Dombey and Son
returning hour. And I hope my friend Dombey will do me the favour to
consider me a man who has a devilish warm admiration of his character,
as, in point of fact, a British merchant and a devilish upright
gentleman. My place in the country is in a most confounded state of
dilapidation, but if my friend Dombey should require a change of air,
and would take up his quarters there, he would find it a remarkably
healthy spot—as it need be, for it’s amazingly dull. If my friend
Dombey suffers from bodily weakness, and would allow me to recommend
what has frequently done myself good, as a man who has been extremely
queer at times, and who lived pretty freely in the days when men lived
very freely, I should say, let it be in point of fact the yolk of an
egg, beat up with sugar and nutmeg, in a glass of sherry, and taken in
the morning with a slice of dry toast. Jackson, who kept the
boxing-rooms in Bond Street—man of very superior qualifications, with
whose reputation my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted—used to mention
that in training for the ring they substituted rum for sherry. I should
recommend sherry in this case, on account of my friend Dombey being in
an invalided condition; which might occasion rum to fly—in point of
fact to his head—and throw him into a devil of a state.”
Of all this, Cousin Feenix delivered himself with an obviously nervous
and discomposed air. Then, giving his arm to Florence, and putting the
strongest possible constraint upon his wilful legs, which seemed
determined to go out into the garden, he led her to the door, and
handed her into a carriage that was ready for her reception.
Walter entered after him, and they drove away.
Their ride was six or eight miles long. When they drove through certain
dull and stately streets, lying westward in London, it was growing
dusk. Florence had, by this time, put her hand in Walter’s; and was
looking very earnestly, and with increasing agitation, into every new
street into which they turned.
When the carriage stopped, at last, before that house in Brook Street,
where her father’s unhappy marriage had been celebrated, Florence said,
“Walter, what is this? Who is here?” Walter cheering her, and not
replying, she glanced up at the house-front, and saw that all the
windows were shut, as if it were uninhabited. Cousin Feenix had by this
time alighted, and was offering his hand.
“Are you not coming, Walter?”
“No, I will remain here. Don’t tremble there is nothing to fear,
dearest Florence.”
“I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am sure of that, but—”
The door was softly opened, without any knock, and Cousin Feenix led
her out of the summer evening air into the close dull house. More
sombre and brown than ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the
wedding-day, and to have hoarded darkness and sadness ever since.
Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling; and stopped, with her
conductor, at the drawing-room door. He opened it, without speaking,
and signed an entreaty to her to advance into the inner room, while he
remained there. Florence, after hesitating an instant, complied.
Sitting by the window at a table, where she seemed to have been writing
or drawing, was a lady, whose head, turned away towards the dying
light, was resting on her hand. Florence advancing, doubtfully, all at
once stood still, as if she had lost the power of motion. The lady
turned her head.
“Great Heaven!” she said, “what is this?”
“No, no!” cried Florence, shrinking back as she rose up and putting out
her hands to keep her off. “Mama!”
They stood looking at each other. Passion and pride had worn it, but it
was the face of Edith, and beautiful and stately yet. It was the face
of Florence, and through all the terrified avoidance it expressed,
there was pity in it, sorrow, a grateful tender memory. On each face,
wonder and fear were painted vividly; each so still and silent, looking
at the other over the black gulf of the irrevocable past.
Florence was the first to change. Bursting into tears, she said from
her full heart, “Oh, Mama, Mama! why do we meet like this? Why were you
ever kind to me when there was no one else, that we should meet like
this?”
Edith stood before her, dumb and motionless. Her eyes were fixed upon
her face.
“I dare not think of that,” said Florence, “I am come from Papa’s sick
bed. We are never asunder now; we never shall be” any more. If you
would have me ask his pardon, I will do it, Mama. I am almost sure he
will grant it now, if I ask him. May Heaven grant it to you, too, and
comfort you!”
She answered not a word.
“Walter—I am married to him, and we have a son,” said Florence,
timidly—“is at the door, and has brought me here. I will tell him that
you are repentant; that you are changed,” said Florence, looking
mournfully upon her; “and he will speak to Papa with me, I know. Is
there anything but this that I can do?”
Edith, breaking her silence, without moving eye or limb, answered
slowly:
“The stain upon your name, upon your husband’s, on your child’s. Will
that ever be forgiven, Florence?”
“Will it ever be, Mama? It is! Freely, freely, both by Walter and by
me. If that is any consolation to you, there is nothing that you may
believe more certainly. You do not—you do not,” faltered Florence,
“speak of Papa; but I am sure you wish that I should ask him for his
forgiveness. I am sure you do.”
She answered not a word.
“I will!” said Florence. “I will bring it you, if you will let me; and
then, perhaps, we may take leave of each other, more like what we used
to be to one another. I have not,” said Florence very gently, and
drawing nearer to her, “I have not shrunk back from you, Mama, because
I fear you, or because I dread to be disgraced by you. I only wish to
do my duty to Papa. I am very dear to him, and he is very dear to me.
But I never can forget that you were very good to me. Oh, pray to
Heaven,” cried Florence, falling on her bosom, “pray to Heaven, Mama,
to forgive you all this sin and shame, and to forgive me if I cannot
help doing this (if it is wrong), when I remember what you used to be!”
Edith, as if she fell beneath her touch, sunk down on her knees, and
caught her round the neck.
“Florence!” she cried. “My better angel! Before I am mad again, before
my stubbornness comes back and strikes me dumb, believe me, upon my
soul I am innocent!”
“Mama!”
“Guilty of much! Guilty of that which sets a waste between us evermore.
Guilty of what must separate me, through the whole remainder of my
life, from purity and innocence—from you, of all the earth. Guilty of a
blind and passionate resentment, of which I do not, cannot, will not,
even now, repent; but not guilty with that dead man. Before God!”
Upon her knees upon the ground, she held up both her hands, and swore
it.
“Florence!” she said, “purest and best of natures,—whom I love—who
might have changed me long ago, and did for a time work some change
even in the woman that I am,—believe me, I am innocent of that; and
once more, on my desolate heart, let me lay this dear head, for the
last time!”
She was moved and weeping. Had she been oftener thus in older days, she
had been happier now.
“There is nothing else in all the world,” she said, “that would have
wrung denial from me. No love, no hatred, no hope, no threat. I said
that I would die, and make no sign. I could have done so, and I would,
if we had never met, Florence.”
“I trust,” said Cousin Feenix, ambling in at the door, and speaking,
half in the room, and half out of it, “that my lovely and accomplished
relative will excuse my having, by a little stratagem, effected this
meeting. I cannot say that I was, at first, wholly incredulous as to
the possibility of my lovely and accomplished relative having, very
unfortunately, committed herself with the deceased person with white
teeth; because in point of fact, one does see, in this world—which is
remarkable for devilish strange arrangements, and for being decidedly
the most unintelligible thing within a man’s experience—very odd
conjunctions of that sort. But as I mentioned to my friend Dombey, I
could not admit the criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative
until it was perfectly established. And feeling, when the deceased
person was, in point of fact, destroyed in a devilish horrible manner,
that her position was a very painful one—and feeling besides that our
family had been a little to blame in not paying more attention to her,
and that we are a careless family—and also that my aunt, though a
devilish lively woman, had perhaps not been the very best of mothers—I
took the liberty of seeking her in France, and offering her such
protection as a man very much out at elbows could offer. Upon which
occasion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the honour to
express that she believed I was, in my way, a devilish good sort of
fellow; and that therefore she put herself under my protection. Which
in point of fact I understood to be a kind thing on the part of my
lovely and accomplished relative, as I am getting extremely shaky, and
have derived great comfort from her solicitude.”
Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a gesture with her hand
as if she would have begged him to say no more.
“My lovely and accomplished relative,” resumed Cousin Feenix, still
ambling about at the door, “will excuse me, if, for her satisfaction,
and my own, and that of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished
daughter we so much admire, I complete the thread of my observations.
She will remember that, from the first, she and I never alluded to the
subject of her elopement. My impression, certainly, has always been,
that there was a mystery in the affair which she could explain if so
inclined. But my lovely and accomplished relative being a devilish
resolute woman, I knew that she was not, in point of fact, to be
trifled with, and therefore did not involve myself in any discussions.
But, observing lately, that her accessible point did appear to be a
very strong description of tenderness for the daughter of my friend
Dombey, it occurred to me that if I could bring about a meeting,
unexpected on both sides, it might lead to beneficial results.
Therefore, we being in London, in the present private way, before going
to the South of Italy, there to establish ourselves, in point of fact,
until we go to our long homes, which is a devilish disagreeable
reflection for a man, I applied myself to the discovery of the
residence of my friend Gay—handsome man of an uncommonly frank
disposition, who is probably known to my lovely and accomplished
relative—and had the happiness of bringing his amiable wife to the
present place. And now,” said Cousin Feenix, with a real and genuine
earnestness shining through the levity of his manner and his slipshod
speech, “I do conjure my relative, not to stop half way, but to set
right, as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong—not for the
honour of her family, not for her own fame, not for any of those
considerations which unfortunate circumstances have induced her to
regard as hollow, and in point of fact, as approaching to humbug—but
because it is wrong, and not right.”
Cousin Feenix’s legs consented to take him away after this; and leaving
them alone together, he shut the door.
Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close
beside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.
“I debated with myself a long time,” she said in a low voice, “whether
to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and
feeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when
and how to destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.”
“Is it for Papa?” asked Florence.