 CHAPTER 29 THE OPENING OF THE EYES OF MISSES CHICK Miss Talks, all unconscious of any such rare appearances in connection with Mr. Dombie's house, as scaffoldings and ladders, and men with their heads tied up in pocket handkerchiefs, glaring in at the windows like flying genie or strange birds, having breakfasted one morning at about this eventful period of time on her customary vians, to it one French roll rasp, one egg new-laid, or warranted to be, and one little pot of tea wherein was infused one little silver scoopful of that herb on behalf of Miss Talks, and one little silver scoopful on behalf of the teapot, a flight of fancy in which good housekeepers delight, went upstairs to set forth the bird-waltz on the harpsichord, to water and arrange the plants, to dust the knick-knacks, and according to her daily custom, to make her little drawing-room the garland of princesses place. Miss Talks endued herself with a pair of ancient gloves like dead leaves, in which she was accustomed to perform these avocations, hidden from human sight at other times in a table drawer, and went methodically to work, beginning with the bird-waltz, passing by a natural association of ideas to her bird, a very high-shouldered canary stricken in years and much-rumpled, but a piercing singer as princesses place well-new, taking next in order the little china ornaments, paper fly cages, and so forth, and coming round in good time to the plants, which generally required to be snipped here and there with a pair of scissors, for some botanical reason that was very powerful to Miss Talks. Miss Talks was slow in coming to the plants this morning. The weather was warm, the wind southerly, and there was a sigh of the summertime in princesses place that turned Miss Talks's thoughts upon the country. The pot boy, attached to the princess's arms, had come out with a can and trickled water in a flowing pattern all over princesses place, and it gave the weedy ground a fresh scent, quite a growing scent, Miss Talks said. There was a tiny blink of sun peeping in from the great street round the corner, and the smoky sparrows hopped over it and back again, brightening as they passed, or bathed in it like a stream, and became glorified sparrows, unconnected with chimneys, legends in praise of ginger beer with pictorial representations of thirsty customers submerged in the effervescence, or stunned by the flying corks, were conspicuous in the window of the princess's arms. They were making late hay somewhere out of town, and though the fragrance had a long way to come, and many counter fragrances to contend with among the dwellings of the poor, may God reward the worthy gentlemen who stickle for the plague as part and parcel of the wisdom of our ancestors, and to do their little best to keep those dwellings miserable. Yet it was wafted faintly into princess's place, whispering of nature and her wholesome air, as such things will, even unto prisoners and captives, and those who are desolate and oppressed in very spite of alderman and knights to boot, at whose sage nod, and how they nod, the rolling world stands still. Miss Tox sat down upon the window seat and thought of her good papa deceased. Mr. Tox of the customs department and the public service, and of her childhood, passed at a seaport among a considerable quantity of cold tar, and some rusticity. She fell into a softened remembrance of meadows in old times, gleaming with butter cups, like so many inverted firmaments of golden stars, and how she had made chains of dandelion stalks, for youthful vowers of eternal constancy, dressed chiefly in nanking, and how soon those fetters had withered and broken. Sitting on the window seat and looking out upon the sparrows and the blink of sun, Miss Tox thought likewise of her good mama deceased, sister to the owner of the powdered head and pigtail, of her virtues and her rheumatism, and when a man with bulky legs and a rough voice and a heavy basket on his head that crushed his hat into a mere black muffin came crying flowers down Princess's place, making his timid little roots of Daisy's shudder in the vibration of every yell he gave, as though he had been an ogre hawking little children. Summer recollections were so strong upon Miss Tox that she shook her head and murmured she would be comparatively old before she knew it, which seemed likely. In her pensive mood, Mrs. Tox's thoughts went wandering on Mr. Dombie's track, probably because the major had returned home to his lodging's opposite, and had just bowed to her from his window. What other reason could Miss Tox have for connecting Mr. Dombie with her summer days and dandelion fetters? Was he more cheerful, thought Miss Tox? Was he reconciled to the decrees of fate? Would he ever marry again? And if yes, whom? What sort of person now? A flush it was warm weather overspread Miss Tox's face, as, while entertaining these meditations, she turned her head and was surprised by the reflection of her thoughtful image in the chimney glass. Another flush succeeded when she saw a little carriage drive into Princess's place and make straight for her own door. Miss Tox arose, took up her scissors hastily, and so coming, at last, to the plants, was very busy with them when Mrs. Chick entered the room. How is my sweetest friend? exclaimed Miss Tox with open arms. A little stateliness was mingled with Miss Tox's sweetest friends demeanor, but she kissed Miss Tox and said, Lucretia, thank you, I am pretty well, I hope you are the same, hem. Mrs. Chick was laboring under a peculiar little monosyllabic cough, a sort of primer, or easy introduction to the art of coughing. You call very early, and how kind that is, my dear, pursued Miss Tox. Now, have you breakfasted? Thank you, Lucretia, said Mrs. Chick, I have, I took an early breakfast. The good lady seemed curious on the subject of Princess's place, and looked all round it as she spoke, with my brother, who has come home. He is better, I trust my love, faltered Miss Tox. He is greatly better, thank you, hem. My dear Louisa, must be careful of that cough, remarked Miss Tox. It's nothing, returned Mrs. Chick, it's merely change of weather. We must expect change. Of weather? asked Miss Tox in her simplicity. Of everything, returned Mrs. Chick. Of course we must, it's a world of change. Anyone would surprise me very much, Lucretia, and would greatly alter my opinion of their understanding, if they attempted to contradict or evade what is so perfectly evident. Change, exclaimed Mrs. Chick, with severe philosophy. Why my gracious me, what is there that does not change, even the silkworm, who I am sure might be supposed not to trouble itself about such subjects, changes into all sorts of unexpected things continually. My Louisa, said the mild Miss Tox, is ever happy in her illustrations. You are so kind, Lucretia, returned Mrs. Chick, a little softened, as to say so, and to think so. I believe, I hope, neither of us may have any cause to lessen our opinion of the other, Lucretia. I am sure of it, returned Miss Tox. Mrs. Chick coughed as before, and drew lines on the carpet, with the ivory end of her parasol. Miss Tox, who had experience of her fair friend, and knew that under the pressure of any slight fatigue or vexation, she was prone to a discursive kind of irritability, availed herself of the pause to change the subject. Pardon me, my dear Louisa, said Miss Tox, but have I caught sight of the manly form of Mr. Chick in the carriage? He is there, said Mrs. Chick, but pray leave him there. He has his newspaper, and would be quite contented for the next two hours. Go on with your flowers, Lucretia, and allow me to sit here and rest. My Louisa knows, observed Miss Tox, that between friends like ourselves, any approach to ceremony would be out of the question. Therefore Miss Tox finished the sentence, not in words, but action, and putting on her gloves again, which she had taken off, and arming herself once more with her scissors, began to snip and clip among the leaves with microscopic industry. Florence has returned home, also, said Mrs. Chick, after sitting silent for some time, with her head on one side and her parasol sketching on the floor. And really Florence is a great deal too old now to continue to lead that solitary life to which she has been accustomed. Of course she is, there can be no doubt about it. I should have very little respect indeed for anybody who could advocate a different opinion. Whatever my wishes might be, I could not respect them. We cannot command our feelings to such an extent as that. Miss Tox assented without being particular as to the intelligibility of the proposition. If she's a strange girl, said Mrs. Chick, and if my brother Paul cannot feel perfectly comfortable in her society after all the sad things that have happened, and all the terrible disappointments that have been undergone, then what is the reply that he is bound to make an effort? We have always been a family remarkable for effort. Paul is at the head of the family, almost the only representative of it left. For what am I? I am of no consequence. My dearest love, remonstrated Miss Tox. Mrs. Chick dried her eyes, which were, for the moment, overflowing and preceded, and consequently he is more than ever bound to make an effort. And though his having done so comes upon me with a sort of shock, for mine is a very weak and foolish nature, which is anything but a blessing, I am sure. I often wish my heart was a marble slab or a paving-stone. My sweet Louisa! remonstrated Miss Tox again. Still it is a triumph to me to know that he is so true to himself, and to his name of Dombie, although of course I always knew he would be. I only hope, said Mrs. Chick after a pause, that she may be worthy of the name too. Miss Tox filled a little green watering pot from a jug, and happening to look up when she had done so was so surprised by the amount of expression Mrs. Chick had conveyed into her face, and was bestowing upon her that she put the little watering pot on the table for the present and sat down near it. My dear Louisa! said Miss Tox. It will be the least satisfaction to you if I venture to observe in reference to that remark that I, as a humble individual, think your sweet niece in every way most promising. What do you mean, Lucretia? returned Mrs. Chick with increased statelyness of manner. To what remark of mine, my dear, do you refer? Her being worthy of her name, my love, replied Miss Tox. If, said Mrs. Chick with solemn patience, I have not expressed myself with clearness, Lucretia, the fault of course is mine. There is perhaps no reason why I should express myself at all, except the intimacy that has subsisted between us, and which I very much hope, Lucretia, confidently hope, nothing will occur to disturb, because why should I do anything else? There is no reason. It would be absurd, but I wish to express myself clearly, Lucretia, and therefore to go back to that remark I must beg to say that it was not intended to relate to Florence in any way. Indeed, returned Miss Tox. Pardon me, my dear, rejoined her meek friend, but I cannot have understood it. I fear I am dull. Mrs. Chick, look round the room, and over the way, at the plants, at the bird, at the watering pot, at almost everything within view except Miss Tox. And finally, dropping her glance upon Miss Tox for a moment, on its way to the ground, said, looking, meanwhile, with elevated eyebrows at the carpet. When I speak, Lucretia, of her being worthy of the name, I speak of my brother, Paul's second wife. I believe I have already said, in effect, if not in the very words I now use, that it is his intention to marry a second wife. Miss Tox left her seat in a hurry, and returned to her plants, clipping among the stems and leaves, with as little favor as a barber working at so many pauper heads of hair. Whether she will be fully sensible of the distinction conferred upon her, said Mrs. Chick in a lofty tone, is quite another question. I hope she may be. We are bound to think well of one another in this world, and I hope she may be. I have not been advised with myself. If I had been advised with, I have no doubt my advice would have been cavalierly received, and therefore it is infinitely better as it is. I much prefer it as it is. Miss Tox, with head bent down, still clipped among the plants. Mrs. Chick, with energetic shaking of her own head from time to time, continued to hold forth as if in defiance of somebody. If my brother Paul had consulted with me, which he sometimes does, or rather sometimes used to do, for he will naturally do that no more now, this is a circumstance which I regard as relief from responsibility, said Mrs. Chick hysterically. For I thank heaven I am not jealous. Here Mrs. Chick again shed tears. If my brother Paul had come to me and had said, Louisa, what kind of qualities would you advise me to look out for in a wife? I should certainly have answered, Paul, you must have family, you must have beauty, you must have dignity, you must have connection. Those other words I should have used. You might have led me to the block immediately afterwards, said Mrs. Chick, as if that consequence were highly probable. But I should have used them. I should have said, Paul, you to marry a second time without family, you to marry without beauty, you to marry without dignity, you to marry without connection. There is nobody in the world, not mad, who could dream of daring to entertain such a preposterous idea. Miss Tox stopped clipping, and with her head among the plants, listened attentively. Perhaps Miss Tox thought there was hope in this exordium, and the warmth of Mrs. Chick. I should have adopted this course of argument, pursued the discreet lady, because I trust I am not a fool. I make no claim to be considered a person of superior intellect, though I believe some people have been extraordinary enough to consider me so. One so little-humored as I am would very soon be disabused of any such notion, but I trust I am not a downright fool. And to tell me, said Mrs. Chick, with ineffable disdain, that my brother Paul Dombie could ever contemplate the possibility of uniting himself to anybody. I don't care who. She was more sharp and emphatic in that short clause than in any other part of her discourse, not possessing these requisites would be to insult what understanding I have got, as much as if I was to be told that I was born in bread and elephant, which I may be told next, said Mrs. Chick, with resignation. It wouldn't surprise me at all. I expect it. In the moment's silence that ensued, Mrs. Tox's scissors gave a feeble clip or two, but Mrs. Tox's face was still invisible, and Mrs. Tox's morning gown was agitated. Mrs. Chick looked sideways at her, through the intervening plants, and went on to say, in a tone of bland conviction, that as one dwelling on a point of fact that hardly required to be stated. Therefore, of course, my brother Paul has done what was to be expected of him, and what anybody might have foreseen he would do, if he entered the marriage state again. I confess it takes me rather by surprise, however gratifying, because when Paul went out of town I had no idea at all that he would form any attachment out of town, and he certainly had no attachment when he left here. However, it seems to be extremely desirable in every point of view. I have no doubt the mother is a most genteel and elegant creature, and I have no right, whatever, to dispute the policy of her living with them, which is Paul's affair, not mine. And, as to Paul's choice herself, I have only seen her picture yet, but that is beautiful indeed. Her name is beautiful too, said Mrs. Chick, shaking her head, with energy, and arranging herself in her chair. Edith is at once uncommon, as it strikes me, and distinguished. Consequently, Lucretia, I have no doubt you will be happy to hear that the marriage is to take place immediately. Of course you will, great emphasis again, and that you are delighted with this change in the condition of my brother, who has shown you a great deal of pleasant attention at various times. Miss Tox made no verbal answer, but took up the little watering pot with a trembling hand, and looked vacantly round as if considering what article of furniture would be improved by the contents. The room door opening at this crisis of Miss Tox's feelings, she started, laughed aloud, and fell into the arms of the person entering happily, insensible alike of Mrs. Chick's indignant countenance and of the major at his window over the way, who had his double-barreled eyeglass in full action, and whose face and figure were dilated with Mephistophilion joy. Not so the expatriated native, amazed supporter of Mrs. Tox's swooning form, who, coming straight up upstairs, with a polite inquiry touching Mrs. Tox's health, in exact pursuance of the major's malicious instructions, had accidentally arrived in the very nick of time to catch the delicate burden in his arms, and to receive the contents of the little watering pot in his shoe, both of which circumstances coupled with his consciousness of being closely watched by the wrathful major, who had threatened the usual penalty in regard to every bone in his skin in case of any failure, combined to render him a moving spectacle of mental and bodily distress. For some moments this afflicted foreigner remained clasping Mrs. Tox to his heart with an energy of action in remarkable opposition to his disconcerted face, while that poor lady trickled slowly down upon him the very last sprinklings of the little watering pot as if he were a delicate exotic, which indeed he was, and might be almost expected to blow while the gentle rain descended. Mrs. Chick, at length recovering, sufficient presence of mind to interpose, commanded him to drop Mrs. Tox upon the sofa and withdraw, and the exile promptly obeying she applied herself to promote Mrs. Tox's recovery. But none of that gentle concern, which usually characterizes the daughters of Eve in their tending of each other, none of that freemasonry in fainting by which they are generally bound together in a mysterious bond of sisterhood, was visible in Mrs. Chick's demeanor. Rather like the executioner who restores the victim to sensation previous to proceeding with the torture, or was want to do so in the good old times, for which all true men wear perpetual mourning, did Mrs. Chick administer the smelling bottle, the slapping of the hands, the dashing of cold water on the face, and other proved remedies. And when, at length, Mrs. Tox opened her eyes and gradually became restored to animation and consciousness, Mrs. Chick drew off as from a criminal, and reversing the precedent of the murdered king of Denmark, regarded her more in anger than in sorrow. Lucretia, said Mrs. Chick, I will not attempt to disguise what I feel. My eyes are opened all at once. I wouldn't have believed this if a saint had told it to me. I am foolish to give way to faintness, Mrs. Tox faltered. I shall be better presently. You will be better presently, Lucretia, repeated Mrs. Chick, with exceeding scorn. Do you suppose I am blind? Do you imagine I am in my second childhood? No, Lucretia, I am obliged to you. Miss Tox directed an imploring, helpless kind of look toward her friend and put her handkerchief before her face. If anyone had told me this yesterday, said Mrs. Chick, with majesty, or even half an hour ago, I should have been tempted, I almost believed, to strike them to the earth. Lucretia Tox, my eyes are opened to you all at once. The scales, here Mrs. Chick cast down an imaginary pair, such as are commonly used in grocers shops, have fallen from my sight. The blindness of my confidence is past, Lucretia. It has been abused and played upon, and evasion is quite out of the question now, I assure you. Oh! To what do you allude so cruelly, my love, asked Miss Tox through her tears. Lucretia, said Mrs. Chick, ask your own heart. I must entreat you not to address me by any such familiar term as you have just used. If you please, I have some self-respect left, though you may think otherwise. Oh, Louisa! cried Miss Tox. How can you speak to me like that? How can I speak to you like that? Retorted Mrs. Chick, who, in default of having any particular argument to sustain herself upon, replied principally on such repetitions for her most withering effects. Like that? You may well say like that indeed. Miss Tox sobbed pitifully. The idea, said Mrs. Chick, of your having basked at my brother's fireside, like a serpent, and wound yourself through me almost into his confidence, Lucretia, that you might in secret entertain designs upon him and dare to aspire to contemplate the possibility of his uniting himself to you? Why, it is an idea, said Mrs. Chick, with sarcastic dignity, the absurdity of which almost relieves its treachery. Pray, Louisa, urged Miss Tox, do not say such dreadful things. Dreadful things, repeated Mrs. Chick, dreadful things! Is it not a fact, Lucretia, that you have just now been unable to command your feelings even before me, whose eyes you had so completely closed? I have made no complaint, sobbed Miss Tox. I have said nothing if I have been a little overpowered by your news, Louisa, and have ever had any lingering thought that Mr. Domby was inclined to be particular towards me. Surely you will not condemn me! She is going to say, said Mrs. Chick, addressing herself to the whole of the furniture in a comprehensive glance of resignation and appeal. She is going to say, I know it, that I have encouraged her. I don't wish to exchange reproaches, dear Louisa, sob Miss Tox, nor do I wish to complain, but in my own defense. Yes, cried Mrs. Chick, looking round the room with a prophetic smile. That's what she's going to say. I knew it. You had better say it. Say it openly. Be open, Lucretia Tox, said Mrs. Chick, with desperate sternness, whatever you are. In my own defense, faltered Miss Tox, and only in my own defense against your unkind words, my dear Louisa, I would merely ask you if you haven't often favored such a fancy, and even said it might happen, for anything we could tell. There is a point, said Mrs. Chick, rising, not as if she were going to stop at the floor, but as if she were about to soar up high into her native skies, beyond which endurance becomes ridiculous, if not culpable. I can bear much, but not too much. What spell was on me when I came into this house today? I don't know. But I had a pre-sentiment, a dark pre-sentiment, said Mrs. Chick, with a shiver, that something was going to happen. Well, may I have had that foreboding, Lucretia, when my confidence of many years is destroyed in an instant, when my eyes are opened all at once, and when I find you revealed in your true colors, Lucretia. I have been mistaken in you. It is better for us both that this subject should end here. I wish you well, and I shall ever wish you well. But as an individual who desires to be true to herself in her own poor position, whatever that position may be or may not be, and as the sister of my brother, and as the sister-in-law of my brother's wife, and as a connection by marriage to my brother's wife's mother, may I be permitted to add, as a domby, I can wish you nothing else but good morning. These words, delivered with cutting suavity, tempered and chastened by a lofty air of moral rectitude, carried the speaker to the door. There she inclined her head in a ghostly and statue-like manner, and so withdrew to her carriage to seek comfort and consolation in the arms of Mr. Chick, her lord. Figuratively speaking, that is to say, for the arms of Mr. Chick were full of his newspaper. Neither did that gentleman address his eyes towards his wife, otherwise than by stealth. Neither did he offer any consolation whatever. In short he sat reading and humming fag ends of tunes, and sometimes glancing furtively at her without delivering himself of a word good, bad or indifferent. In the meantime Mrs. Chick was swelling and bridling and tossing her head as if she were still repeating that solemn formula of farewell to Lucretia Talks. At length she said aloud, O the extent to which her eyes had been opened that day, to which your eyes have been opened, my dear, repeated Mr. Chick, O don't talk to me, said Mrs. Chick, if you can bear to see me in this state and not to ask me what the matter is, you had better hold your tongue for ever. What is the matter, my dear, asked Mr. Chick, to think, said Mrs. Chick, in a state of soliloquy, that she should ever have conceived the base idea of connecting herself with our family by marrying with Paul, to think that when she was playing at horses with that dear child, who is now in his grave, I never liked it at the time. She should have been hiding such a double-faced design. I wonder she was never afraid that something would happen to her. She is fortunate if nothing does. I really thought, my dear, said Mr. Chick, slowly, after rubbing the bridge of his nose for some time with his newspaper, that you had gone on the same tack yourself all along, until this morning, and had thought it would be a convenient thing enough if it could have been brought about. Mrs. Chick instantly burst into tears and told Mr. Chick that if he wished to trample upon her with his boots he had better do it. But with Lucretia talks I have done, said Mrs. Chick, after abandoning herself to her feeling for some minutes to Mr. Chick's great terror. I can bear to resign Paul's confidence in favor of one who, I hope and trust, may be deserving of it, and with whom he has a perfect right to replace poor Fanny if he chooses. I can bear to be informed in Paul's cool manner of such a change in his plans, and never to be consulted until all is settled and determined. But deceit I cannot bear, and with Lucretia talks I have done. It is better as it is, said Mrs. Chick piously, much better. It would have been a long time before I could have accommodated myself comfortably with her after this. And I really don't know, as Paul is going to be very grand, and there are people of condition that she would have been quite presentable and might not have compromised myself. There's a providence in everything. Everything works for the best. I have been tried today, but upon the whole I don't regret it. In which Christian spirit Mrs. Chick dried her tears and smoothed her lap and sat as became a person calm under a great wrong. Mr. Chick, feeling his unworthiness, no doubt, took an early opportunity of being set down at a street corner and walking away whistling with his shoulders very much raised and his hands in his pockets. While poor ex-communicated Miss Tox, who, if she were a fauner and toad-eater, was at least an honest and a constant one, and had never borne a faithful friendship toward her impeacher, and had been truly absorbed and swallowed up in devotion to the magnificence of Mr. Dombie, while poor ex-communicated Miss Tox watered her plants with her tears, and felt that it was winter in Princess's place. CHAPTER 30 THE INTERVAL BEFORE THE MARRIAGE Although the enchanted house was no more, and the working world had broken into it, and was hammering and crashing and tramping up and down stairs all day long, keeping diogenes in an incessant paroxysm of barking from sunrise to sunset, evidently convinced that his enemy had got the better of him at last, and was then sacking the premises in triumphant defiance. There was, at first, no other great change in the method of Florence's life. At night, when the work-people went away, the house was dreary and deserted again, and Florence, listening to their voices echoing through the hall and staircase as they departed, pictured to herself the cheerful homes to which they were returning, and the children who were waiting for them, and was so glad to think that they were merry and well pleased to go. She welcomed back the evening silence as an old friend, but it came now with an altered face and looked more kindly on her. Fresh hope was in it. The beautiful lady who had soothed and caressed her in the very room in which her heart had been so rung was a spirit of promise to her. Soft shadows of the bright life dawning, when her father's affection should be gradually won, and all or much should be restored of what she had lost on the dark day when a mother's love had faded with a mother's last breath, on her cheek moved about her in the twilight and were welcome company. Peeping at the rosy children, her neighbors, it was a new and precious sensation to think that they might soon speak together and know each other, when she would not fear, as of old, to show herself before them, lest they should be grieved to see her in her black dress sitting there alone. In her thoughts of her new mother, and in the love and trust overflowing her pure heart towards her, Florence loved her own dear mother more and more. She had no fear of setting up a rival in her breast. The new flower sprang from the deep-planted and long cherished root she knew. Every gentle word that had fallen from the lips of the beautiful lady sounded to Florence like an echo of the voice long hushed and silent. How could she love that memory less for living tenderness when it was her memory of all parental tenderness and love? Florence was, one day, sitting reading in her room and thinking of the lady and her promised visit soon, for her book turned on a kindred subject. When, raising her eyes, she saw her standing in the doorway. Mama, cried Florence, joyfully meeting her, come again. Not Mama yet returned the lady with a serious smile as she encircled Florence's neck with her arm. But very soon to be, cried Florence. Very soon now, Florence, very soon. Edith bent her head a little, so as to press the blooming cheek of Florence against her own, and for some few moments remained thus silent. There was something so very tender in her manner that Florence was even more sensible of it than on the first occasion of their meeting. She led Florence to a chair beside her and sat down. Florence, looking in her face, quite wondering at its beauty and willingly leaving her hand in hers. Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here last? Oh, yes, smiled Florence hastily. She hesitated and cast down her eyes, for her new mama was very earnest in her look, and the look was intently and thoughtfully fixed upon her face. I—I am used to be alone, said Florence. I don't mind it at all. Die and I pass whole days together sometimes. Florence might have said whole weeks and months. Is die your maid love? My dog Mama, said Florence, laughing. Susan is my maid. And these are your rooms? said Edith, looking round. I was not shown these rooms the other day. We must have them improved, Florence. They shall be made the prettiest in the house. If I might change them, Mama, returned Florence. There is one upstairs I should like much better. Is this not high enough, dear girl? said Edith, smiling. The other was my brother's room, said Florence, and I am very fond of it. I would have spoken to Papa about it when I came home, and found the workmen here, and everything changing, but Florence dropped her eyes, less the same look should make her falter again. But I was afraid it might distress him, and, as you said, you would be here again soon, Mama, and are the mistress of everything, I determined to take courage and ask you. Edith sat looking at her, with her brilliant eyes intent upon her face, until Florence, raising her own, she, in her turn, withdrew her gaze and turned it on the ground. It was then that Florence thought how different this lady's beauty was from what she had supposed. She had thought it of a proud and lofty kind, yet her manner was so subdued and gentle that, if she had been of Florence's own age and character, it scarcely could have invited confidence more. Except when a constrained and singular reserve crept over her, and then she seemed, but Florence hardly understood this, though she could not choose but notice it and think about it, as if she were humbled before Florence, and ill at ease. When she had said that she was not her mama yet, and when Florence had called her the mistress of everything, there this change in her was quick and startling, and now, while the eyes of Florence rested on her face, she sat as though she would have shrunk and hidden from her, rather than as one about to love and cherish her, in right of such a near connection. She gave Florence her ready promise about her new room, and said she would give directions about it herself. She then asked some questions concerning poor Paul, and when they had sat in conversation for some time, told Florence she had come to take her to her own home. We have come to London now, my mother and I, said Edith, and you shall stay with us until I am married. I wish that we should know and trust each other, Florence. You are very kind to me, said Florence, dear mama. How much I thank you. Let me say now, for it may be the best opportunity considered Edith, looking round to see that they were quite alone and speaking in a lower voice, that when I am married and have gone away for some weeks I shall be easier at heart if you will come home here. No matter who invites you to stay elsewhere, come home here. It is better to be alone than what would I say is, she added, checking herself, that I know well you are best at home, dear Florence. I will come home on the very day, mama. Do so. I rely on that promise. Now prepare to come with me, dear girl. You will find me downstairs when you are ready. Slowly and thoughtfully did Edith wander alone through the mansion of which she was so soon to be the lady, and little he took she of all the elegance and splendor it began to display. The same indomitable haughtiness of soul, the same proud scorn expressed in eye and lip, the 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 the 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 had treated 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. Skeuton, who is thinking of anything rather than of such sentiments, for like many gentile persons who have existed at various times, she set her face against death altogether and objected to the mention of any such low and leveling upstart. Had borrowed a house in Brook Street, Grovener Square, from a stately relative, one of the Phoenix 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. Skeuton and her daughter. It being necessary for the credit of the family to make a handsome appearance at such time, Mrs. Skeuton, with the assistance of an accommodating tradesman resident in the parish of Mary LeBone, 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 wheelchair 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 milkmans 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. Skeuton cushioned herself on the principal sofa in the Cleopatra attitude and held her court in a fair state. And how, said Mrs. Skeuton 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. Skeuton's face when that lady presented her ear and relieved her of her difficulty. Edith, my dear, said Mrs. Skeuton positively. I stand a little more in the light, my dear 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. Skeuton, 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. Skeuton, 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. Skeuton's ear. And you have heard no doubt, my darling pet, said Mrs. Skeuton, detaining her hand, that your papa, whom we all perfectly adore and dot 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 hardly believe it was the same voice? Mrs. Skeuton 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. Skeuton'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 entry to be suffered to return home without involving her father in her explanation, she would have hurried back on foot, bare-headed, 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, endeavoring 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. Dombie 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 the child. My dear Dombie, said Cleopatra, come here and tell me how your pretty Florence is. Florence is very well, said Mr. Dombie, advancing toward the couch. At home? At home, said Mr. Dombie. My dear Dombie 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 Dombie. 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. Scuton 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 Dombie, said Mrs. Scuton, giving him her hand, that you never were more surprised and pleased in your life. I never was more surprised, said Mr. Dombie. Nor pleased, my dearest Dombie, returned Mrs. Scuton, holding up her fan. Ah, yes, I am exceedingly glad to meet Florence here, said Mr. Dombie. 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. Scuton, don't you? Edith, perhaps, suggested Mr. Dombie. Ah, wicked guesser, replied Cleopatra, shaking her head. Ah, cunning, cunning man, one shouldn't tell these things. Your sex, my dear Dombie, are so vain and so apt to abuse our weaknesses. But you know my open soul very well immediately. This was addressed to one of the very tall men who announced dinner. But Edith, my dear Dombie, 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 to day to fetch our darling Florence. Well, how excessively charming that is! As she waited for an answer, Mr. Dombie answered, eminently so. Bless you, my dear Dombie, 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 Dombie. Cleopatra, skipping off her couch, with tolerable briskness, after the last benediction, Mr. Dombie 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. Dombie took an opposite place at the round table. The conversation was almost entirely sustained by Mrs. Scuton. 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 Dombie, said Cleopatra, when the dessert was put upon the table, and the silver-headed butler had withdrawn, even the lawyer's preparations. Yes, madam, replied Mr. Dombie, the deed of settlement, the professional gentleman informed me, is now ready. And, as I was mentioning to you, Edith has only to do the favor 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. Dombie says? Ah, my dear Dombie, aside to that gentleman, how her absence, as the time approaches, reminds me of the day when the 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. Dombie. Tomorrow, suggested Mr. Dombie, if you please, or would the next day, said Mr. Dombie, 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 in a most terrible state of flurry all day long, and have a thousand and one appointments with all sorts of tradespeople. They are of your making, returned Edith, turning on her with a slight contraction of her brow. You and Mr. Dombie can arrange between you. Very true indeed, my love, and most considerate of you, said Cleopatra. My darling Florence, you must really come and kiss me once more, if you please, my dear. Singular coincidence that these gushes of interest in Florence hurried Cleopatra away from almost every dialogue in which Edith had a share, however trifling. Florence had certainly never undergone so much embracing, and perhaps had never been unconsciously so useful in her life. Mr. Dombie was far from quarreling in his own breast with the manner of his beautiful betrothed. He had that good reason for sympathy with haughtiness and coldness, which is found in a fellow feeling. It flattered him to think how these deferred to him in Edith's case, and seemed to have no will apart from his. It flattered him to picture to himself this proud and stately woman doing the honors of his house and chilling his guests after his own manner. The dignity of Dombie and Son would be heightened and maintained indeed in such hands. So thought Mr. Dombie when he was left alone at the dining table, and mused upon his past and future fortunes, finding no uncongeniality in an air of scant and gloomy state that pervaded the room, in color a dark brown with black hatchments of pictures blotching the walls and twenty-four black chairs, with almost as many nails in them as so many coffins waiting like mutes upon the threshold of the turkey carpet, and two exhausted negroes holding up two withered branches of candelabra on the sideboard, and a musty smell prevailing as if the ashes of ten thousand dinners were entombed in the sarcophagus below it. The owner of the house lived much abroad. The air of England seldom agreed long with a member of the Phoenix family, and the room had gradually put itself into deeper and still deeper mourning for him, until it was become so funeral as to want nothing but a body in it to be quite complete. No bad representation of the body for the nonce in his unbending form, if not in his attitude, Mr. Dombie looked down into the cold depths of the Dead Sea of Mahogany on which the fruitishes and decanters lay at anchor, as if the subjects of his thoughts were rising towards the surface one by one and plunging down again. Edith was there in all her majesty of brow and figure, and close to her came Florence, with her timid head turned to him as it had been for an instant when she left the room, and Edith's eyes upon her and Edith's hand put out protectingly. A little figure in a low armchair came springing next into the light and looked upon him wonderingly, with its bright eyes and its old young face gleaming as in the flickering of an evening fire. Again came Florence close upon it and absorbed his whole attention, whether as a fordome difficulty and disappointment to him, whether as a rival who had crossed him in his way and might again, whether as his child of whom in his successful wooing he could stoop to think as claiming at such a time to be no more estranged, or whether as a hint to him that the mere appearance of caring for his own blood should be maintained in his new relations he best knew. Indifferently well perhaps at best, for marriage company and marriage alters and ambitious scenes still blotted here and there with Florence, always Florence turned up so fast and so confusedly that he rose and went upstairs to escape them. It was quite late at night before candles were brought, for at present they made Mrs. Scuton's headache. She complained and in the meantime Florence and Mrs. Scuton talked together, Cleopatra being very anxious to keep her close to herself, or Florence touched the piano softly for Mrs. Scuton's delight to make no mention of a few occasions in the course of the evening when that affectionate lady was impelled to solicit another kiss and which always happened after Edith had said anything. They were not many, however, for Edith sat apart by an open window during the whole time in spite of her mother's fears that she would take cold and remain there until Mr. Dombie took leave. He was serenely gracious to Florence when he did so, and Florence went to bed in a room within Edith's so happy and hopeful that she thought of her late self as if it were some other poor deserted girl who was to be pitied for her sorrow, and in her pity sobbed herself to sleep. The week fled fast. There were drivers to milliners, dressmakers, jewelers, lawyers, florists, pastry cooks, and Florence was always of the party. Florence was to go to the wedding. Florence was to cast off her morning and to wear a brilliant dress on the occasion. The milliner's intentions on the subject of this dress, the milliner was a French woman, and greatly resembled Mrs. Scuton, were so chaste and elegant that Mrs. Scuton bespoke one like it for herself. The milliner said it would become her to admiration and that all the world would take her for the young lady's sister. The week fled faster, and Edith looked at nothing and cared for nothing. Her rich dresses came home and were tried on, and were loudly commended by Mrs. Scuton and the milliners, and were put away without a word from her. Mrs. Scuton made their plans for every day and executed them. Sometimes Edith sat in the carriage when they went to make purchases. Sometimes, when it was absolutely necessary, she went into the shops. But Mrs. Scuton conducted the whole business, whatever it happened to be, and Edith looked on as uninterested and with as much apparent indifference as if she had no concern in it. Florence might perhaps have thought she was haughty and listless, but that she was never so to her. So Florence quenched her wonder in her gratitude whenever it broke out and soon subdued it. The week fled faster. It had nearly winged its flight away. The last night of the week the night before the marriage was come. In the dark room, for Mrs. Scuton's head was no better yet, though she expected to recover permanently. Tomorrow were that lady Edith and Mr. Dombie. Edith was at her open window, looking out into the street. Mr. Dombie and Cleopatra were talking softly on the sofa. It was growing late, and Florence, being fatigued, had gone to bed. My dear Dombie, said Cleopatra, you will leave me Florence tomorrow when you deprive me of my own sweetest Edith. Mr. Dombie said he would with pleasure. To have her about me here while you are both at Paris and to think that at her age I am assisting in the formation of her mind, my dear Dombie, said Cleopatra, will be a perfect bomb to me in the extremely shattered state to which I shall be reduced. Edith turned her head suddenly. Her listless manner was exchanged in a moment to one of burning interest and unseen in the darkness she attended closely to their conversation. Mr. Dombie would be delighted to leave Florence in such admirable guardianship. My dear Dombie, returned Cleopatra, a thousand thanks for your good opinion. I feared you were going with Malice a forethought, as the dreadful lawyers say, those horrid prozes, to condemn me to utter solitude. Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam, said Mr. Dombie? Because my charming Florence tells me so positively she must go home tomorrow, returned Cleopatra, that I began to be afraid, my dearest Dombie, you were quite a basher. I assure you, madam, said Mr. Dombie, I have laid no commands on Florence, and if I had there are no commands like your wish. My dear Dombie, replied Cleopatra, what a courtier you are, though I'll not say so either, for courtiers have no heart, and yours pervades your charming life and character. And are you really going so early, my dear Dombie? Oh, indeed it was late, and Mr. Dombie feared he must. Is this a fact, or is it all a dream, lisp, Cleopatra? Can I believe, my dearest Dombie, that you are coming back tomorrow to deprive me of my sweet companion, my own Edith? Mr. Dombie, who was accustomed to take things literally, reminded Mrs. Scuton that they were to meet first at the church. The pang, said Mrs. Scuton, of consigning a child. Even to you, my dear Dombie, is one of the most excruciating imaginable, and combined with a naturally delicate constitution, and the extreme stupidity of the pastry cook who has undertaken the breakfast, is almost too much for my poor strength. But I shall rally, my dear Dombie, in the morning. Do not fear for me, or be uneasy on my account. Heaven bless you, my dearest Edith, she cried, archly. Somebody is going, Pet. Edith, who had turned her head again towards the window, and whose interest in their conversation had ceased, rose up in her place, but made no advance toward him, and said nothing. Mr. Dombie, with a lofty gallantry adapted to his dignity, and the occasion, but took his creaking boots towards her, put her hand to his lips, and said, Tomorrow morning I shall have the happiness of claiming this hand as Mrs. Dombie's, and bowed himself solemnly out. Mrs. Scuton rang for candles as soon as the house door had closed upon him. With the candles appeared her maid, with the juvenile dress that was to delude the world tomorrow. The dress had savage retribution in it, as such dresses ever have, and made her infinitely older and more hideous than her greasy flannel gown. But Mrs. Scuton tried it on with mincing satisfaction, smirked at her cadaverous self in the glass, and as she thought of its killing effect upon the major, and suffering her maid to take it off again, and to prepare her for repose, tumbled into ruins like a house of painted cards. All this time Edith remained at the dark window, looking out into the street. When she and her mother were at last left alone, she moved from it for the first time that evening, and came opposite to her. The yawning, shaking, peevish figure of the mother, with her eyes raised to confront the proud, erect form of her daughter, whose glance of fire was bent downward upon her head, had a conscious air upon it, that no levity or temper could conceal. I am tired to death, said she. You can't be trusted for a moment. You are worse than a child. Child, no child would be half so obstinate and undutiful. Listen to me, mother, returned Edith, passing these words by with a scorn that would not descend to trifle with them. You must remain alone here until I return. Must remain alone here, Edith, until you return? Repeated her mother, or in that name upon which I shall call tomorrow, to witness what I do so falsely and so shamefully, I swear I will refuse the hand of this man in the church. If I do not, may I fall dead upon the pavement. The mother answered with a look of quick alarm, in no degree diminished by the look she met. It is enough, said Edith steadily, that we are what we are. I will have no youth and truth drag down to my level. I will have no guileless nature undermined, corrupted, and perverted to amuse the leisure of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Florence must go home. You are an idiot, Edith, cried her angry mother. Do you expect there can ever be peace for you in that house till she is married and away? Ask me or ask yourself if I ever expect peace in that house, said her daughter, and you know the answer. And am I to be told tonight after all my pains and labor, and when you are going through me to be rendered independent? Her mother almost shrieked in her passion, while her palsied head shook like a leaf, that there is corruption and contagion in me, and that I am not fit company for a girl? What are you, pray? What are you? I have put the question to myself, said Edith, ashy pale and pointing to the window, more than once when I have been sitting there, and something in the faded likeness of my sex has wandered past outside and God knows I have met with my reply. Oh, mother, mother, if you had but left me to my natural heart when I too was a girl, a younger girl than Florence, how different I might have been. Sensible that any show of anger was useless here, her mother restrained herself and fell a whimpering, and bewailed that she had lived too long, and that her only child had cast her off, and that duty towards parents was forgotten in these evil days, and that she had heard unnatural taunts and cared for life no longer. If one is to go on living through continual scenes like this, she wind, I am sure it would be much better for me to think of some means of putting an end to my existence. Oh, the idea of your being my daughter, Edith, and addressing me in such a strain. Between us, mother, returned Edith mournfully, the time for mutual reproaches is past. Then why do you revive it, whimpered her mother? You know that you are lacerating me in the cruelest manner. You know how sensitive I am to unkindness. At such a moment, too, when I have so much to think of, and am naturally anxious to appear to the best advantage, I wonder at you, Edith, to make your mother a fright upon your wedding day. Edith bent the same fixed look upon her, as she sobbed and rubbed her eyes, and said in the same low, steady voice, which had neither risen nor fallen since she first addressed her. I have said that Florence must go home. Let her go, cried the afflicted and affrighted parent hastily. I am sure I am willing that she should go. What is the girl to me? She is so much to me that rather than communicate or suffer to be communicated to her one grain of the evil that is in my breast, mother, I would renounce you as I would. If you gave me the cause, renounce him in the church to-morrow, replied Edith. Leave her alone. She shall not, while I can interpose, be tampered with and tainted by the lessons I have learned. This is no hard condition on this bitter night. If you had proposed it in a filial manner, Edith, wind her mother, perhaps not, very likely not, but such extreme cutting words. They are past and at an end between us now, said Edith. Take your own way, mother. Share as you please in what you have gained. Spend, enjoy, make much of it, and be as happy as you will. The object of our lives is one. Henceforth, let us wear it silently. My lips are closed upon the past from this hour. I forgive you your part in to-morrow's wickedness. May God forgive my own. Without a tremor in her voice or frame, and passing onward with a foot that set itself upon the neck of every soft emotion, she bade her mother good night and repaired to her own room. But not to rest, for there was no rest in the tumult of her agitation when alone. To and fro, and to and fro, and to and fro again five hundred times among the splendid preparation for her adornment on the morrow, with her dark hair shaken down, her dark eyes flashing with a raging light, her broad white bosom red with the cruel grasp of the relentless hand with which she spurned it from her, pacing up and down with an averted head as if she would avoid the sight of her own fair person and divorce herself from its companionship. Thus in the dead time of the night before her bridal, Edith Grainger wrestled with her unquiet spirits, tearless, friendless, silent, proud, and uncomplaining. At length it happened that she touched the open door which led into the room where Florence lay. She started, stopped, and looked in. A light was burning there and showed her Florence in her bloom of innocence and beauty fast asleep. Edith held her breath and felt herself drawn on towards her. Drawn nearer, nearer, nearer yet at last drawn so near that stooping down she pressed her lips to the gentle hand that lay outside the bed and put it softly to her neck. Its touch was like the prophet's rod of old upon the rock. Her tears sprung forth beneath it as she sunk upon her knees and laid her aching head and streaming hair upon the pillow by its side. Thus Edith Grainger passed the night before her bridal. Thus the sun found her on her bridal mourning. End of chapter 30