Dombey and Son
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.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
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