Dombey and Son
“It is for whom you will,” she answered. “It is given to you, and is
obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.”
Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.
“Mama,” said Florence, “he has lost his fortune; he has been at the
point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I
shall say to him from you?”
“Did you tell me,” asked Edith, “that you were very dear to him?”
“Yes!” said Florence, in a thrilling voice.
“Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.”
“No more?” said Florence after a pause.
“Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done—not
yet—for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is
a changed man—-”
She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence’s hand
that stopped her.
“—But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. Tell
him I wish it never had been.”
“May I say,” said Florence, “that you grieved to hear of the
afflictions he has suffered?”
“Not,” she replied, “if they have taught him that his daughter is very
dear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if they have
brought that lesson, Florence.”
“You wish well to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you would!”
said Florence. “Oh! let me be able, if I have the occasion at some
future time, to say so?”
Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly before her, and did not
reply until Florence had repeated her entreaty; when she drew her hand
within her arm, and said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night
outside:
“Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to
compassionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him
that if, in his own present, he can find a reason to think less
bitterly of me, I asked him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to
one another, never more to meet on this side of eternity, he knows
there is one feeling in common between us now, that there never was
before.”
Her sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in her dark eyes.
“I trust myself to that,” she said, “for his better thoughts of me, and
mine of him. When he loves his Florence most, he will hate me least.
When he is most proud and happy in her and her children, he will be
most repentant of his own part in the dark vision of our married life.
At that time, I will be repentant too—let him know it then—and think
that when I thought so much of all the causes that had made me what I
was, I needed to have allowed more for the causes that had made him
what he was. I will try, then, to forgive him his share of blame. Let
him try to forgive me mine!”
“Oh Mama!” said Florence. “How it lightens my heart, even in such a
strange meeting and parting, to hear this!”
“Strange words in my own ears,” said Edith, “and foreign to the sound
of my own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I have
given him occasion to believe me, I think I could have said them still,
hearing that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, when
you are dearest, ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts
of me—that I am most forbearing in my thoughts of him! Those are the
last words I send him! Now, goodbye, my life!”
She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out all her woman’s
soul of love and tenderness at once.
“This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your head! My
own dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell!”
“To meet again!” cried Florence.
“Never again! Never again! When you leave me in this dark room, think
that you have left me in the grave. Remember only that I was once, and
that I loved you!”
And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but accompanied by her
embraces and caresses to the last.
Cousin Feenix met her at the door, and took her down to Walter in the
dingy dining room, upon whose shoulder she laid her head weeping.
“I am devilish sorry,” said Cousin Feenix, lifting his wristbands to
his eyes in the simplest manner possible, and without the least
concealment, “that the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend
Dombey and amiable wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive
nature so very much distressed and cut up by the interview which is
just concluded. But I hope and trust I have acted for the best, and
that my honourable friend Dombey will find his mind relieved by the
disclosures which have taken place. I exceedingly lament that my friend
Dombey should have got himself, in point of fact, into the devil’s own
state of conglomeration by an alliance with our family; but am strongly
of opinion that if it hadn’t been for the infernal scoundrel Barker—man
with white teeth—everything would have gone on pretty smoothly. In
regard to my relative who does me the honour to have formed an
uncommonly good opinion of myself, I can assure the amiable wife of my
friend Gay, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a father
to her. And in regard to the changes of human life, and the
extraordinary manner in which we are perpetually conducting ourselves,
all I can say is, with my friend Shakespeare—man who wasn’t for an age
but for all time, and with whom my friend Gay is no doubt
acquainted—that its like the shadow of a dream.”
CHAPTER LXII.
Final
A bottle that has been long excluded from the light of day, and is
hoary with dust and cobwebs, has been brought into the sunshine; and
the golden wine within it sheds a lustre on the table.
It is the last bottle of the old Madiera.
“You are quite right, Mr Gills,” says Mr Dombey. “This is a very rare
and most delicious wine.”
The Captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. There is a very halo
of delight round his glowing forehead.
“We always promised ourselves, Sir,” observes Mr Gills,” Ned and
myself, I mean—”
Mr Dombey nods at the Captain, who shines more and more with speechless
gratification.
“—that we would drink this, one day or other, to Walter safe at home:
though such a home we never thought of. If you don’t object to our old
whim, Sir, let us devote this first glass to Walter and his wife.”
“To Walter and his wife!” says Mr Dombey. “Florence, my child”—and
turns to kiss her.
“To Walter and his wife!” says Mr Toots.
“To Wal”r and his wife!” exclaims the Captain. “Hooroar!” and the
Captain exhibiting a strong desire to clink his glass against some
other glass, Mr Dombey, with a ready hand, holds out his. The others
follow; and there is a blithe and merry ringing, as of a little peal of
marriage bells.
Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did in its time; and
dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
Mr Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face bears heavy marks of
care and suffering; but they are traces of a storm that has passed on
for ever, and left a clear evening in its track.
Ambitious projects trouble him no more. His only pride is in his
daughter and her husband. He has a silent, thoughtful, quiet manner,
and is always with his daughter. Miss Tox is not infrequently of the
family party, and is quite devoted to it, and a great favourite. Her
admiration of her once stately patron is, and has been ever since the
morning of her shock in Princess’s Place, platonic, but not weakened in
the least.
Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his fortunes, but a
certain annual sum that comes he knows not how, with an earnest
entreaty that he will not seek to discover, and with the assurance that
it is a debt, and an act of reparation. He has consulted with his old
clerk about this, who is clear it may be honourably accepted, and has
no doubt it arises out of some forgotten transaction in the times of
the old House.
That hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is married now, and to
the sister of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief
sometimes, but seldom. There is a reason in the greyhaired Junior’s
history, and yet a stronger reason in his name, why he should keep
retired from his old employer; and as he lives with his sister and her
husband, they participate in that retirement. Walter sees them
sometimes—Florence too—and the pleasant house resounds with profound
duets arranged for the Piano-Forte and Violoncello, and with the
labours of Harmonious Blacksmiths.
And how goes the wooden Midshipman in these changed days? Why, here he
still is, right leg foremost, hard at work upon the hackney coaches,
and more on the alert than ever, being newly painted from his cocked
hat to his buckled shoes; and up above him, in golden characters, these
names shine refulgent, GILLS AND CUTTLE.
Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman achieve beyond his
usual easy trade. But they do say, in a circuit of some half-mile round
the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr Gills’s old
investments are coming out wonderfully well; and that instead of being
behind the time in those respects, as he supposed, he was, in truth, a
little before it, and had to wait the fulness of the time and the
design. The whisper is that Mr Gills’s money has begun to turn itself,
and that it is turning itself over and over pretty briskly. Certain it
is that, standing at his shop-door, in his coffee-coloured suit, with
his chronometer in his pocket, and his spectacles on his forehead, he
don’t appear to break his heart at customers not coming, but looks very
jovial and contented, though full as misty as of yore.
As to his partner, Captain Cuttle, there is a fiction of a business in
the Captain’s mind which is better than any reality. The Captain is as
satisfied of the Midshipman’s importance to the commerce and navigation
of the country, as he could possibly be, if no ship left the Port of
London without the Midshipman’s assistance. His delight in his own name
over the door, is inexhaustible. He crosses the street, twenty times a
day, to look at it from the other side of the way; and invariably says,
on these occasions, “Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, if your mother could ha’
know’d as you would ever be a man o’ science, the good old creetur
would ha’ been took aback in-deed!”
But here is Mr Toots descending on the Midshipman with violent
rapidity, and Mr Toots’s face is very red as he bursts into the little
parlour.
“Captain Gills,” says Mr Toots, “and Mr Sols, I am happy to inform you
that Mrs Toots has had an increase to her family.”
“And it does her credit!” cries the Captain.
“I give you joy, Mr Toots!” says old Sol.
“Thank’ee,” chuckles Mr Toots, “I’m very much obliged to you. I knew
that you’d be glad to hear, and so I came down myself. We’re positively
getting on, you know. There’s Florence, and Susan, and now here’s
another little stranger.”
“A female stranger?” inquires the Captain.
“Yes, Captain Gills,” says Mr Toots, “and I’m glad of it. The oftener
we can repeat that most extraordinary woman, my opinion is, the
better!”
“Stand by!” says the Captain, turning to the old case-bottle with no
throat—for it is evening, and the Midshipman’s usual moderate provision
of pipes and glasses is on the board. “Here’s to her, and may she have
ever so many more!”
“Thank’ee, Captain Gills,” says the delighted Mr Toots. “I echo the
sentiment. If you’ll allow me, as my so doing cannot be unpleasant to
anybody, under the circumstances, I think I’ll take a pipe.”
Mr Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the openness of his heart
is very loquacious.
“Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has given
of her excellent sense, Captain Gills and Mr Sols,” said Mr Toots, “I
think none is more remarkable than the perfection with which she has
understood my devotion to Miss Dombey.”
Both his auditors assent.
“Because you know,” says Mr Toots, “I have never changed my sentiments