 CHAPTER 41 NEW VOICES IN THE WAVES All is going on as it was want. The waves are hoarse with repetition of their mystery. The dust lies piled upon the shore. The seabirds soar and hover, and the winds and clouds go forth upon their trackless flight. The white arms beckon in the moonlight, to the invisible country far away. With a tender and melancholy pleasure, Florence finds herself again on the old ground so sadly trodden, yet so happily, and thinks of him in the quiet place, where he and she have many and many a time converse together, with the water welling up about his couch. And now, as she sits pensive there, she hears in the wild low murmur of the sea, his little story told again, his very words repeated, and finds that all her life and hopes, and griefs, since in the solitary house, and in the pageant it has changed to, have a portion in the burden of the marvelous song. And gentle Mr. Toots, who wanders at a distance, looking wistfully toward the figure that he dotes upon, and has followed there, but cannot, in his delicacy, disturb at such a time, likewise hears the requiem of little Dambi on the waters, rising and falling in the lulls of their eternal madrigal in praise of Florence. Yes, and he faintly understands, poor Mr. Toots, that they are saying something of a time when he was sensible of being brighter and not atle-brained, and the tears rising in his eyes when he fears that he is dull and stupid now, and good for little but to be laughed at, diminish his satisfaction in their soothing reminder that he is relieved from present responsibility to the chicken by the absence of that game head of poultry in the country, draining at Toots' cost for his great mill with a larky boy. But Mr. Toots takes courage when they whisper a kind of thought to him, and by slow degrees, and with many indecisive stoppages on the way, approaches Florence. Stammering and blushing, Mr. Toots affects amazement when he comes near her, and says, nothing followed close on the carriage in which she traveled every inch of the way from London, loving even to be choked by the dust of its wheels, that he never was so surprised in all his life. "'And you've brought Diogenes to, Miss Dambi,' says Mr. Toots, thrilled through and through by the touch of the small hand so pleasantly and frankly given him. No doubt, Diogenes is there, and no doubt Mr. Toots has reason to observe him, for he comes straight way at Mr. Toots' legs and tumbles over himself in the desperation with which he makes at him, like a very dog of Montargis. But he is checked by his sweet mistress. "'Down, Di, down, don't you remember who first made us friends, Di, for shame? Oh, well may Di lay his loving cheek against her hand, and run off, and run back, and run round her, barking, and run headlong at anybody coming by to show his devotion. Mr. Toots would run headlong at anybody too, a military gentleman goes past, and Mr. Toots would like nothing better than to run at him full tilt. "'Diogenes is quite his native heir, isn't he, Miss Dambi,' said Mr. Toots. Florence ascends with a grateful smile. "'Miss Dambi,' says Mr. Toots, beg your pardon, but if you would like to walk to Blimbers, I'm going there. Florence puts her arm in that of Mr. Toots without a word, and they walk away together, with Diogenes going on before. Mr. Toots' legs shake under him, and though he is splendidly dressed, he feels misfits and sees wrinkles in the masterpieces of Burgess and Company, and wishes he had put on that brightest pair of boots. Dr. Blimbers' house, outside, has as scholastic and studious an air as ever, and up there is the window where she used to look for the pale face, and where the pale face brightened when it saw her, and the wasted little hand waved kisses as she passed. The door is opened by the same weak-eyed young man, whose imbecility of grin at sight of Mr. Toots is feebleness of character personified. They are shown into the doctor's study, where blind Homer and Minerva give them audience as of yore, to the sober ticking of the great clock in the hall, and where the globe stands still in their accustomed places, as if the world were stationary too, and nothing in it ever perished in obedience to the universal law, that, while it keeps it on the roll, calls everything to earth. And here is Dr. Blimber with his learned legs, and here is Mrs. Blimber with her sky-blue cap, and here is Cornelia with her sandy little row of curls and her bright spectacles, still working like a sexton in the graves of languages. Here is the table upon which he sat forlorn and strange, the new boy of the school, and hither comes the distant cooing of the old boys at their old lives in the old room on the old principle. Toots, said Dr. Blimber, I am very glad to see you, Toots. Mr. Toots chuckles in reply. Also to see you, Toots, in such good company, says Dr. Blimber. Mr. Toots, with a scarlet visage, explains that he has met Miss Domby by accident and that Miss Domby, wishing, like himself, to see the old place they have come together. You alike, says Dr. Blimber, to step among our young friends, Mrs. Domby no doubt. All fellow students of yours, Toots, once, I think we have no new disciples in our little portico, my dear, says Dr. Blimber, to Cornelia, since Mr. Toots left us, except Bitherstone returns Cornelia. Aye, aye, says the doctor, Bitherstone is new to Mr. Toots, new to Florence too, almost, or in the schoolroom, Bitherstone, no longer master Bitherstone of Mrs. Pipschens, shows in collars and a neckcloth, and wears a watch. But Bitherstone, born beneath some Bengal star of ill omen, is extremely inky, and his lexicon has got so dropsicle from constant reference that it won't shut and yawns as if it really could not bear to be so bothered. So does Bitherstone, its master, forced at Dr. Blimber's highest pressure, but in the yawn of Bitherstone there is malice and snarl, and he has been heard to say that he wishes he could catch old Blimber in India. He'd precious soon find himself carried up the country by a few of his, Bitherstones, Cooleys, and handed over to the Thugs, he can tell him that. Briggs is still grinding in the mill of knowledge, and Tozier too, and Johnson too, and all the rest, the older pupils being principally engaged in forgetting, with prodigious labor, forgetting they knew when they were younger. All are as polite and pale as ever, and among them Mr. Feder, B.A., with his bony hand and bristly head, is still hard at it, with his Herodotus stop on just at present, and his other barrels on a shelf behind him. A mighty sensation is created, even among these grave-young gentlemen, by a visit from the emancipated Toots, who is regarded with a kind of awe, as one who has passed the Rubicon, and is pledged never to come back, and concerning the cut of whose clothes and fashion of whose jewelry whispers go about behind hands. The billious Bitherstone, who is not of Mr. Toots's time, affecting to despise the latter to the smaller boys, and saying, he knows better, and that he should like to see him coming, that sort of thing in Bengal, where his mother has got an emerald belonging to him that was taken out of the footstool of a Raja, come now. Bewildering emotions are awakened also by the sight of Florence, with whom every young gentleman immediately falls in love, again, except, as aforesaid, the billious Bitherstone, who declines to do so out of contradiction. Black jealousies of Mr. Toots arise, and Briggs is of opinion that he ain't so very old after all. But this disparaging insinuation is speedily made not by Mr. Toots saying aloud to Mr. Feeder, B.A. How are you, Feeder, and asking him to come and dine with him to-day at the Bedford, in right of which feats he might set up as old par if he chose unquestioned. There is much shaking of hands and much bowing and a great desire on the part of each young gentleman to take Toots down in Miss Dombie's good graces, and then, Mr. Toots having bestowed a chuckle on his old desk, Florence and he withdraw with Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia, and Dr. Blimber is heard to observe behind them as he comes out last and shuts the door. Again we will now resume our studies, for that and little else is what the doctor hears the sea say, or has heard it saying all his life. Florence then steals away and goes upstairs to the old bedroom with Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia. Mr. Toots, who feels that neither he nor anybody else is wanted there, stands talking to the doctor at the study door, or rather hearing the doctor talk to him, and wondering how he ever thought the study a great sanctuary, and the doctor, with his round, turned legs, like a clerical piano forte, an awful man. Florence soon comes down and takes leave, Mr. Toots takes leave, and Diogenes, who has been worrying the weak-eyed young man piteously, all the time shoots out at the door, and barks a glad defiance down the cliff, while Melia, and another of the doctor's female domestics, look out of an upper window, laughing at that their Toots, and saying of Miss Dombie, but really though now, ain't she like her brother, only prettier? Mr. Toots, who saw that when Florence came down, that there were tears upon her face, is desperately anxious and uneasy, and at first fears that he did wrong in proposing the visit, but he is soon relieved by her saying she is very glad to have been there again, and by her talking quite cheerfully about it all, as they walked on by the sea. What with the voices there, and her sweet voice, when they come near Mr. Dombie's house, and Mr. Toots must leave her, he is so enslaved that he has not a scrap of free will left, when she gives him her hand at parting, he cannot let it go. Miss Dombie, I beg your pardon, says Mr. Toots, in a sad fluster, but if you will allow me to, to, the smiling and unconscious look of Florence brings him to a dead stop. If you would allow me to, if you would not consider it a liberty, Miss Dombie, if I was to, without any encouragement at all, if I was to hope, you know, says Mr. Toots. Florence looks at him inquiringly. Miss Dombie, says Mr. Toots, who feels that he is in for it now. I really am in that state of adoration of you, that I don't know what to do with myself. I am the most deplorable wretch. If it wasn't at the corner of Square at present, I should go down on my knees and beg an entreat of you, without any encouragement at all, just to let me hope that I may, may think it possible that you. Oh, if you please, don't, cries Florence for the moment, quite alarmed and distressed. Oh, pray don't, Mr. Toots, stop, if you please, don't say any more, as a kindness and a favor to me don't. Mr. Toots is dreadfully abashed, and his mouth opens. You have been so good to me, said Florence. I am so grateful to you. I have such reason to like you for being a kind friend to me, and I do like you so much, and there the ingenious face smiles upon him with a pleasantest look of honesty in the world, that I am sure you are only going to say goodbye. Certainly, Miss Domby says, Mr. Toots, I, I, that's exactly what I mean. It's of no consequence. Goodbye, Christ Florence. Goodbye, Miss Domby, Stammer's, Mr. Toots, I hope you won't think anything about it. It's, it's of no consequence, thank you. It's not of the least consequence in the world. Poor Mr. Toots goes home to his hotel in a state of desperation, locks himself into his bedroom, flings himself upon his bed, and lies there for a long time, as if it were of the greatest consequence, nevertheless. But Mr. Feeder B.A. is coming to dinner, which happens well for Mr. Toots, or there is no knowing when he might get up again. Mr. Toots is obliged to get up and receive him, and to give him hospitable entertainment. With the generous influence of that social virtue, hospitality, to make no mention of wine and good cheer, opens Mr. Toots' heart and warms him to conversation. He does not tell Mr. Feeder B.A. what passed at the corner of the square, but when Mr. Feeder asks him, when it is to come off, Mr. Toots replies, that there are certain subjects which brings Mr. Feeder down a peg or two immediately. Mr. Toots adds, that he don't know what right Blimber had to notice his being in Ms. Dombie's company, and that if he thought he meant impudence by it, he'd have him out, doctor or no doctor. But he supposes it's only his ignorance. Mr. Feeder says he has no doubt of it. Mr. Feeder, however, as an intimate friend, is not excluded from the subject. Mr. Toots merely requires that it should be mentioned mysteriously and with feeling. After a few glasses of wine, he gives Ms. Dombie's health, observing, Feeder, you have no idea of the sentiments with which I propose that toast. Mr. Feeder replies, oh yes I have, my dear Toots, and greatly they redown to your honor, old boy. Mr. Feeder is then agitated by friendship and shakes hands and says, if ever Toots wants a brother, he knows where to find him, either by post or parcel. Mr. Feeder likewise says, that if he may advise, he would recommend Mr. Toots to learn the guitar, or at least the flute, for women like music, when you are paying your addresses to him, and he has found the advantage of it himself. This brings Mr. Feeder B.A. to the confession that he has his eyes upon Cornelia Blimber. He informs Mr. Toots that he don't object to spectacles, and that if the doctor were to do the handsome thing and give up the business, why there they are provided for. He says it's his opinion that when a man has made a handsome sum by his business, he is bound to give it up, and that Cornelia would be an assistance in it, which any man might be proud of. Mr. Toots replies by launching wildly out into Ms. Dombie's praises, and by insinuations that sometimes he thinks he should like to blow his brains out. Mr. Feeder strongly urges that it would be a rash attempt, and shows him, as a reconcilement to existence, Cornelia's portrait, spectacles and all. Thus these quiet spirits pass the evening, and when it has yielded place to night, Mr. Toots walks home with Mr. Feeder, and parts with him at Dr. Blimber's door. But Mr. Feeder only goes up the steps, and when Mr. Toots is gone, comes down again to stroll upon the beach alone, and think about his prospects. Mr. Feeder plainly hears the waves informing him, as he loiters along, that Dr. Blimber will give up the business, and he feels a soft, romantic pleasure in looking at the outside of the house, and thinking that the doctor will first paint it, and put it into thorough repair. Mr. Toots is likewise roaming up and down, outside the casket that contains his jewel, and in a deplorable condition of mind, and not unsuspected by the police, gazes at a window where he sees a light, and which he has no doubt is Florence's. But it is not, for that is Mrs. Scuton's room, and while Florence, sleeping in another chamber, dreams lovingly in the midst of the old scenes, and their old associations live again, the figure which in grim reality is substituted for the patient boys on the same theatre once more to connect it, but, how differently, with decay and death, is stretched there, wakeful and complaining. Ugly and haggard it lies upon its bed of unrest, and by it, in the terror of her unimpassioned loveliness, for it has terror in the sufferers' failing eyes, sits Edith. What do the waves say in the stillness of the night to them? Edith, what is that stone arm raised to strike me? Don't you see it? There is nothing, mother, but your fancy. But my fancy, everything is my fancy, look! Is it possible that you don't see it? Indeed, mother, there is nothing. Could I sit unmoved, if there were any such thing there? Unmoved! Looking wildly at her, it's gone now, and why are you so unmoved? That is not my fancy, Edith. It turns me cold to see you sitting at my side. I am sorry, mother. Sorry! You seem always sorry, but it is not for me. With that she cries, and tossing her restless head from side to side upon her pillow runs on about neglect, and the mother she has been, and the mother the good old creature was whom they met, and the cold return the daughters of such mothers make. In the midst of her incoherence she stops, looks at her daughter, cries out that her wits are going, and hides her face upon the bed. Edith, in compassion, bends over her and speaks to her. The sick old woman clutches her round the neck, and says, with a look of horror, Edith, we are going home soon. Going back, you mean that I shall go home again? Yes, mother, yes. And what he said, what's his name? I never could remember names, major, that dreadful word. When we came away, it's not true, Edith, with a shriek and a stare. It's not that that is the matter with me. Night after night the lights burn in the window, and the figure lies upon the bed, and Edith sits beside it, and the restless waves are calling to them both the whole night long. Night after night the waves are hoarse with repetition of their mystery. The dust lies piled upon the shore, the sea birds soar and hover, the winds and clouds are on their trackless flight, the white arms beckon in the moonlight, to the invisible country far away. And still the sick old woman looks into the corner, where the stone arm, part of a figure of some tomb, she says, is raised to strike her. At last it falls, and then a dumb old woman lies upon the bed, and she is crooked and shrunk up, and half of her is dead. Such is the figure, painted and patched for the sun to mock, that is drawn slowly through the crowd from day to day, looking, as it goes, for the good old creature, who was such a mother, and making mouths as it peers among the crowd in vain. Such is the figure, that is often wheeled down to the margin of the sea, and stationed there, but on which no wind can blow freshness, and for which the murmur of the ocean has no soothing word. She lies and listens to it by the hour, but its speech is dark and gloomy to her, and a dread is on her face, and when her eyes wander over the expanse, they see but a broad stretch of desolation between earth and heaven. Florence, she seldom sees, and when she does, is angry with and mozat. Edith is beside her always, and keeps Florence away, and Florence in her bed at night trembles at the thought of death in such a shape, and often wakes and listens, thinking it has come. No one attends on her but Edith. It is better that few eyes should see her, and her daughter watches alone by the bedside. A shadow even on that shadowed face, a sharpening even of the sharpened features and a thickening of the veil before the eyes into a pall that shuts out the dim world, is come. Her wandering hands upon the coverlet join feebly palm to palm, and move towards her daughter, and a voice not like hers, not like any voice that speaks our mortal language says, for I nursed you. Edith, without a tear, kneels down to bring her voice closer to the sinking head and answers. Mother, can you hear me? Staring wide, she tries to nod in answer. Can you recollect the night before I married? The head is motionless, but it expresses somehow that she does. I told you then that I forgave your part in it, and prayed God to forgive my own. I told you that the past was at an end between us. I say so now again, kiss me, mother. Edith touches the white lips, and for a moment all is still. A moment afterwards, her mother, with her girlish laugh and the skeleton of the Cleopatra manor rises in her bed. Draw the rose-colored curtains. There is something else upon its flight besides the wind and clouds. Draw the rose-colored curtains close. Intelligence of the event is sent to Mr. Dombie in town, who waits upon Cousin Phoenix, not yet able to make up his mind for Baden-Baden, who has just received it too. A good-natured creature like Cousin Phoenix is the very man for a marriage or a funeral, and his position in the family renders it right that he should be consulted. Dombie says, Cousin Phoenix, upon my soul I am very much shocked to see you on such a melancholy occasion. My poor aunt! She was a devilishly lively woman. Mr. Dombie replies, very much so. And made up, says Cousin Phoenix, really young, you know, considering. I am sure, on the day of your marriage, I thought she was good for another twenty years. In point of fact, I said so to a man at Brooks's, little Billy Joper, you know him, no doubt. Man with a glass in his eye. Mr. Dombie bows a negative, in reference to the obsequies he hints, whether there is any suggestion. Well, upon my life, says Cousin Phoenix, stroking his chin, which he has just enough of hand below his wristbands to do. I really don't know. There's a mausoleum down at my place in the park, but I'm afraid it's in bad repair, and in point of fact, in a devil of a state. But for being a little out at elbows I should have it put to rights, but I believe the people come and make picnic parties there inside the iron railings. Mr. Dombie is clear this won't do. There's an uncommon good church in the village, says Cousin Phoenix, thoughtfully, pure specimens of the Anglo-Norman style, an admirably well-sketched tube by Lady Jane Finchbury, woman with tight stays, but they've spoilt it with whitewash, I understand, and it's a long journey. It's brightened itself, Mr. Dombie suggests. Upon my honor, Dombie, I don't think we could do better, says Cousin Phoenix. It's on the spot, you see, and a very cheerful place. And when, hints Mr. Dombie, would it be convenient? I shall make a point, says Cousin Phoenix, of pledging myself for any day you think best. I shall have great pleasure, melancholy pleasure, of course, in following my poor plant, to the confines of the in-point effect to the grave, says Cousin Phoenix, falling in the other turn of speech. Would Monday do for leaving town, says Mr. Dombie? Monday would suit me to perfection, replies Cousin Phoenix. Therefore, Mr. Dombie arranges to take Cousin Phoenix down on that day, and presently takes his leave, attended to the stairs by Cousin Phoenix, who says at parting, I am really excessively sorry, Dombie, that you should have so much trouble about it, to which Mr. Dombie answers, not at all. At the appointed time, Cousin Phoenix and Mr. Dombie meet, and go down to Brighton, and representing, in their two selves, all the other mourners, for the deceased lady's loss, attend her remains to their place of rest. Cousin Phoenix, sitting in the morning coach, recognizes innumerable acquaintances on the road, but takes no other notice of them, into quorum, then checking them off aloud, as they go by, for Mr. Dombie's information, as Tom Johnson, man with cork leg from Whites, what are you here? Tommy, foley on a blood mare, the smaller girls, and so forth. At the ceremony, Cousin Phoenix is depressed, observing that these are the occasions to make a man think, in point of fact, that he is getting shaky, and his eyes are really moistened when it is over. But he soon recovers, and so do the rest of Mrs. Scuton's relatives and friends, of whom the major continually tells the club, that she never did wrap up enough, while the young lady, with the back, who has so much trouble with her eyelids, says, with a little scream, that she must have been enormously old, and that she died of all kinds of horrors, and you mustn't mention it. So Edith's mother lies unmentioned of her dear friends, who are deaf to the waves that are hoarse with repetition of their mystery, and blind to the dust that is piled upon the shore, and to the white arms that are beckoning in the moonlight, to the invisible country far away. But all goes on, as it was want, upon the margin of the unknown sea, and Edith, standing there alone, and listening to its waves, has dank weed cast up at her feet, to strew her path in life with all. CHAPTER 42 OF DOMBIAN SON. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. DOMBIAN SON by Charles Dickens, recording by Cynthia Lyons. CHAPTER 42 CONFIDENTIAL AND ACCIDENTAL A tired no more in Captain Cuddle's sable slops and Sue Esther hat, but dressed in a substantial suit of brown livery, which, while it affected to be a very sober and demure livery indeed, was really, as self-satisfied and confident, a one as Taylor need desire to make. Robb, the grinder, thus transformed as to his outer man, and all regardless within of the captain and the midshipman, except when he devoted a few minutes of his leisure time to crowing over those inseparable worthies, and recalling, with much applauding music, from that brazen instrument his conscience, the triumphant manner in which he had disembarrassed himself of their company, now served his patron, Mr. Carker. Inmate of Mr. Carker's house, and serving about his person, Robb kept his round eyes on the white teeth, with fear and trembling, and felt that he had need to open them wider than ever. He could not have quaked more, through his whole being, before the teeth, though he had come into the service of some powerful enchanter, and they had been his strongest spell. The boy had a sense of power and authority in this patron of his that engrossed his whole attention, and exacted his most implicit submission and obedience. He hardly considered himself safe in thinking about him when he was absent, lest he should feel himself immediately taken by the throat again, as on the morning when he first became bound to him, one should see every one of the teeth finding him out and taxing him with every fancy of his mind. Face to face with him, Robb had no more doubt that Mr. Carker read his secret thoughts, or that he could read them by the least exertion of his will if he were so inclined, then he had that Mr. Carker saw him when he looked at him. The ascendancy was so complete and held him in such enthrallment that hardly daring to think at all, but with his mind filled with a constantly dilating impression of his patron's irresistible command over him, and power of doing anything with him, he would stand watching his pleasure and trying to anticipate his orders in a state of mental suspension as to all other things. Robb had not informed himself, perhaps. In his then state of mind it would have been an act of no common temerity to inquire whether he yielded so completely to this influence in any part because he had floating suspicions of his patron's being a master of certain treacherous arts in which he had himself been a poor scholar at the Grinder's school. But certainly Robb admired him as well as feared him. Mr. Carker, perhaps, was better acquainted with the sources of his power which lost nothing by his management of it. On the very night when he left the captain's service, Robb, after disposing of his pigeons and even making a bad bargain in his hurry, had gone straight down to Mr. Carker's house and hotly presented himself before his new master with a glowing face that seemed to expect commendation. What scapegrace, said Mr. Carker, glancing at his bundle, have you left your situation and come to me? Oh, if you please, sir, faltered Robb. You said, you know, when I come here last. I said, returned Mr. Carker, what did I say? If you please, sir, you didn't say nothing at all, sir, returned Robb, warned by the manner of this inquiry and very much disconcerted. His patron looked at him with a wide display of gums and shaking his forefinger observed, you'll come to an evil end, my vagabond friend, I foresee. There's rune in store for you. Oh, if you please, don't, sir, cried Robb, with his legs trembling under him. I'm sure, sir, I only want to work for you, sir, and to wait upon you, sir, and to do faithful whatever I'm bid, sir. You had better do faithfully whatever you are bid, returned his patron, if you have anything to do with me. Yes, I know that, sir, pleaded the submissive Robb. I'm sure of that, sir. If you'll only be so good as try me, sir, and if ever you find me out, sir, doing anything against your wishes, I give you leave to kill me. You dog, said Mr. Karker, leaning back in his chair and smiling at him serenely. That's nothing to what I do to you if you try to deceive me. Yes, sir, replied the abject grinder. I'm sure you would be down upon me dreadful, sir. I wouldn't attempt to go and do it, sir. But if I was bribed with golden guineas, thoroughly checked in his expectations of commendation, the crestfallen grinder stood looking at his patron and vainly endeavouring not to look at him, with the uneasiness which occur will often manifest in a similar situation. So you have left your old service and come here to ask me to take you into mine, eh, said Mr. Karker. Yes, if you please, sir, returned Robb, who, in doing so, had acted on his patron's own instructions, but dared not justify himself by the least insinuation to that effect. Well, said Mr. Karker, you know me, boy? Please, sir, yes, returned Robb, fumbling with his hat and still fixed by Mr. Karker's eye and fruitlessly endeavouring to unfix himself. Mr. Karker nodded, take care, then. Robb expressed in a number of short bows his lively understanding of this caution, and was bowing himself back to the door, greatly relieved by the prospect of getting on the outside of it, when his patron stopped him. Hello, he cried, calling him roughly back. You have been shut that door. Robb obeyed as if his life had depended on his alacrity. You have been used to eavesdropping. Do you know what that means? Listening, sir, Robb hazarded, after some embarrassed reflection, his patron nodded, and watching, and so forth. I wouldn't do such a thing here, sir, answered Robb. Upon my word and honor, I wouldn't, sir. I wish I may die if I would, sir, for anything that could be promised to me. I should consider it as much as all the world was worth to offer to do such a thing unless I was ordered, sir. You had better not. You have been used, too, to babbling and tattling, said his patron, with perfect coolness. Beware of that here, or you're a lost rascal. And he smiled again, and again cautioned him with his forefinger. The grinder's breath came short, and thick with consternation. He tried to protest the purity of his intentions, but could only stare at the smiling gentleman in a stupor of submission, with which the smiling gentleman seemed well enough satisfied, for he ordered him downstairs after observing him for some moments in silence, and gave him to understand that he was retained in his employment. This was the manner of Robb the grinder's engagement by Mr. Carker, and his awe-stricken devotion to that gentleman had strengthened and increased, if possible, with every minute of his service. It was a service of some month's duration, when early one morning Robb opened the garden gate to Mr. Dombie, who was come to breakfast with his master by appointment. At the same moment his master himself came, hurrying forth to receive the distinguished guest, and give him welcome with all his teeth. I never thought, said Carker, when he had assisted him to a light from his horse, to see you here, I'm sure. This is an extraordinary day in my calendar. No occasion is very special to a man like you, who may do anything, but to a man like me, the case is widely different. You have a tasteful place here, Carker, said Mr. Dombie, condescending to stoop upon the lawn to look about him. You can afford to say so, returned Carker, thank you. Indeed, said Mr. Dombie in his lofty patronage, anyone might say so. As far as it goes, it is a very commodious and well-arranged place, quite elegant. As far as it goes, truly, returned Carker, with an air of disparagement. It wants that qualification. Well, we have said enough about it, and though you can afford to praise it, I thank you nonetheless. Will you walk in? Mr. Dombie, entering the house, noticed, as he had reason to do, the complete arrangement of the rooms and the numerous contrivances for comfort and effect that abounded there. Mr. Carker, in his ostentation of humility, received this notice with a deferential smile, and said he understood its delicate meaning and appreciated it, but in truth, the cottage was good enough for one in his position, better perhaps than such a man should occupy, as poor as it was. But perhaps to you who are so far removed, it really does look better than it is, he said, with his false mouth distended to its fullest stretch, just as monarchs imagine attractions in the lives of beggars. He directed a sharp glance and a sharp smile at Mr. Dombie, as he spoke, and a sharper glance and a sharper smile yet, when Mr. Dombie, drawing himself up before the fire in the attitude so often copied by his second in command, looked round at the pictures on the walls. Cursorily, as his cold eye wandered over them, Carker's keen glance accompanied his and kept pace with his, marking exactly where it went and what it saw. As it rested on one picture in particular, Carker hardly seemed to breathe, his side-long scrutiny was so cat-like and vigilant, but the eye of his great chief passed from that, as from the others, and appeared no more impressed by it than by the rest. Carker looked at it, it was the picture that resembled Edith, as if it were a living thing, and with a wicked, silent laugh upon his face that seemed in part addressed to it, though it was all derisive of the great man standing so unconscious beside him. Breakfast was soon set upon the table, and inviting Mr. Dombie to a chair, which had its back towards this picture, he took his own seat opposite to it as usual. Mr. Dombie was even graver than it was his custom to be and quite silent. The parrot, swinging in the gilded hoop within her gaudy cage, attempted in vain to attract notice, for Carker was too observant of his visitor to heed her, and the visitor, abstracted in meditation, looked fixedly, not to say sullenly, over his stiff neck cloth, without raising his eyes from the tablecloth. As to Rob, who was in attendance, all his faculties and energies were so locked up in observation of his master that he scarcely ventured to give shelter to the thought that the visitor was the great gentleman before whom he had been carried as a certificate of the family health in his childhood, and to whom he had been indebted for his leather smalls. Allow me, said Carker suddenly, to ask how Mrs. Dombie is. He leaned forward up sequiously as he made the inquiry, with his chin resting on his hand, and at the same time his eyes went up to the picture as if he said to it, now see how I will lead him on. Mr. Dombie reddened as he answered. Mrs. Dombie is quite well. You remind me, Carker, of some conversation that I wish to have with you. Robin, you can leave us, said his master, at whose mild tones Robin started and disappeared with his eyes fixed on his patron to the last. You don't remember that boy, of course, he added when the emeshed grinder was gone. No, said Mr. Dombie with magnificent indifference. Not likely that a man like you would, hardly possible, murmured Carker, but he is one of that family from whom you took a nurse. Perhaps you may remember having generously charged yourself with his education. Is it that boy, said Mr. Dombie with a frown? He does little credit to his education, I believe. Why, he is a young rip, I am afraid, returned Carker with a shrug. He bears that character, but the truth is I took him into my service because being able to get no other employment, he conceived, had been taught at home, I daresay, that he had some sort of claim upon you and was constantly trying to dog your heels with his petition. And although my defined and recognized connection with your affairs is merely of a business character, still I have that spontaneous interest in everything belonging to you that he stopped again as if to discover whether he had led Mr. Dombie far enough yet. And again, with his chin resting on his hand, he leered at the picture. Carker, said Mr. Dombie, I am sensible that you do not limit your service, suggested his smiling entertainer. No, I prefer to say you regard, observed Mr. Dombie, very sensible, as he said so, that he was paying him a handsome and flattering compliment to our mere business relations. Your consideration for my feelings, hopes, and disappointments in the little instance you have just now mentioned is an example in point. I am obliged to you, Carker. Mr. Carker bent his head slowly and very softly rubbed his hands as if he were afraid by any action to disturb the current of Mr. Dombie's confidence. Your allusion to it is opportune, said Mr. Dombie, after a little hesitation, for it prepares the way to what I was beginning to say to you and reminds me that although it involves no absolutely new relations between us, although it may involve more personal confidence on my part than I have hitherto, distinguished me with, suggested Carker, bending his head again, I will not say to you how honored I am, for a man like you well knows how much honor he has in his power to bestow at pleasure. Mrs. Dombie and myself, said Mr. Dombie, passing this compliment with august self-denial, are not quite agreed upon some points. We do not appear to understand each other yet. Mrs. Dombie has something to learn. Mrs. Dombie is distinguished by many rare attractions and has been accustomed, no doubt, to receive much adulation, said the smooth, sleek watcher of his slightest look and tone. But where there is affection, duty and respect, any little mistakes engendered by such causes are soon set right. Mr. Dombie's thoughts instinctively flew back to the face that had looked at him in his wife's dressing room, when an imperious hand was stretched towards the door, and remembering the affection, duty and respect expressed in it, he felt the blood rush to his own face quite as plainly as the watchful eyes upon him saw it there. Mrs. Dombie and myself, he went on to say, had some discussion before Mrs. Scuton's death, upon the causes of my dissatisfaction, of which you will have formed a general understanding from having been a witness of what passed between Mrs. Dombie and myself on the evening when you were at my house. When I so much regretted being present, said the smiling carker, proud as a man in my position necessarily must be of your familiar notice, though I give you no credit for it, you may do anything you please without losing cast and honored as I was by an early presentation to Mrs. Dombie before she was made eminent by bearing your name. I almost regretted that night, I assure you that I had been the object of such a special good fortune. That any man could, under any possible circumstances, regret the being distinguished by this condescension and patronage was a moral phenomenon which Mr. Dombie could not comprehend. He therefore responded with a considerable accession of dignity. Indeed, and why, carker? I fear, returned the confidential agent, that Mrs. Dombie, never very much disposed to regard me with favorable interest, one in my position could not expect that from a lady naturally proud and whose pride becomes her so well, may not easily forgive my innocent part in that conversation. Your displeasure is no light matter, you must remember, and to be visited with it before a third party. Carker, said Mr. Dombie arrogantly, I presume that I am the first consideration. Oh, can there be a doubt about it? replied the other with the impatience of a man admitting a notorious and incontrovertible fact. Mrs. Dombie becomes a secondary consideration when we are both in question, I imagine, said Mr. Dombie. Is that so? Is it so, returned carker? Do you know better than anyone that you have no need to ask? Then I hope, Carker, said Mr. Dombie, that your regret in the acquisition of Mrs. Dombie's displeasure may be almost counterbalanced by your satisfaction in retaining my confidence and good opinion. I have the misfortune I find, returned carker, to have incurred that displeasure. Mrs. Dombie has expressed to you, Mrs. Dombie has expressed various opinions, said Mr. Dombie, with majestic coldness and indifference, in which I do not participate, and which I am not inclined to discuss or recall. I made Mrs. Dombie acquainted sometimes since, as I have already told you, of domestic deference and submission on which I felt it necessary to insist. I failed to convince Mrs. Dombie of the expediency of her immediately altering her conduct in those respects, with a view to her own peace and welfare and my dignity. And I informed Mrs. Dombie that if I should find it necessary to object or remonstrate again, I should express my opinion to her through yourself, my confidential agent. Blended with the look that Carker bent upon him was a devilish look at the picture over his head that struck upon it like a flash of lightning. Now, Carker, said Mr. Dombie, I do not hesitate to say to you that I will carry my point. I am not to be trifled with. Mrs. Dombie must understand that my will is law and that I cannot allow of one exception to the whole rule of my life. You will have the goodness to undertake this charge, which, coming from me, is not unacceptable to you, I hope. Whatever regret you may politely profess for which I am obliged to you on behalf of Mrs. Dombie, and you will have the goodness I am persuaded to discharge it exactly as any other commission. You know, said Mr. Carker, that you have only to command me. I know, said Mr. Dombie, with a majestic indication of assent that I have only to command you. It is necessary that I should proceed in this. Mrs. Dombie is a lady undoubtedly highly qualified in many respects too. To do credit, even to your choice, suggested Carker, with a fawning show of teeth. Yes, if you please to adopt that form of words, said Mr. Dombie, in his tone of state. And at present I do not conceive that Mrs. Dombie does that credit to it, to which it is entitled. There is a principle of opposition in Mrs. Dombie that must be eradicated, that must be overcome. Mrs. Dombie does not appear to understand, said Mr. Dombie forcibly, that the idea of opposition to me is monstrous and absurd. We in the city know you better, replied Carker, with a smile from ear to ear. You know me better, said Mr. Dombie. I hope so. Though indeed I am bound to do Mrs. Dombie the justice of saying, however inconsistent it may seem with her subsequent conduct, which remains unchanged, that on my expressing my disapprobation and determination to her with some severity, on the occasion to which I have referred, my admonition appeared to produce a very powerful effect. Mr. Dombie delivered himself of those words with most portentious stateliness. I wish you to have the goodness then to inform Mrs. Dombie, Carker, from me that I must recall our former conversation to her remembrance in some surprise that it had not yet had its effect, that I must insist upon her regulating her conduct by the injunctions laid upon her in that conversation, that I am not satisfied with her conduct, that I am greatly dissatisfied with it, and that I shall be under the very disagreeable necessity of making you the bearer of yet more unwelcome and explicit communications if she has not the good sense and the proper feeling to adapt herself to my wishes as the first Mrs. Dombie did, and I believe, I may add, as any other lady in her place would. The first Mrs. Dombie lived very happily, said Carker. The first Mrs. Dombie had great good sense, said Mr. Dombie, in a gentlemanly toleration of the dead, and very correct feeling. Is Miss Dombie like her mother, do you think, said Carker? Swiftly and darkly, Mr. Dombie's face changed. His confidential agent eyed it keenly. I have approached a painful subject, he said, in a soft regretful tone of voice, irreconcilable with his eager eye. Pray forgive me, I forget these chains of association in the interest I have. Pray forgive me, but for all he said, his eager eye scanned Mr. Dombie's downcast face, nonetheless closely, and then it shot a strange triumphant look at the picture, and appealing to it to bear witness how he led him on again and what was coming. Carker, said Mr. Dombie, looking here and there upon the table, and speaking in a somewhat altered and more hurried voice, and with a paler lip. There is no occasion for apology, new mistake. The association is with the matter in hand, and not with any recollection, as you suppose. I do not approve of Mrs. Dombie's behavior towards my daughter. Pardon me, said Mr. Carker, I don't quite understand. Understand then, return Mr. Dombie, that you may make that, that you will make that, if you please, matter of direct objection from me to Mrs. Dombie. You will please to tell her that her show of devotion for my daughter is disagreeable to me. It is likely to be noticed. It is likely to induce people to contrast Mrs. Dombie in her relation towards my daughter with Mrs. Dombie in her relation towards myself. You will have the goodness to let Mrs. Dombie know plainly that I object to it, and that I expect her to defer immediately to my objection. Mrs. Dombie may be in earnest, or she may be pursuing a whim, or she may be opposing me, but I object to it in any case and in every case. If Mrs. Dombie is in earnest, so much the less reluctant should she be to desist, for she will not serve my daughter by any such display. If my wife has any superfluous gentleness and duty over and above her proper submission to me, she may bestow them where she pleases, perhaps, but I will have submission first, Carker, said Mr. Dombie, checking the unusual emotion with which he had spoken, and falling into a tone more like that in which he was accustomed to assert his greatness. You will have the goodness not to omit or to slur this point, but to consider it a very important part of your instructions. Mr. Carker bowed his head and rising from the table and standing thoughtfully before the fire with his hand to his smooth chin, looked down at Mr. Dombie with the evil slinus of some monkish carving, half human and half brute, or like a leering face on an old waterspout. Mr. Dombie, recovering his composure by degrees or cooling his emotion in his sense of having taken a high position, sat gradually stiffening again and looking at the parrot as she swung to and fro in her great wedding ring. I beg your pardon, said Carker, after a silence, suddenly resuming his chair and drawing it opposite to Mr. Dombie's, but let me understand, Mrs. Dombie is aware of the probability of your making me the organ of your displeasure. Yes, replied Mr. Dombie, I have said so. Yes, rejoined Carker quickly, but why? Why, Mr. Dombie repeated, not without hesitation, because I told her. I replied, Carker, but why did you tell her? You see, he continued with a smile and softly laying his velvet hand as a cat might have laid its sheathed claws on Mr. Dombie's arm. If I perfectly understand what is in your mind, I am so much more likely to be useful and to have the happiness of being effectually employed. I think I do understand. I have not the honor of Mrs. Dombie's good opinion. In my position, I have no reason to expect it, but I take the fact to be that I have not got it. Possibly not, said Mr. Dombie. Consequently, pursued Carker, you're making these communications to Mrs. Dombie through me is sure to be particularly unpalatable to that lady. It appears to me, said Mr. Dombie, with haughty reserved and yet with some embarrassment, that Mrs. Dombie's views upon the subject form no part of it as it presents itself to you and me, Carker, but it may be so. And pardon me, do I misconceive you, said Carker, when I think you describe in this a likely means of humbling Mrs. Dombie's pride, I use the word as expressive of equality which kept within due bounds adorns and graces a lady so distinguished for her beauty and accomplishments, and not to say of punishing her, but of reducing her to the submission you so naturally and justly require. I am not accustomed, Carker, as you know, said Mr. Dombie, to give such close reasons for any course of conduct I think proper to adopt, but I will gain say nothing of this. If you have any objection to found upon it, that is indeed another thing, and the mere statement that you have one will be sufficient. But I have not supposed, I confess, that any confidence I could entrust to you would be likely to degrade you. Oh, I degraded, exclaimed Carker, in your service, or to place you, pursued Mr. Dombie, in a false position? I, in a false position, exclaimed Carker, I shall be proud, delighted to execute your trust. I could have wished, I own, to have given the lady at whose feet I would lay my humble duty and devotion, for is she not your wife? No new cause of dislike, but a wish from you is, of course, paramount to every other consideration on earth. Besides, when Mrs. Dombie is converted from these little errors of judgment, incidental, I would presume to say, to the novelty of her situation, I shall hope that she will perceive in the slight part I take only a grain, my removed and different sphere gives room for little more of the respect for you and sacrifice of all considerations to you, of which it will be her pleasure and privilege to garner up a great store every day. Mr. Dombie seemed, at the moment, again, to see her with her hand stretched out towards the door, and again to hear through the mild speech of his confidential agent an echo of the words, nothing can make a stranger to each other than we are henceforth. But he shook off the fancy and did not shake in his resolution and said, certainly, no doubt. There is nothing more, quote Corker, drawing his chair back to its old place, for they had taken little breakfasts as yet and pausing for an answer before he sat down. Nothing, said Mr. Dombie, but this. You will be good enough to observe, Corker, that no message to Mrs. Dombie with which you are or may be charged admits of reply. You will be good enough to bring me no reply. Mrs. Dombie is informed that it does not become me to temporize or treat upon any matter that is at issue between us and that what I say is final. Mr. Corker signified his understanding of these credentials and they fell to breakfast with what appetite they might. The grinder also in due time reappeared, keeping his eyes upon his master without a moment's respite and passing the time in a reverie of worshipful terror. Breakfast concluded Mr. Dombie's horse was ordered out again and Mr. Corker mounting his own, they rode off for the city together. Mr. Corker was in capital spirits and talked much. Mr. Dombie received his conversation with the sovereign heir of a man who had a right to be talked to and occasionally condescended to throw in a few words to carry on the conversation. So they rode on characteristically enough, but Mr. Dombie in his dignity rode with very long stirrups and a very loose rein and very rarely dame to look down to see where his horse went. In consequence of which it happened that Mr. Dombie's horse while going at a round trot stumbled on some loose stones, threw him, rolled over him and lashing out with his iron shod feet in his struggles to get up kicked him. Mr. Corker, quick of eye, steady of hand and a good horseman was afoot and had the struggling animal upon his legs and by the bridle in a moment. Otherwise that morning's confidence would have been Mr. Dombie's last. Yet even with a flush and hurry of this action read upon him, he bent over his prostrate chief with every tooth disclosed and muttered as he stooped down. I have given good cause of offense to Mrs. Dombie now if she knew it. Mr. Dombie, being insensible and bleeding from the head and face was carried by certain menders of the road under Corker's direction to the nearest public house, which was not far off and where he was soon attended by diverse surgeons who arrived in quick succession from all parts and who seemed to come by some mysterious instinct as vultures are said to gather about a camel who dies in the desert. After being at some pains to restore him to consciousness these gentlemen examined him into the nature of his injuries. One surgeon who lived hard by was strong for a compound fracture of the leg which was the landlord's opinion also but two surgeons who lived at a distance and were only in that neighborhood by accident combatted this opinion so disinterestedly that it was decided at last that the patient though severely cut and bruised had broken no bones but a lesser rib or so and might be carefully taken home before night. His injuries being dressed and bandaged which was a long operation and he at length left to repose Mr. Corker mounted his horse again and rode away to carry the intelligence home. Crafty and cruel as his face was at the best of times though it was a sufficiently fair face as to form and regularity of feature it was at its worst when he set forth on this errand animated by the craft and cruelty of thoughts within him suggestions of remote possibility rather than of design or plot that made him ride as if he hunted men and women drawing rain at length and slackening in his speed as he came into the more public roads he checked his white-legged horse into picking his way along as usual and hid himself beneath his sleek hushed crouch manner and his ivory smile as best he could. He rode direct to Mr. Dombie's house alighted at the door and begged to see Mrs. Dombie on an affair of importance. The servant showed him to Mr. Dombie's own room soon returned to say that it was not Mrs. Dombie's hour for receiving visitors and that he begged pardon for not having mentioned it before. Mr. Corker who was quite prepared for a cold reception wrote upon a card that he must take the liberty of pressing for an interview and that he would not be so bold as to do so for the second time, this he underlined if he were not equally sure of the occasion being sufficient for his justification. After a trifling delay Mrs. Dombie's maid appeared and conducted him to a morning room upstairs where Edith and Florence were together. He had never thought Edith half so beautiful before much as he admired the graces of her face and form and freshly as they dwelt within his sensual remembrance he had never thought her half so beautiful. Her glance fell hotly upon him in the doorway but he looked at Florence though only in the act of bending his head as he came in with some irrepressible expression of the new power he held and it was his triumph to see the glance droop and falter and to see that Edith half rose up to receive him. He was very sorry, he was deeply grieved, he couldn't say with what unwillingness he came to prepare her for the intelligence of a very slight accident. He entreated Mrs. Dombie to compose herself. Upon his sacred word of honor there was no cause of alarm but Mr. Dombie, Florence uttered a sudden cry. He did not look at her but at Edith. Edith composed and reassured her. She uttered no cry of distress. No, no, Florence widely exclaimed that he was badly hurt, that he was killed. No, upon his honor Mr. Dombie though stunned at first was soon recovered and though certainly hurt was in no kind of danger. If this were not the truth he, the distressed intruder never could have had the courage to present himself before Mrs. Dombie. It was the truth indeed, he solemnly assured her. All this he said as if he were answering Edith and not Florence and with his eyes and smile fastened on Edith. He then went on to tell her where Mr. Dombie was lying and to request that a carriage might be placed at his disposal to bring him home. Mama faltered Florence in tears, if I might venture to go. Mr. Carker, having his eyes on Edith when he heard these words, gave her a secret look and slightly shook his head. He saw how she battled with herself before she answered him with her handsome eyes, but he rested the answer from her. He showed her that he would have it or that he would speak and cut Florence to the heart and she gave it to him. As he had looked at the picture in the morning so he looked at her afterwards when she turned her eyes away. I am directed to request, he said, that the new housekeeper, Mrs. Pippen, I think is the name. Nothing escaped him. He saw in an instant that she was another slight of Mr. Dombie's on his wife. Maybe informed that Mr. Dombie wishes to have his bed prepared in his own apartments downstairs as he prefers those rooms to any other. I shall return to Mr. Dombie almost immediately, that every possible attention has been paid to his comfort and that he is the object of every possible solicitude. I need not assure you, madam. Let me say again, there is no cause for the least alarm. Even you may be quite at ease, believe me. He bowed himself out with his extremist show of deference and conciliation and having returned to Mr. Dombie's room and there arranged for a carriage being sent after him to the city, mounted his horse again and rode slowly thither. He was very thoughtful as he went along and very thoughtful there and very thoughtful in the carriage on his way back to the place where Mr. Dombie had been left. It was only when sitting by that gentleman's couch that he was quite himself again and conscious of his teeth. About the time of twilight, Mr. Dombie, grievously afflicted with aches and pains, was helped into his carriage and propped with cloaks and pillows on one side of it while his confidential agent bore him company upon the other. As he was not to be shaken, they moved at little more than a foot pace and hence it was quite dark when he was brought home. Mrs. Pipchin, bitter and grim and not oblivious of the Peruvian minds as the establishment in general had good reason to know, received him at the door and freshened the domestics with several little sprinklings of wordy vinegar while they assisted in conveying him to his room. Mr. Corker remained in attendance until he was safe in bed and then as he declined to receive any female visitor but the excellent ogres who presided over his household waited on Mrs. Dombie once more with his report on her lord's condition. He found Edith alone with Florence and he again addressed the whole of his soothing speech to Edith as if she were a prey to the liveliest and most affectionate anxieties. So earnest he was in his respectful sympathy that on taking leave he ventured with one more glance towards Florence at the moment to take her hand and bending over it to touch it with his lips. Edith did not withdraw the hand nor did she strike his fair face with it despite the flush upon her cheek, the bright light in her eyes and the dilation of her whole form. But when she was alone in her own room she struck it on the marble chimney shelf so that at one blow it was bruised and bled and held it from her near the shining fire as if she could have thrust it in and burned it. Far into the night she sat alone by the sinking blaze in dark and threatening beauty watching the murky shadows looming on the wall as if her thoughts were tangible and cast them there. Whatever shapes of outrage and affront and black foreshadowings of things that might happen flickered indistinct and giant like before her one resented figure marshaled them against her and that figure was her husband. End of chapter 42. Chapter 43 of Dombie and Son. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dombie and Son by Charles Dickens. Recording by Cynthia Lyons. Chapter 43, The Watches of the Night. Florence, long since awakened from her dream, mournfully observed the estrangement between her father and Edith and saw it widen more and more and knew that there was greater bitterness between them every day. Each day's added knowledge deepened the shade upon her love and hope, roused up the old sorrow that had slumbered for a little time and made it even heavier to bear than it had been before. It had been hard. How hard may none but Florence ever know to have the natural affection of a true and earnest nature turned to agony and slight or stern repulse substituted for the tenderest protection and the dearest care. It had been hard to feel in her deep heart what she had felt and never know the happiness of one touch of response. But it was much more hard to be compelled to doubt either her father or Edith, so affectionate and dear to her and to think of her love for each of them by turns with fear, distrust, and wonder. Yet Florence now began to do so and the doing of it was a task imposed upon her by the very purity of her soul as one she could not fly from. She saw her father cold and obdurate to Edith as to her hard inflexible unyielding. Could it be she asked herself with starting tears that her own dear mother had been made unhappy by such treatment and had pined away and died? Then she would think how proud and stately Edith was to everyone but her with what disdain she treated him, how distantly she kept apart from him and what she had said on the night when she came home and quickly it would come on Florence almost as a crime that she loved one who was set in opposition to her father and that her father, knowing of it, must think of her in his solitary room as the unnatural child who added this wrong to the old fault. So much wept for of never having won his fatherly affection from her birth. The next kind word from Edith, the next kind glance would shake these thoughts again and make them seem like black ingratitude for who but she had cheered the drooping heart of Florence so lonely and so hurt and had been its best of comforters. Thus with her gentle nature yearning to them both feeling the misery of both and whispering doubts of her own duty to both Florence in her wider and expanded love and by the side of Edith endured more than when she had hoarded up her undivided secret in the mournful house and her beautiful mama had never dawned upon it. One exquisite unhappiness that would have far outweighed this Florence was spared. She never had the least suspicion that Edith by her tenderness for her widened the separation from her father or gave him new cause of dislike. If Florence had conceived the possibility of such an effect being wrought by such a cause what grief she would have felt what sacrifice she would have tried to make poor loving girl. How fast and sure her quiet passage might have been beneath it to the presence of that higher father who does not reject his children's love or spurn their tried and broken hearts. Heaven knows. But it was otherwise and that was well. No word was ever spoken between Florence and Edith now on these subjects. Edith had said there ought to be between them in that wise a division and a silence like the grave itself and Florence felt that she was right. In this state of affairs her father was brought home suffering and disabled and gloomily retired to his own rooms where he was tended by servants not approached by Edith and had no friend or companion but Mr. Corker who withdrew near midnight. And nice company he is Miss Floyd said Susan Nipper. Oh he's a precious piece of goods. If ever he wants a character don't let him come to me whatever he does that's all I tell him. Dear Susan urged Florence don't. Oh it's very well to say don't Miss Floyd return the Nipper much exasperated. But rally begging your pardon we're coming to such passes that it turns all the blood in a person's body into pins and needles with their pints always. Don't mistake me Miss Floyd I don't mean nothing against your ma-in-law who is always treating me as a lady should though she is rather high I must say not that I have any right to object to that particular but when we come to Mrs. Pimpinches and having them put over us and keeping guard at your Pa's door like crocodiles only make us thankful that they lay no eggs. We are a growing too outrageous. Papa thinks well of Mrs. Pimpin Susan returned Florence and has a right to choose his housekeeper you know pray don't. Well Miss Floyd return the Nipper when you say don't I never do I hope but Mrs. Pimpin acts like early gooseberries upon me Miss and nothing less. Susan was unusually emphatic and destitute of punctuation in her discourse on this night which was the night of Mr. Dombie's being brought home because having been sent downstairs by Florence to inquire after him she had been obliged to deliver her message to her mortal enemy Mrs. Pimpin who without carrying it in to Mr. Dombie had taken upon herself to return what Miss Nipper called a huffish answer on her own responsibility. This Susan Nipper construed into presumption on the part of that exemplary sufferer by the Peruvian minds and a deed of disparagement upon her young lady that was not to be forgiven and so far her emphatic state was special but she had been in a condition of greatly increased suspicion and distrust ever since the marriage like most persons of her quality of mind who form a strong and sincere attachment to one in the different station which Florence occupied Susan was very jealous and her jealousy naturally attached to Edith who divided her old empire and came between them. Proud and glad as Susan Nipper truly was that her young mistress should be advanced toward her proper place in the scene of her own neglect and that she should have her father's handsome wife for her companion and protectress she could not relinquish any part of her own dominion to the handsome wife without a grudge and a vague feeling of ill will for which she did not fail to find a disinterested justification in her sharp perception of the pride and passion of the lady's character from the background to which she had necessarily retired somewhat since the marriage Miss Nipper looked on, therefore at domestic affairs in general with a resolute conviction that no good would come of Mrs. Dombie always being very careful to publish on all possible occasions that she had nothing to say against her. Susan, said Florence, who was sitting thoughtfully at her table it is very late I shall want nothing more tonight. Ah, Miss Floyd, returned the Nipper I'm sure I often wish for them old times when I sat up with you hours later than this and fell asleep through being tired out when you was as broad awake as spectacles but you've ma in law to come and sit with you now, Miss Floyd, and I'm thankful for it, I'm sure I've not a word to say against them. I shall not forget who was my old companion when I had none, Susan returned Florence gently, never and looking up she put her arm round the neck of her humble friend drew her face down to hers and bidding her good night kissed it which so mollified Miss Nipper that she fell assobbing now my dear Miss Floyd, said Susan let me go downstairs again and see how your paw is I know you're wretched about him do let me go downstairs again and knock at his door my own self no, said Florence, go to bed we shall hear more in the morning I will inquire myself in the morning mama has been down, I dare say Florence blushed for she had no such hope or is there now, perhaps good night Susan was too much softened to express her private opinion on the probability of Mrs. Dombie's being in attendance on her husband and silently withdrew Florence, left alone soon hid her head upon her hands as she had often done in other days and did not restrain the tears from coursing down her face the misery of this domestic discord and unhappiness the withered hope she cherished now if hope it could be called of ever being taken to her father's heart her doubts and fears between the two the yearning of her innocent breast to both the heavy disappointment and regret of such an end as this to what had been a vision of bright hope and promise to her all crowded on her mind and made her tears flow fast her mother and her brother dead her father unmoved towards her Edith opposed to him and casting him away but loving her and loved by her it seemed as if her affection could never prosper rest where it would that week thought was soon hushed but the thoughts in which it had arisen were too true and strong to be dismissed with it and they made the night desolate among such reflection there rose up as there had risen up all day the image of her father wounded and in pain alone in his own room untended by those who should be nearest to him and passing the tardy hours in lonely suffering a frightened thought which made her start and clasp her hands though it was not a new one in her mind that he might die and never see her or pronounce her name thrilled her whole frame in her agitation she thought and trembled while she thought of once more stealing downstairs and venturing to his door she listened at her own the house was quiet and all the lights were out it was a long long time she thought since she used to make her nightly pilgrimage to his door it was a long long time she tried to think since she had entered his room at midnight and he had led her back to the stairfoot with the same child's heart within her as of old even with the child's sweet timid eyes and clustering hair Florence as strange to her father in her early maiden bloom as in her nursery time crept down the staircase listening as she went and drew near to his room no one was stirring in the house the door was partly open to admit air and all was so still within that she could hear the burning of the fire and count the ticking of the clock that stood upon the chimney piece she looked in in that room the housekeeper wrapped in a blanket was fast asleep in an easy chair before the fire the doors between it and the next were partly closed and a screen was drawn before them but there was a light there and it shone upon the cornice of his bed all was so very still that she could hear from his breathing that he was asleep this gave her courage to pass round the screen and look into his chamber it was as great a start to come upon his sleeping face as if she had not expected to see it Florence stood arrested on the spot and if he had awakened then must have remained there there was a cut upon his forehead and they had been wetting his hair which lay bedabbed and entangled on the pillow one of his arms resting outside the bed was bandaged up and he was very white but it was not this that after the first quick glance and first assurance of his sleeping quietly held Florence rooted to the ground it was something very different from this and more than this that made him look so solemn in her eyes she had never seen his face in all her life but there had been upon it or she fancied so some disturbing consciousness of her she had never seen his face in all her life but hope had sunk within her and her timid glance had drooped before its stern unloving and repelling harshness as she looked upon it now she saw it for the first time free from the cloud that had darkened her childhood calm tranquil night was raining in its stead he might have gone to sleep for anything she saw there blessing her awake unkind father awake now sullen man the time is flitting by the hour is coming with an angry tread awake there was no change upon his face and as she watched it awfully its motionless repose recalled the faces that were gone so they looked so would he so she his weeping child should say when so all the world of love and hatred and indifference around them when that time should come it would not be the heavier to him for this that she was going to do and it might fall something lighter upon her she stole close to the bed and drawing in her breath bent down and softly kissed him on the face and laid her own for one brief moment by its side and put the arm with which she dared not touch him round about him on the pillow awake doomed man while she is near the time is flitting by the hour is coming with an angry tread its foot is in the house awake in her mind she prayed to God to bless her father and to soften him towards her if it might be so and if not to forgive him if he was wrong and pardon her the prayer which almost seemed impiety and doing so and looking back at him with blinded eyes and stealing timidly away passed out of his room and crossed the other and was gone he may sleep on now he may sleep on while he may but let him look for that slight figure when he wakes and find it near him when the hour is come sad and grieving was the heart of Florence as she crept upstairs the quiet house had grown more dismal since she came down the sleep she had been looking on in the dead of night had the solemnity to her of death and life in one the secrecy and silence of her own proceeding made the night secret silent and oppressive she felt unwilling almost unable to go on to her own chamber and turning into the drawing rooms where the clouded moon was shining through the blinds looked out into the empty streets the wind was blowing drearily the lamps looked pale and shook as if they were cold there was a distant glimmer of something that was not quite darkness rather than of light in the sky and foreboding night was shivering and restless as the dying are who make a troubled end Florence remembered how as a watcher by a sick bed she had noted this bleak time and felt its influence as if in some hidden natural antipathy to it and now it was very very gloomy her mama had not come to her room that night which was one cause of her having sat late out of her bed in her general uneasiness no less than in her ardent longing to have somebody to speak to and to break the spell of gloom and silence Florence directed her steps towards the chamber where she slept the door was not fastened within and yielded smoothly to her hesitating hand she was surprised to find a bright light burning still more surprised on looking in to see that her mama but partially undressed was sitting near the ashes of the fire which had crumbled and dropped away her eyes were intently bent upon the air and in their light and in her face and in her form and in the grasp with which she held the elbows of her chair as if about to start up Florence saw such fierce emotion that it terrified her mama she cried what is the matter Edith started looking at her with such a strange dread in her face that Florence was more frightened than before mama said Florence hurriedly advancing dear mama what is the matter I have not been well said Edith shaking and still looking at her in the same strange way I have had bad dreams my love and yet not been to bed mama no she returned half waking dreams her features gradually softened and suffering Florence to come close to her within her embrace she said in a tender manner but what does my bird do here what does my bird do here I have been uneasy mama in not seeing you tonight and in not knowing how papa was and I Florence stopped there and said no more is it late asked Edith fondly putting back the curls that mingled with her own dark hair and straight upon her face very late near day near day she repeated in surprise dear mama what have you done to your hand said Florence Edith drew it suddenly away and for a moment looked at her with the same strange dread there was a sort of wild avoidance in it as before but she presently said nothing nothing a blow and then she said my Florence and then her bosom heaved and she was weeping passionately mama said Florence oh mama what can I do what should I do to make us happier is there anything nothing she replied are you sure of that can it never be if I speak now of what is in my thoughts in spite of what we have agreed said Florence you will not blame me will you it is useless she replied useless I have told you dear that I have had bad dreams nothing can change them or prevent their coming back I do not understand said Florence gazing on her agitated face which seemed to darken as she looked I have dreamed said Edith in a low voice of a pride that is all powerless for good all powerful for evil of a pride that has been galled and goaded through many shameful years and has never recoiled except upon itself a pride that has debased its owner with a consciousness of deep humiliation and never helped its owner boldly to resent it or avoided or to say this shall not be a pride that rightly guided might have led perhaps to better things but which misdirected and perverted like all else belonging to the same possessor has been self-contempt near hardyhood and ruin she neither looked nor spoke to Florence now but went on as if she were alone I have dreamed she said of such indifference and callousness arising from this self-contempt this wretched inefficient miserable pride that it has gone on with listless steps even to the altar yielding to the old familiar beckoning finger oh mother oh mother while it's spurned it and willing to be hateful to itself for once and for all rather than to be stung daily in some new form mean poor thing and now with gathering and darkening emotion she looked as she had looked when Florence entered and I have dreamed she said that in a first late effort to achieve a purpose it has been trodden on and troddened down by a base foot but turns and looks upon him I have dreamed that it is wounded hunted set upon by dogs but that it stands at bay and will not yield know that it cannot if it would but that it is urged on to hate him rise against him and defy him her clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had in hers and as she looked down on the alarmed and wondering face her own subsided oh Florence she said I think I have been nearly mad tonight and humbled her proud head upon her neck and wept again don't leave me be near me I have no hope but in you these words she said a score of times soon she grew calmer and was full of pity for the tears of Florence and for her waking at such untimely hours and the day now dawning Edith folded her in her arms and laid her down upon her bed and not lying down herself sat by her and bade her try to sleep for you are weary dearest and unhappy and should rest I am indeed unhappy dear mama tonight said Florence but you are weary and unhappy too not when you lie asleep so near me sweet they kissed each other and Florence worn out gradually fell into a gentle slumber but as her eyes closed on the face beside her it was so sad to think upon the face downstairs that her hand drew closer to Edith for some comfort yet even in the act it faltered lest it should be deserting him so in her sleep she tried to reconcile the two together and to show them that she loved them both but could not do it and her waking grief was part of her dreams Edith sitting by looked down at the dark eyelashes lying wet on the flush cheeks and looked with gentleness and pity for she knew the truth but no sleep hung upon her own eyes as the day came on she still sat watching and waking with the placid hand in hers and sometimes whispered as she looked at the hushed face be near me Florence I have no hope but in you End of Chapter 43