But this was not the
change in her that startled him.
'Florence, dear,' she said, 'I have been looking for you everywhere.'
As she sat down by the side of Florence, she stooped and kissed her
hand. He hardly knew his wife. She was so changed. It was not merely that
her smile was new to him - though that he had never seen; but her manner,
the tone of her voice, the light of her eyes, the interest, and confidence,
and winning wish to please, expressed in all-this was not Edith.
'Softly, dear Mama. Papa is asleep.'
It was Edith now. She looked towards the corner where he was, and he
knew that face and manner very well.
'I scarcely thought you could be here, Florence.'
Again, how altered and how softened, in an instant!
'I left here early,' pursued Edith, 'purposely to sit upstairs and talk
with you. But, going to your room, I found my bird was flown, and I have
been waiting there ever since, expecting its return.
If it had been a bird, indeed, she could not have taken it more
tenderly and gently to her breast, than she did Florence.
'Come, dear!'
'Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, when he wakes,' hesitated
Florence.
'Do you think he will, Florence?' said Edith, looking full upon her.
Florence drooped her head, and rose, and put up her work-basket Edith
drew her hand through her arm, and they went out of the room like sisters.
Her very step was different and new to him' Mr Dombey thought, as his eyes
followed her to the door.
He sat in his shadowy corner so long, that the church clocks struck the
hour three times before he moved that night. All that while his face was
still intent upon the spot where Florence had been seated. The room grew
darker, as the candles waned and went out; but a darkness gathered on his
face, exceeding any that the night could cast, and rested there.
Florence and Edith, seated before the fire in the remote room where
little Paul had died, talked together for a long time. Diogenes, who was of
the party, had at first objected to the admission of Edith, and, even In
deference to his mistress's wish, had only permitted it under growling
protest. But, emerging by little and little from the ante-room, whither he
had retired in dudgeon, he soon appeared to comprehend, that with the most
amiable intentions he had made one of those mistakes which will occasionally
arise in the best-regulated dogs' minds; as a friendly apology for which he
stuck himself up on end between the two, in a very hot place in front of the
fire, and sat panting at it, with his tongue out, and a most imbecile
expression of countenance, listening to the conversation.
It turned, at first, on Florence's books and favourite pursuits, and on
the manner in which she had beguiled the interval since the marriage. The
last theme opened up to her a subject which lay very near her heart, and she
said, with the tears starting to her eyes:
'Oh, Mama! I have had a great sorrow since that day.'
'You a great sorrow, Florence!'
'Yes. Poor Walter is drowned.'
Florence spread her hands before her face, and wept with all her heart.
Many as were the secret tears which Walter's fate had cost her, they flowed
yet, when she thought or spoke of him.
'But tell me, dear,' said Edith, soothing her. 'Who was Walter? What
was he to you?'
'He was my brother, Mama. After dear Paul died, we said we would be
brother and sister. I had known him a long time - from a little child. He
knew Paul, who liked him very much; Paul said, almost at the last, "Take
care of Walter, dear Papa! I was fond of him!" Walter had been brought in to
see him, and was there then - in this room.
'And did he take care of Walter?' inquired Edith, sternly.
'Papa? He appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in shipwreck on
his voyage,' said Florence, sobbing.
'Does he know that he is dead?' asked Edith.
'I cannot tell, Mama. I have no means of knowing. Dear Mama!' cried
Florence, clinging to her as for help, and hiding her face upon her bosom,
'I know that you have seen - '
'Stay! Stop, Florence.' Edith turned so pale, and spoke so earnestly,
that Florence did not need her restraining hand upon her lips. 'Tell me all
about Walter first; let me understand this history all through.'
Florence related it, and everything belonging to it, even down to the
friendship of Mr Toots, of whom she could hardly speak in her distress
without a tearful smile, although she was deeply grateful to him. When she
had concluded her account, to the whole of which Edith, holding her hand,
listened with close attention, and when a silence had succeeded, Edith said:
'What is it that you know I have seen, Florence?'
'That I am not,' said Florence, with the same mute appeal, and the same
quick concealment of her face as before, 'that I am not a favourite child,
Mama. I never have been. I have never known how to be. I have missed the
way, and had no one to show it to me. Oh, let me learn from you how to
become dearer to Papa Teach me! you, who can so well!' and clinging closer
to her, with some broken fervent words of gratitude and endearment,
Florence, relieved of her sad secret, wept long, but not as painfully as of
yore, within the encircling arms of her new mother.
Pale even to her lips, and with a face that strove for composure until
its proud beauty was as fixed as death, Edith looked down upon the weeping
girl, and once kissed her. Then gradually disengaging herself, and putting
Florence away, she said, stately, and quiet as a marble image, and in a
voice that deepened as she spoke, but had no other token of emotion in it:
'Florence, you do not know me! Heaven forbid that you should learn from
me!'
'Not learn from you?' repeated Florence, in surprise.
'That I should teach you how to love, or be loved, Heaven forbid!' said
Edith. 'If you could teach me, that were better; but it is too late. You are
dear to me, Florence. I did not think that anything could ever be so dear to
me, as you are in this little time.'
She saw that Florence would have spoken here, so checked her with her
hand, and went on.
'I will be your true friend always. I will cherish you, as much, if not
as well as anyone in this world could. You may trust in me - I know it and I
say it, dear, - with the whole confidence even of your pure heart. There are
hosts of women whom he might have married, better and truer in all other
respects than I am, Florence; but there is not one who could come here, his
wife, whose heart could beat with greater truth to you than mine does.'
'I know it, dear Mama!' cried Florence. 'From that first most happy day
I have known it.'
'Most happy day!' Edith seemed to repeat the words involuntarily, and
went on. 'Though the merit is not mine, for I thought little of you until I
saw you, let the undeserved reward be mine in your trust and love. And in
this - in this, Florence; on the first night of my taking up my abode here;
I am led on as it is best I should be, to say it for the first and last
time.'
Florence, without knowing why, felt almost afraid to hear her proceed,
but kept her eyes riveted on the beautiful face so fixed upon her own.
'Never seek to find in me,' said Edith, laying her hand upon her
breast, 'what is not here. Never if you can help it, Florence, fall off from
me because it is not here. Little by little you will know me better, and the
time will come when you will know me, as I know myself. Then, be as lenient
to me as you can, and do not turn to bitterness the only sweet remembrance I
shall have.
The tears that were visible in her eyes as she kept them fixed on
Florence, showed that the composed face was but as a handsome mask; but she
preserved it, and continued:
'I have seen what you say, and know how true it is. But believe me -
you will soon, if you cannot now - there is no one on this earth less
qualified to set it right or help you, Florence, than I. Never ask me why,
or speak to me about it or of my husband, more. There should be, so far, a
division, and a silence between us two, like the grave itself.'
She sat for some time silent; Florence scarcely venturing to breathe
meanwhile, as dim and imperfect shadows of the truth, and all its daily
consequences, chased each other through her terrified, yet incredulous
imagination. Almost as soon as she had ceased to speak, Edith's face began
to subside from its set composure to that quieter and more relenting aspect,
which it usually wore when she and Florence were alone together. She shaded
it, after this change, with her hands; and when she arose, and with an
affectionate embrace bade Florence good-night, went quickly, and without
looking round.
But when Florence was in bed, and the room was dark except for the glow
of the fire, Edith returned, and saying that she could not sleep, and that
her dressing-room was lonely, drew a chair upon the hearth, and watched the
embers as they died away. Florence watched them too from her bed, until
they, and the noble figure before them, crowned with its flowing hair, and
in its thoughtful eyes reflecting back their light, became confused and
indistinct, and finally were lost in slumber.
In her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an undefined impression
of what had so recently passed. It formed the subject of her dreams, and
haunted her; now in one shape, now in another; but always oppressively; and
with a sense of fear. She dreamed of seeking her father in wildernesses, of
following his track up fearful heights, and down into deep mines and
caverns; of being charged with something that would release him from
extraordinary suffering - she knew not what, or why - yet never being able
to attain the goal and set him free. Then she saw him dead, upon that very
bed, and in that very room, and knew that he had never loved her to the
last, and fell upon his cold breast, passionately weeping. Then a prospect
opened, and a river flowed, and a plaintive voice she knew, cried, 'It is
running on, Floy! It has never stopped! You are moving with it!' And she saw
him at a distance stretching out his arms towards her, while a figure such
as Walter's used to be, stood near him, awfully serene and still. In every
vision, Edith came and went, sometimes to her joy, sometimes to her sorrow,
until they were alone upon the brink of a dark grave, and Edith pointing
down, she looked and saw - what! - another Edith lying at the bottom.
In the terror of this dream, she cried out and awoke, she thought. A
soft voice seemed to whisper in her ear, 'Florence, dear Florence, it is
nothing but a dream!' and stretching out her arms, she returned the caress
of her new Mama, who then went out at the door in the light of the grey
morning. In a moment, Florence sat up wondering whether this had really
taken place or not; but she was only certain that it was grey morning
indeed, and that the blackened ashes of the fire were on the hearth, and
that she was alone.
So passed the night on which the happy pair came home.
Housewarming
Many succeeding days passed in like manner; except that there were
numerous visits received and paid, and that Mrs Skewton held little levees
in her own apartments, at which Major Bagstock was a frequent attendant, and
that Florence encountered no second look from her father, although she saw
him every day. Nor had she much communication in words with her new Mama,
who was imperious and proud to all the house but her - Florence could not
but observe that - and who, although she always sent for her or went to her
when she came home from visiting, and would always go into her room at
night, before retiring to rest, however late the hour, and never lost an
opportunity of being with her, was often her silent and thoughtful companion
for a long time together.
Florence, who had hoped for so much from this marriage, could not help
sometimes comparing the bright house with the faded dreary place out of
which it had arisen, and wondering when, in any shape, it would begin to be
a home; for that it was no home then, for anyone, though everything went on
luxuriously and regularly, she had always a secret misgiving. Many an hour
of sorrowful reflection by day and night, and many a tear of blighted hope,
Florence bestowed upon the assurance her new Mama had given her so strongly,
that there was no one on the earth more powerless than herself to teach her
how to win her father's heart. And soon Florence began to think - resolved
to think would be the truer phrase - that as no one knew so well, how
hopeless of being subdued or changed her father's coldness to her was, so
she had given her this warning, and forbidden the subject in very
compassion. Unselfish here, as in her every act and fancy, Florence
preferred to bear the pain of this new wound, rather than encourage any
faint foreshadowings of the truth as it concerned her father; tender of him,
even in her wandering thoughts. As for his home, she hoped it would become a
better one, when its state of novelty and transition should be over; and for
herself, thought little and lamented less.
If none of the new family were particularly at home in private, it was
resolved that Mrs Dombey at least should be at home in public, without
delay. A series of entertainments in celebration of the late nuptials, and
in cultivation of society, were arranged, chiefly by Mr Dombey and Mrs
Skewton; and it was settled that the festive proceedings should commence by
Mrs Dombey's being at home upon a certain evening, and by Mr and Mrs
Dombey's requesting the honour of the company of a great many incongruous
people to dinner on the same day.
Accordingly, Mr Dombey produced a list of sundry eastern magnates who
were to be bidden to this feast on his behalf; to which Mrs Skewton, acting
for her dearest child, who was haughtily careless on the subject, subjoined
a western list, comprising Cousin Feenix, not yet returned to Baden-Baden,
greatly to the detriment of his personal estate; and a variety of moths of
various degrees and ages, who had, at various times, fluttered round the
light of her fair daughter, or herself, without any lasting injury to their
wings. Florence was enrolled as a member of the dinner-party, by Edith's
command - elicited by a moment's doubt and hesitation on the part of Mrs
Skewton; and Florence, with a wondering heart, and with a quick instinctive
sense of everything that grated on her father in the least, took her silent
share in the proceedings of the day.
The proceedings commenced by Mr Dombey, in a cravat of extraordinary
height and stiffness, walking restlessly about the drawing-room until the
hour appointed for dinner; punctual to which, an East India Director,' of
immense wealth, in a waistcoat apparently constructed in serviceable deal by
some plain carpenter, but really engendered in the tailor's art, and
composed of the material called nankeen, arrived and was received by Mr
Dombey alone. The next stage of the proceedings was Mr Dombey's sending his
compliments to Mrs Dombey, with a correct statement of the time; and the
next, the East India Director's falling prostrate, in a conversational point
of view, and as Mr Dombey was not the man to pick him up, staring at the
fire until rescue appeared in the shape of Mrs Skewton; whom the director,
as a pleasant start in life for the evening, mistook for Mrs Dombey, and
greeted with enthusiasm.
The next arrival was a Bank Director, reputed to be able to buy up
anything - human Nature generally, if he should take it in his head to
influence the money market in that direction - but who was a wonderfully
modest-spoken man, almost boastfully so, and mentioned his 'little place' at
Kingston-upon-Thames, and its just being barely equal to giving Dombey a bed
and a chop, if he would come and visit it. Ladies, he said, it was not for a
man who lived in his quiet way to take upon himself to invite - but if Mrs
Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Dombey, should ever find themselves in that
direction, and would do him the honour to look at a little bit of a
shrubbery they would find there, and a poor little flower-bed or so, and a
humble apology for a pinery, and two or three little attempts of that sort
without any pretension, they would distinguish him very much. Carrying out
his character, this gentleman was very plainly dressed, in a wisp of cambric
for a neckcloth, big shoes, a coat that was too loose for him, and a pair of
trousers that were too spare; and mention being made of the Opera by Mrs
Skewton, he said he very seldom went there, for he couldn't afford it. It
seemed greatly to delight and exhilarate him to say so: and he beamed on his
audience afterwards, with his hands in his pockets, and excessive
satisfaction twinkling in his eyes.
Now Mrs Dombey appeared, beautiful and proud, and as disdainful and
defiant of them all as if the bridal wreath upon her head had been a garland
of steel spikes put on to force concession from her which she would die
sooner than yield. With her was Florence. When they entered together, the
shadow of the night of the return again darkened Mr Dombey's face. But
unobserved; for Florence did not venture to raise her eyes to his, and
Edith's indifference was too supreme to take the least heed of him.
The arrivals quickly became numerous. More directors, chairmen of
public companies, elderly ladies carrying burdens on their heads for full
dress, Cousin Feenix, Major Bagstock, friends of Mrs Skewton, with the same
bright bloom on their complexion, and very precious necklaces on very
withered necks. Among these, a young lady of sixty-five, remarkably coolly
dressed as to her back and shoulders, who spoke with an engaging lisp, and
whose eyelids wouldn't keep up well, without a great deal of trouble on her
part, and whose manners had that indefinable charm which so frequently
attaches to the giddiness of youth. As the greater part of Mr Dombey's list
were disposed to be taciturn, and the greater part of Mrs Dombey's list were
disposed to be talkative, and there was no sympathy between them, Mrs
Dombey's list, by magnetic agreement, entered into a bond of union against
Mr Dombey's list, who, wandering about the rooms in a desolate manner, or
seeking refuge in corners, entangled themselves with company coming in, and
became barricaded behind sofas, and had doors opened smartly from without
against their heads, and underwent every sort of discomfiture.
When dinner was announced, Mr Dombey took down an old lady like a
crimson velvet pincushion stuffed with bank notes, who might have been the
identical old lady of Threadneedle Street, she was so rich, and looked so
unaccommodating; Cousin Feenix took down Mrs Dombey; Major Bagstock took
down Mrs Skewton; the young thing with the shoulders was bestowed, as an
extinguisher, upon the East India Director; and the remaining ladies were
left on view in the drawing-room by the remaining gentlemen, until a forlorn
hope volunteered to conduct them downstairs, and those brave spirits with
their captives blocked up the dining-room door, shutting out seven mild men
in the stony-hearted hall. When all the rest were got in and were seated,
one of these mild men still appeared, in smiling confusion, totally
destitute and unprovided for, and, escorted by the butler, made the complete
circuit of the table twice before his chair could be found, which it finally
was, on Mrs Dombey's left hand; after which the mild man never held up his
head again.
Now, the spacious dining-room, with the company seated round the
glittering table, busy with their glittering spoons, and knives and forks,
and plates, might have been taken for a grown-up exposition of Tom Tiddler's
ground, where children pick up gold and silver.' Mr Dombey, as Tiddler,
looked his character to admiration; and the long plateau of precious metal
frosted, separating him from Mrs Dombey, whereon frosted Cupids offered
scentless flowers to each of them, was allegorical to see.
Cousin Feenix was in great force, and looked astonishingly young. But
he was sometimes thoughtless in his good humour - his memory occasionally
wandering like his legs - and on this occasion caused the company to
shudder. It happened thus. The young lady with the back, who regarded Cousin
Feenix with sentiments of tenderness, had entrapped the East India Director
into leading her to the chair next him; in return for which good office, she
immediately abandoned the Director, who, being shaded on the other side by a
gloomy black velvet hat surmounting a bony and speechless female with a fan,
yielded to a depression of spirits and withdrew into himself. Cousin Feenix
and the young lady were very lively and humorous, and the young lady laughed
so much at something Cousin Feenix related to her, that Major Bagstock
begged leave to inquire on behalf of Mrs Skewton (they were sitting
opposite, a little lower down), whether that might not be considered public
property.
'Why, upon my life,' said Cousin Feenix, 'there's nothing in it; it
really is not worth repeating: in point of fact, it's merely an anecdote of
Jack Adams. I dare say my friend Dombey;' for the general attention was
concentrated on Cousin Feenix; 'may remember Jack Adams, Jack Adams, not
Joe; that was his brother. Jack - little Jack - man with a cast in his eye,
and slight impediment in his speech - man who sat for somebody's borough. We
used to call him in my parliamentary time W. P. Adams, in consequence of his
being Warming Pan for a young fellow who was in his minority. Perhaps my
friend Dombey may have known the man?'
Mr Dombey, who was as likely to have known Guy Fawkes, replied in the
negative. But one of the seven mild men unexpectedly leaped into
distinction, by saying he had known him, and adding - 'always wore Hessian
boots!'
'Exactly,' said Cousin Feenix, bending forward to see the mild man, and
smile encouragement at him down the table. 'That was Jack. Joe wore - '
'Tops!' cried the mild man, rising in public estimation every Instant.
'Of course,' said Cousin Feenix, 'you were intimate with em?'
'I knew them both,' said the mild man. With whom Mr Dombey immediately
took wine.
'Devilish good fellow, Jack!' said Cousin Feenix, again bending