Dombey and Son
same fierce beauty, only tamed by a sense of its own little worth, and
of the little worth of everything around it, went through the grand
saloons and halls, that had got loose among the shady trees, and raged
and rent themselves. The mimic roses on the walls and floors were set
round with sharp thorns, that tore her breast; in every scrap of gold
so dazzling to the eye, she saw some hateful atom of her
purchase-money; the broad high mirrors showed her, at full length, a
woman with a noble quality yet dwelling in her nature, who was too
false to her better self, and too debased and lost, to save herself.
She believed that all this was so plain, more or less, to all eyes,
that she had no resource or power of self-assertion but in pride: and
with this pride, which tortured her own heart night and day, she fought
her fate out, braved it, and defied it.
Was this the woman whom Florence—an innocent girl, strong only in her
earnestness and simple truth—could so impress and quell, that by her
side she was another creature, with her tempest of passion hushed, and
her very pride itself subdued? Was this the woman who now sat beside
her in a carriage, with her arms entwined, and who, while she courted
and entreated her to love and trust her, drew her fair head to nestle
on her breast, and would have laid down life to shield it from wrong or
harm?
Oh, Edith! it were well to die, indeed, at such a time! Better and
happier far, perhaps, to die so, Edith, than to live on to the end!
The Honourable Mrs Skewton, who was thinking of anything rather than of
such sentiments—for, like many genteel persons who have existed at
various times, she set her face against death altogether, and objected
to the mention of any such low and levelling upstart—had borrowed a
house in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, from a stately relative (one
of the Feenix brood), who was out of town, and who did not object to
lending it, in the handsomest manner, for nuptial purposes, as the loan
implied his final release and acquittance from all further loans and
gifts to Mrs Skewton and her daughter. It being necessary for the
credit of the family to make a handsome appearance at such a time, Mrs
Skewton, with the assistance of an accommodating tradesman resident in
the parish of Mary-le-bone, who lent out all sorts of articles to the
nobility and gentry, from a service of plate to an army of footmen,
clapped into this house a silver-headed butler (who was charged extra
on that account, as having the appearance of an ancient family
retainer), two very tall young men in livery, and a select staff of
kitchen-servants; so that a legend arose, downstairs, that Withers the
page, released at once from his numerous household duties, and from the
propulsion of the wheeled-chair (inconsistent with the metropolis), had
been several times observed to rub his eyes and pinch his limbs, as if
he misdoubted his having overslept himself at the Leamington milkman’s,
and being still in a celestial dream. A variety of requisites in plate
and china being also conveyed to the same establishment from the same
convenient source, with several miscellaneous articles, including a
neat chariot and a pair of bays, Mrs Skewton cushioned herself on the
principal sofa, in the Cleopatra attitude, and held her court in fair
state.
“And how,” said Mrs Skewton, on the entrance of her daughter and her
charge, “is my charming Florence? You must come and kiss me, Florence,
if you please, my love.”
Florence was timidly stooping to pick out a place in the white part of
Mrs Skewton’s face, when that lady presented her ear, and relieved her
of her difficulty.
“Edith, my dear,” said Mrs Skewton, “positively, I—stand a little more
in the light, my sweetest Florence, for a moment.”
Florence blushingly complied.
“You don’t remember, dearest Edith,” said her mother, “what you were
when you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious Florence,
or a few years younger?”
“I have long forgotten, mother.”
“For positively, my dear,” said Mrs Skewton, “I do think that I see a
decided resemblance to what you were then, in our extremely fascinating
young friend. And it shows,” said Mrs Skewton, in a lower voice, which
conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very unfinished state,
“what cultivation will do.”
“It does, indeed,” was Edith’s stern reply.
Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feeling herself on unsafe
ground, said, as a diversion:
“My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me once more, if you
please, my love.”
Florence complied, of course, and again imprinted her lips on Mrs
Skewton’s ear.
“And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet,” said Mrs Skewton,
detaining her hand, “that your Papa, whom we all perfectly adore and
dote upon, is to be married to my dearest Edith this day week.”
“I knew it would be very soon,” returned Florence, “but not exactly
when.”
“My darling Edith,” urged her mother, gaily, “is it possible you have
not told Florence?”
“Why should I tell Florence?” she returned, so suddenly and harshly,
that Florence could scarcely believe it was the same voice.
Mrs Skewton then told Florence, as another and safer diversion, that
her father was coming to dinner, and that he would no doubt be
charmingly surprised to see her; as he had spoken last night of
dressing in the City, and had known nothing of Edith’s design, the
execution of which, according to Mrs Skewton’s expectation, would throw
him into a perfect ecstasy. Florence was troubled to hear this; and her
distress became so keen, as the dinner-hour approached, that if she had
known how to frame an entreaty to be suffered to return home, without
involving her father in her explanation, she would have hurried back on
foot, bareheaded, breathless, and alone, rather than incur the risk of
meeting his displeasure.
As the time drew nearer, she could hardly breathe. She dared not
approach a window, lest he should see her from the street. She dared
not go upstairs to hide her emotion, lest, in passing out at the door,
she should meet him unexpectedly; besides which dread, she felt as
though she never could come back again if she were summoned to his
presence. In this conflict of fears; she was sitting by Cleopatra’s
couch, endeavouring to understand and to reply to the bald discourse of
that lady, when she heard his foot upon the stair.
“I hear him now!” cried Florence, starting. “He is coming!”
Cleopatra, who in her juvenility was always playfully disposed, and who
in her self-engrossment did not trouble herself about the nature of
this agitation, pushed Florence behind her couch, and dropped a shawl
over her, preparatory to giving Mr Dombey a rapture of surprise. It was
so quickly done, that in a moment Florence heard his awful step in the
room.
He saluted his intended mother-in-law, and his intended bride. The
strange sound of his voice thrilled through the whole frame of his
child.
“My dear Dombey,” said Cleopatra, “come here and tell me how your
pretty Florence is.”
“Florence is very well,” said Mr Dombey, advancing towards the couch.
“At home?”
“At home,” said Mr Dombey.
“My dear Dombey,” returned Cleopatra, with bewitching vivacity; “now
are you sure you are not deceiving me? I don’t know what my dearest
Edith will say to me when I make such a declaration, but upon my honour
I am afraid you are the falsest of men, my dear Dombey.”
Though he had been; and had been detected on the spot, in the most
enormous falsehood that was ever said or done; he could hardly have
been more disconcerted than he was, when Mrs Skewton plucked the shawl
away, and Florence, pale and trembling, rose before him like a ghost.
He had not yet recovered his presence of mind, when Florence had run up
to him, clasped her hands round his neck, kissed his face, and hurried
out of the room. He looked round as if to refer the matter to somebody
else, but Edith had gone after Florence, instantly.
“Now, confess, my dear Dombey,” said Mrs Skewton, giving him her hand,
“that you never were more surprised and pleased in your life.”
“I never was more surprised,” said Mr Dombey.
“Nor pleased, my dearest Dombey?” returned Mrs Skewton, holding up her
fan.
“I—yes, I am exceedingly glad to meet Florence here,” said Mr Dombey.
He appeared to consider gravely about it for a moment, and then said,
more decidedly, “Yes, I really am very glad indeed to meet Florence
here.”
“You wonder how she comes here?” said Mrs Skewton, “don’t you?”
“Edith, perhaps—” suggested Mr Dombey.
“Ah! wicked guesser!” replied Cleopatra, shaking her head. “Ah!
cunning, cunning man! One shouldn’t tell these things; your sex, my
dear Dombey, are so vain, and so apt to abuse our weakness; but you
know my open soul—very well; immediately.”
This was addressed to one of the very tall young men who announced
dinner.
“But Edith, my dear Dombey,” she continued in a whisper, “when she
cannot have you near her—and as I tell her, she cannot expect that
always—will at least have near her something or somebody belonging to
you. Well, how extremely natural that is! And in this spirit, nothing
would keep her from riding off today to fetch our darling Florence.
Well, how excessively charming that is!”
As she waited for an answer, Mr Dombey answered, “Eminently so.”
“Bless you, my dear Dombey, for that proof of heart!” cried Cleopatra,
squeezing his hand. “But I am growing too serious! Take me downstairs,
like an angel, and let us see what these people intend to give us for
dinner. Bless you, dear Dombey!”
Cleopatra skipping off her couch with tolerable briskness, after the
last benediction, Mr Dombey took her arm in his and led her
ceremoniously downstairs; one of the very tall young men on hire, whose
organ of veneration was imperfectly developed, thrusting his tongue
into his cheek, for the entertainment of the other very tall young man
on hire, as the couple turned into the dining-room.
Florence and Edith were already there, and sitting side by side.
Florence would have risen when her father entered, to resign her chair
to him; but Edith openly put her hand upon her arm, and Mr Dombey took
an opposite place at the round table.
The conversation was almost entirely sustained by Mrs Skewton. Florence
hardly dared to raise her eyes, lest they should reveal the traces of
tears; far less dared to speak; and Edith never uttered one word,
unless in answer to a question. Verily, Cleopatra worked hard, for the
establishment that was so nearly clutched; and verily it should have
been a rich one to reward her!
“And so your preparations are nearly finished at last, my dear Dombey?”
said Cleopatra, when the dessert was put upon the table, and the
silver-headed butler had withdrawn. “Even the lawyers” preparations!”
“Yes, madam,” replied Mr Dombey; “the deed of settlement, the
professional gentlemen inform me, is now ready, and as I was mentioning
to you, Edith has only to do us the favour to suggest her own time for
its execution.”
Edith sat like a handsome statue; as cold, as silent, and as still.
“My dearest love,” said Cleopatra, “do you hear what Mr Dombey says?
Ah, my dear Dombey!” aside to that gentleman, “how her absence, as the
time approaches, reminds me of the days, when that most agreeable of
creatures, her Papa, was in your situation!”
“I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you please,” said Edith,
scarcely looking over the table at Mr Dombey.
“To-morrow?” suggested Mr Dombey.
“If you please.”
“Or would next day,” said Mr Dombey, “suit your engagements better?”
“I have no engagements. I am always at your disposal. Let it be when
you like.”
“No engagements, my dear Edith!” remonstrated her mother, “when you are