Dombey and Son
you, because he knows I am not agreeable to you, and because he intends
that I shall be a punishment for your contumacy; and besides that,
because he really does consider, that I, his paid servant, am an
ambassador whom it is derogatory to the dignity—not of the lady to whom
I have the happiness of speaking; she has no existence in his mind—but
of his wife, a part of himself, to receive. You may imagine how
regardless of me, how obtuse to the possibility of my having any
individual sentiment or opinion he is, when he tells me, openly, that I
am so employed. You know how perfectly indifferent to your feelings he
is, when he threatens you with such a messenger. As you, of course,
have not forgotten that he did.”
She watched him still attentively. But he watched her too; and he saw
that this indication of a knowledge on his part, of something that had
passed between herself and her husband, rankled and smarted in her
haughty breast, like a poisoned arrow.
“I do not recall all this to widen the breach between yourself and Mr
Dombey, Madam—Heaven forbid! what would it profit me?—but as an example
of the hopelessness of impressing Mr Dombey with a sense that anybody
is to be considered when he is in question. We who are about him, have,
in our various positions, done our part, I daresay, to confirm him in
his way of thinking; but if we had not done so, others would—or they
would not have been about him; and it has always been, from the
beginning, the very staple of his life. Mr Dombey has had to deal, in
short, with none but submissive and dependent persons, who have bowed
the knee, and bent the neck, before him. He has never known what it is
to have angry pride and strong resentment opposed to him.”
“But he will know it now!” she seemed to say; though her lips did not
part, nor her eyes falter. He saw the soft down tremble once again, and
he saw her lay the plumage of the beautiful bird against her bosom for
a moment; and he unfolded one more ring of the coil into which he had
gathered himself.
“Mr Dombey, though a most honourable gentleman,” he said, “is so prone
to pervert even facts to his own view, when he is at all opposed, in
consequence of the warp in his mind, that he—can I give a better
instance than this!—he sincerely believes (you will excuse the folly of
what I am about to say; it not being mine) that his severe expression
of opinion to his present wife, on a certain special occasion she may
remember, before the lamented death of Mrs Skewton, produced a
withering effect, and for the moment quite subdued her!”
Edith laughed. How harshly and unmusically need not be described. It is
enough that he was glad to hear her.
“Madam,” he resumed, “I have done with this. Your own opinions are so
strong, and, I am persuaded, so unalterable,” he repeated those words
slowly and with great emphasis, “that I am almost afraid to incur your
displeasure anew, when I say that in spite of these defects and my full
knowledge of them, I have become habituated to Mr Dombey, and esteem
him. But when I say so, it is not, believe me, for the mere sake of
vaunting a feeling that is so utterly at variance with your own, and
for which you can have no sympathy”—oh how distinct and plain and
emphasized this was!—“but to give you an assurance of the zeal with
which, in this unhappy matter, I am yours, and the indignation with
which I regard the part I am to fill!”
She sat as if she were afraid to take her eyes from his face.
And now to unwind the last ring of the coil!
“It is growing late,” said Carker, after a pause, “and you are, as you
said, fatigued. But the second object of this interview, I must not
forget. I must recommend you, I must entreat you in the most earnest
manner, for sufficient reasons that I have, to be cautious in your
demonstrations of regard for Miss Dombey.”
“Cautious! What do you mean?”
“To be careful how you exhibit too much affection for that young lady.”
“Too much affection, Sir!” said Edith, knitting her broad brow and
rising. “Who judges my affection, or measures it out? You?”
“It is not I who do so.” He was, or feigned to be, perplexed.
“Who then?”
“Can you not guess who then?”
“I do not choose to guess,” she answered.
“Madam,” he said after a little hesitation; meantime they had been, and
still were, regarding each other as before; “I am in a difficulty here.
You have told me you will receive no message, and you have forbidden me
to return to that subject; but the two subjects are so closely
entwined, I find, that unless you will accept this vague caution from
one who has now the honour to possess your confidence, though the way
to it has been through your displeasure, I must violate the injunction
you have laid upon me.”
“You know that you are free to do so, Sir,” said Edith. “Do it.”
So pale, so trembling, so impassioned! He had not miscalculated the
effect then!
“His instructions were,” he said, in a low voice, “that I should inform
you that your demeanour towards Miss Dombey is not agreeable to him.
That it suggests comparisons to him which are not favourable to
himself. That he desires it may be wholly changed; and that if you are
in earnest, he is confident it will be; for your continued show of
affection will not benefit its object.”
“That is a threat,” she said.
“That is a threat,” he answered, in his voiceless manner of assent:
adding aloud, “but not directed against you.”
Proud, erect, and dignified, as she stood confronting him; and looking
through him as she did, with her full bright flashing eye; and smiling,
as she was, with scorn and bitterness; she sunk as if the ground had
dropped beneath her, and in an instant would have fallen on the floor,
but that he caught her in his arms. As instantaneously she threw him
off, the moment that he touched her, and, drawing back, confronted him
again, immoveable, with her hand stretched out.
“Please to leave me. Say no more tonight.”
“I feel the urgency of this,” said Mr Carker, “because it is impossible
to say what unforeseen consequences might arise, or how soon, from your
being unacquainted with his state of mind. I understand Miss Dombey is
concerned, now, at the dismissal of her old servant, which is likely to
have been a minor consequence in itself. You don’t blame me for
requesting that Miss Dombey might not be present. May I hope so?”
“I do not. Please to leave me, Sir.”
“I knew that your regard for the young lady, which is very sincere and
strong, I am well persuaded, would render it a great unhappiness to
you, ever to be a prey to the reflection that you had injured her
position and ruined her future hopes,” said Carker hurriedly, but
eagerly.
“No more tonight. Leave me, if you please.”
“I shall be here constantly in my attendance upon him, and in the
transaction of business matters. You will allow me to see you again,
and to consult what should be done, and learn your wishes?”
She motioned him towards the door.
“I cannot even decide whether to tell him I have spoken to you yet; or
to lead him to suppose that I have deferred doing so, for want of
opportunity, or for any other reason. It will be necessary that you
should enable me to consult with you very soon.”
“At any time but now,” she answered.
“You will understand, when I wish to see you, that Miss Dombey is not
to be present; and that I seek an interview as one who has the
happiness to possess your confidence, and who comes to render you every
assistance in his power, and, perhaps, on many occasions, to ward off
evil from her?”
Looking at him still with the same apparent dread of releasing him for
a moment from the influence of her steady gaze, whatever that might be,
she answered, “Yes!” and once more bade him go.
He bowed, as if in compliance; but turning back, when he had nearly
reached the door, said:
“I am forgiven, and have explained my fault. May I—for Miss Dombey’s
sake, and for my own—take your hand before I go?”
She gave him the gloved hand she had maimed last night. He took it in
one of his, and kissed it, and withdrew. And when he had closed the
door, he waved the hand with which he had taken hers, and thrust it in
his breast.
Edith saw no one that night, but locked her door, and kept herself
alone.
She did not weep; she showed no greater agitation, outwardly, than when
she was riding home. She laid as proud a head upon her pillow as she
had borne in her carriage; and her prayer ran thus:
“May this man be a liar! For if he has spoken truth, she is lost to me,
and I have no hope left!”
This man, meanwhile, went home musing to bed, thinking, with a dainty
pleasure, how imperious her passion was, how she had sat before him in
her beauty, with the dark eyes that had never turned away but once; how
the white down had fluttered; how the bird’s feathers had been strewn
upon the ground.
CHAPTER XLVI.
Recognizant and Reflective
Among sundry minor alterations in Mr Carker’s life and habits that
began to take place at this time, none was more remarkable than the
extraordinary diligence with which he applied himself to business, and
the closeness with which he investigated every detail that the affairs
of the House laid open to him. Always active and penetrating in such
matters, his lynx-eyed vigilance now increased twenty-fold. Not only
did his weary watch keep pace with every present point that every day
presented to him in some new form, but in the midst of these engrossing
occupations he found leisure—that is, he made it—to review the past
transactions of the Firm, and his share in them, during a long series
of years. Frequently when the clerks were all gone, the offices dark
and empty, and all similar places of business shut up, Mr Carker, with
the whole anatomy of the iron room laid bare before him, would explore
the mysteries of books and papers, with the patient progress of a man
who was dissecting the minutest nerves and fibres of his subject.
Perch, the messenger, who usually remained on these occasions, to
entertain himself with the perusal of the Price Current by the light of
one candle, or to doze over the fire in the outer office, at the
imminent risk every moment of diving head foremost into the coal-box,
could not withhold the tribute of his admiration from this zealous
conduct, although it much contracted his domestic enjoyments; and
again, and again, expatiated to Mrs Perch (now nursing twins) on the
industry and acuteness of their managing gentleman in the City.
The same increased and sharp attention that Mr Carker bestowed on the
business of the House, he applied to his own personal affairs. Though
not a partner in the concern—a distinction hitherto reserved solely to
inheritors of the great name of Dombey—he was in the receipt of some
percentage on its dealings; and, participating in all its facilities
for the employment of money to advantage, was considered, by the
minnows among the tritons of the East, a rich man. It began to be said,
among these shrewd observers, that Jem Carker, of Dombey’s, was looking
about him to see what he was worth; and that he was calling in his
money at a good time, like the long-headed fellow he was; and bets were
even offered on the Stock Exchange that Jem was going to marry a rich
widow.
Yet these cares did not in the least interfere with Mr Carker’s
watching of his chief, or with his cleanness, neatness, sleekness, or
any cat-like quality he possessed. It was not so much that there was a
change in him, in reference to any of his habits, as that the whole man
was intensified. Everything that had been observable in him before, was
observable now, but with a greater amount of concentration. He did each
single thing, as if he did nothing else—a pretty certain indication in