 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 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 a 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 the mother's last breath on her cheek, moved about her in the twilight, and were welcomed company. Peeping at the rosy children her neighbours, 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 dead 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 the 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 uncircled 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'm 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 dug, 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? asked 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 workman 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 crapped 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're very kind to me,' said Florence. "'Dear mama, how much I thank you!' "'Let me say now, for it may be the best opportunity,' continued 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 I would 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'll find me downstairs when you're ready. Slowly and thoughtfully did Edith wander alone through the mansion of which she was so soon to be the lady. And little heed took she of all the elegance and splendour 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 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 defined 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 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? O Edith, it were well to die indeed at such a time, better and happier far perhaps to die so, Edith, and to live on to the end. The honourable Mrs. Scootin, who was thinking of anything rather than of such sentiments, for, like many genteel persons who have existed at various times, she set her face against death altogether, and objected to the mention of any such low and levelling upstart. Had borrowed a house in Brook Street, Groverna 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. Scootin and her daughter. It being necessary for the credit of the family to make a handsome appearance at such a time, Mrs. Scootin, with the assistance of an accommodating tradesman resident in the parish of Mar-au-Libon, who lent out all sorts of articles to the nobility and gentry, from a service of plate to an army of footmen, clapped into this house a silver-headed butler, who was charged extra on that account as having the appearance of an ancient family retainer, two very tall young men in livery, and a select staff of kitchen servants, so that a legend arose downstairs that withers the page, released at once from his numerous household duties, and from the propulsion of the wheeled chair, inconsistent with them troblous, had been several times observed to rub his eyes and pinch his limbs, as if he misdoubted his having overslept himself at the Lamington Miltmans, 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. Scuton cushioned herself on the principal sofa and the Cleopatra attitude, and held her court in fair state. And how, said Mrs. Scuton, 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 of place in the white part of Mrs. Scuton's face, when that lady presented her ear, and relieved her of her difficulty. Edith, my dear, said Mrs. Scuton, positively I send a little more on the light, my sweetest Florence, for a moment. Florence blushingly complied. You don't remember, dearest Edith, said her mother, what you were when you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious Florence, or a few years younger? I have long forgotten, mother. For positively, my dear, said Mrs. Scuton, 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. Scuton, 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. Scuton's ear. And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet, said Mrs. Scuton, 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 scarcely believe it was the same voice. Mrs. Scuton 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. Scuton's expectation, would throw him into a perfect ecstasy. Florence was troubled to hear this, and her distress became so keen, as the dinner hour approached, that if she had known how to frame an entreaty to be suffered to return home, without involving her father in her explanation, she would have hurried back on foot, 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, endeavouring to understand and to reply to the bald discourse of that lady, when she heard his foot upon the stair. I hear him now! cried Florence, starting. He is coming! Cleopatra, who in her juvenility was always playfully disposed, and who in her self-engrossment did not trouble herself about the nature of this agitation, pushed Florence behind her couch, and dropped a shawl over her, preparatory to giving Mr. 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 his child. My dear Dombie! said Cleopatra, come here and tell me how your pretty Florence is. Florence is very well, said Mr. Dombie, advancing towards 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 own 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. I—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 weakness. But you know my open soul. Very well, immediately. This was addressed to one of the very tall young men who announced dinner. But Edith, my dear 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 the spirit nothing would keep her from riding off today to fetch our darling Florence. Well, how excessively charming that is! As she waited for an answer, Mr. 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 bristness, after the last of an addiction, 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 with 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 for me, was now ready, and as I was mentioning to you, Edith, has only to do us the favour to suggest her own time for its execution. Edith sat like a handsome statue, as cold, as silent, and as still. My dearest love, said Cleopatra, do you hear what Mr. Dombie says? Ah, my dear Dombie, aside to that gentleman, how her absence as the time approaches reminds me of the days when that most agreeable of creatures, her papa, was in your situation. I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you please, said Edith, scarcely looking over the table at Mr. Dombie. Tomorrow, suggested Mr. Dombie, if you please, or would 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, at 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 quarrelling 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 honours 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 colour 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 the 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 funerial 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 fruit-dishes 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 arm chair 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 fordoomed 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 at 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 altars 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 head ache, 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. There 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 remained 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 drives to milleners, 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 milleners' intentions on the subject of this dress, the millener was a French woman, and greatly resembled Mrs. Cuten, were so chaste and elegant that Mrs. Cuten bespoke one like it for herself. The millener 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. Edith looked at nothing, and cared for nothing. Her rich dresses came home, and were tried on, and were loudly commended by Mrs. Cuten and the milleners, and were put away without a word from her. Mrs. Cuten 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. Cuten 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. Cuten's head was no better yet, though she expected to recover permanently to-morrow, were that lady Edith and Mr. Donby. Edith was at her open window, looking out into the street. Mr. Donby and Cleopatra were talking softly on the sofa. It was growing late, and Florence, being fatigued, had gone to bed. My dear Donby, said Cleopatra, you will leave me, Florence, tomorrow, when you deprive me of my sweetest Edith. Mr. Donby said he would, with pleasure. To have her about me here, while you are both in Paris, and to think at her age, I am assisting in the formation of her mind, my dear Donby, said Cleopatra, will be a perfect balm 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. Donby would be delighted to leave Florence in such admirable guardianship. My dear Donby, returned Cleopatra, a thousand thanks for your good opinion. I feared you were going with malice of all thought, as the dreadful lawyers say, those horrid praises, to condemn me to utter solitude. Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam? said Mr. Donby. Because my charming Florence tells me so positively she must go home, and to-morrow, returned Cleopatra, that I began to be afraid, my dearest Donby, you were quite a bushy whore. I assure you, madam, said Mr. Donby, I have laid no commands on Florence, and if I had, there are no commands like your wish. My dear Donby, 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 Donby? Oh, indeed, it was late, and Mr. Donby feared he must. Is this a fact, or is it all a dream? Listed Cleopatra, can I believe, my dearest Donby, that you are coming back tomorrow morning to deprive me of my sweet companion, my own Edith? Mr. Donby, who is accustomed to take things literally, reminded Mrs. Gutten that they were to meet first at the church. The pang, said Mrs. Gutten, of consigning a child, even to you, my dear Donby, is one of the most excruciating imaginable, and combined with a naturally delicate constitution, and the extreme stupidity of the pastry-cook who is undertaken to breakfast is almost too much for my poor strength. But I shall rally, my dear Donby, 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 towards him, and said nothing. Mr. Donby, with a lofty gallantry, adapted to his dignity in the occasion, betook his creaking boots towards her, put her hand to his lips, said, Tomorrow morning I shall have the happiness of claiming this hand as Mrs. Donby's, and bowed himself solemnly out. Mrs. Gutten 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. Gutten tried it on, with mincing satisfaction, smirked at her cadaverous self in the glass, as she thought of its killing effect upon the major, and suffering her maid to dig 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 the daughter, whose glance of fire was bent downward upon her, 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 dragged 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 to-night, after all my pains and labour, and when you are going through me, to be rendered independent—her mother almost shrieked in her passion, while her pulsed 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 whined—I am sure it will 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 frighted parent hastily. I am sure I am willing 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 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 learnt. 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 but such extremely cutting words. They are past, and at an end between us now, said Edith. Take your own way, mother. Share as you please and 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 the foot set itself upon the neck of every softer motion, 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 preparations 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 bridle, Edith Granger wrestled with her unquiet spirit, 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, at 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 Granger passed the night before her bridle. Thus the sun found her on her bridle morning. End of chapter 30 Chapter 31 Of Dombey 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. Recorded by Mil Nicholson. Dombey and Son by Charles Dickens Chapter 31 The Wedding Dawn with its passionless blank face. Steals shivering to the church, beneath which lies the dust of little Paul and his mother, and looks in at the windows. It is cold and dark. Night crouches yet upon the pavement, and broods somber and heavy in nooks and corners of the building. The steeple-clock perched up above the houses, emerging from beneath another of the countless ripples in the tide of time that regularly roll and break on the eternal shore, is grayly visible like a stone beacon, recording how the sea flows on. But within doors, dawn at first, can only peep at night and see that it is there. Hovering feebly round the church and looking in, dawn moans and weeps for its short rain, and its tears trickle on the window-glass, and the trees against the church wall bow their heads and wring their many hands in sympathy. Night, growing pale before it, gradually fades out of the church, but lingers in the vaults below, and sits upon the coffins. And now comes bright day, burnishing the steeple-clock, and reddening the spire, and drying up the tears of dawn, and stifling its complaining. And the dawn, following the night, and chasing it from its last refuge, shrinks into the vaults itself and hides, with a frightened face among the dead, until night returns refreshed to drive it out. And now the mice, who have been busier with the prayer-books and their proper owners, and with the hassocks more worn by their little teeth than by human knees, hide their bright eyes in their holes, and gather close together in a fright at the resounding clashing of the church door. For the beetle, that man of power, comes early this morning with the sexton. And Mrs. Miff, the weezy little pew-opener, a mighty dry old lady, sparely dressed, with not an inch of fullness anywhere about her, is also here, and has been waiting at the church gate half an hour, as her place is for the beetle. A vinegary face has Mrs. Miff, and a mortified bonnet, and eek of thirsty soul for sixpences and chillings. Beckoning to stray people to come into pews has given Mrs. Miff an air of mystery, and there is reservation in the eye of Mrs. Miff, as always knowing of a softer seat, but having her suspicions of the fee. There is no such fact as Mr. Miff, nor has there been these twenty years, and Mrs. Miff would rather not allude to him. He held some bad opinions, it would seem, about free seats, and though Mrs. Miff hopes he may be gone upwards, she couldn't positively undertake to say so. Busy is Mrs. Miff this morning at the church door, beating and dusting the altar-cloth, the carpet, and the cushions, and much has Mrs. Miff to say about the wedding they are going to have. Mrs. Miff is told that the new furniture and alterations in the house cost full five thousand pound if they cost a penny, and Mrs. Miff has heard, upon the best authority, that the lady hasn't got a sixpence, wherewith all to bless herself. Mrs. Miff remembers, like wise, as if it had happened yesterday, the first wife's funeral, and then the christening, and then the other funeral. And Mrs. Miff says, by the by, she'll soap and water that ear-tablet presently against the company arrive. Mr. Sounds, the beadle, who is sitting in the sun upon the church steps all this time, and Sullivan does anything else, except in cold weather, sitting by the fire, approves of Mrs. Miff's discourse, and asks if Mrs. Miff has heard it said that the lady is uncommon handsome. The information Mrs. Miff has received, being of this nature, Mr. Sounds, the beadle, who, though orthodox and corpulent, is still an admirer of female beauty, observes with unction, yes, he hears she is a spanker, an expression that seems somewhat forcible to Mrs. Miff, or wood from any lips, but those of Mr. Sounds, the beadle. In Mr. Dombie's house, at this same time, there is great stir and bustle, more especially among the women, not one of whom has had a wink of sleep since four o'clock, and all of whom were fully dressed before six. Mr. Talenson is an object of greater consideration than usual to the housemaid, and the cook says at breakfast time that one wedding makes many, which the housemaid can't believe and don't think true at all. Mr. Talenson reserves his sentiments on this question, being rendered something gloomy by the engagement of a foreigner with whiskers. Mr. Talenson is whiskalous himself, who has been hired to accompany the happy pair to Paris, and who is busy packing the new chariot. In respect of this personage, Mr. Talenson admits, presently, that he never knew of any good that ever come of foreigners, and being charged by the ladies with prejudice says, look at Bonaparte, who is at the head of him, and see what he was always up to, which the housemaid says is very true. The pastry-cook is hard at work in the funereal room in Brookstreet, and the very tall young men are busy looking on. One of the very tall young men already smells of sherry, and his eyes have a tendency to become fixed in his head, and to stare at objects without seeing them. The very tall young man is conscious of this failing in himself, and informs his comrade that it's his excisement. The very tall young man would say excitement, but his speech is hazy. The men who play the bells have got centre of the marriage, and the marrow-bones and cleavers too, and a brass band too. The first are practising in a back settlement near Battlebridge. The second put themselves in communication through their chief with Mr. Talenson, to whom they offer terms to be bought off. And the third, in the person of an artful trombone, lurks and dodges round the corner, waiting for some traitor-traysman to reveal the place and hour of breakfast for a bribe. Expectation and excitement extend further yet, and take a wider range. From Ball's pond Mr. Perch brings Mrs. Perch to spend the day with Mr. Dombie's servants, and accompany them surreptitiously to see the wedding. In Mr. Toots's lodgings, Mr. Toots attires himself as if he were at least the bridegroom, determined to behold the spectacle in splendour from a secret corner of the gallery, and thither to convey the chicken. For it is Mr. Toots's desperate intent to point out Florence to the chicken, then and there, and openly to say, Now, chicken, I will not deceive you any longer. The friend I have sometimes mentioned to you is myself. Miss Dombie is the object of my passion. What are your opinions, chicken, in this state of things, and what on the spot do you advise? The so much to be a sonnished chicken, in the meanwhile, dips his beak into a tankard of strong beer in Mr. Toots's kitchen, and pecks up two pounds of beef steaks. In Princess's place, Miss Tox is up and doing. For she too, though in sore distress, is resolved to put a shilling in the hands of Mrs. Miff, and see the ceremony, which has a cruel fascination for her, from some lonely corner. The quarters of the wooden midshipment are all alive. For Captain Cattle, in his ankle-jacks, and with a huge shirt-collar, is seated at his breakfast, listening to Rob the grinder, as he reads the marriage service to him beforehand, and orders to the end that the captain may perfectly understand the solemnity he is about to witness. For which purpose the captain gravely lays injunctions on his chaplain, from time to time, to put about, or to overhaul that ear-article again, or to stick to his own duty, and leave the amends to him, the captain, one of which he repeats whenever a pause is made by Rob the grinder, with sonnorous satisfaction. Besides all this, and much more, twenty nursery-maids in Mr. Dombie's street alone have promised twenty families of little women whose instinctive interest in nuptials dates from their cradles, that they shall go and see the marriage. Truly Mr. Sounds the Beetle has good reason to feel himself in office, as he sons his portly figure on the church steps, waiting for the marriage hour. Truly Mrs. Miff has caused to pounce on an unlucky dwarf child, with a giant baby, who peeps in at the porch, and drive her forth with indignation. Cousin Phoenix has come over from abroad expressly to attend the marriage. Cousin Phoenix was a man about town forty years ago, but he is still so juvenile in figure and in manner, and so well got up, that strangers are amazed when they discover latent wrinkles in his lordship's face, and crow's feet in his eyes, and first observe him, not exactly certain, when he walks across a room, of going quite straight to where he wants to go. But Cousin Phoenix getting up at half past seven o'clock or so, is quite another thing from Cousin Phoenix got up, and very dim indeed he looks, while being shaved at Long's Hotel in Bond Street. Mr. Donby leaves his dressing room, amidst a general whisking away of the women on the staircase, who disperse in all directions for the great rustling of skirts, except Mrs. Perch, who being, but that she always is, in an interesting situation, is not nimble and is obliged to face him, and is ready to sink with confusion as she curtsies, may heaven avert all evil consequences from the house of Perch. Mr. Donby walks up to the drawing-room to bide his time. Gorgeous are Mr. Donby's new blue coat, fawn-coloured pantalooms, and lilac waistcoat, and a whisper goes about the house that Mr. Donby's hair is curled. A double knock announces the arrival of the Major, who is gorgeous too, and wears a whole geranium in his buttonhole, and has his hair curled tight and crisp, as well the native knows. Donby says the Major, putting out both hands. How are you? Major says Mr. Donby. How are you? By Joe, sir, says the Major. Joey B is in such case this morning, sir. And here he hits himself hard upon the breast. In such case this morning, sir, that damn Donby, he has half a mind to make a double marriage out, sir, and take the mother. Mr. Donby smiles, but faintly even for him, for Mr. Donby feels that he is going to be related to the mother, and that under those circumstances she is not to be joked about. Donby, says the Major, seeing this. I give you joy. I congratulate you, Donby, by the Lord, sir, says the Major. You are more to be envied this day than any man in England. Here again Mr. Donby's assent is qualified, because he is going to confer a great distinction on a lady, and no doubt she is to be envied most. As to Edith Granger, sir, pursues the Major. There is not a woman in all Europe but might, and would, sir, you will allow Bucksock to add, and would give her ears and her earrings, too, to be in Edith Granger's place. You are good enough to say so, Major, says Mr. Donby. Donby returns the Major. You know it. Let us have no false delicacy. You know it. Do you know it, or do you not, Donby? says the Major, almost in a passion. Oh, really, Major? Damn, sir! reports the Major. Do you know that fact, or do you not? Donby? Is old Joe your friend? Are we on that footing of unreserved intimacy, Donby, that may justify a man, a blunt old Joseph B., sir, in speaking out? Or am I to take open order, Donby, and to keep my distance, and to stand on forms? My dear Major Bagstock, says Mr. Donby, with a gratified air. You are quite warm. By God, sir, says the Major. I am warm. Joseph B. does not deny it, Donby. He is warm. This is an occasion, sir, that calls forth all the honest sympathies remaining in an old, infernal, battered, used-up, invalidated JB Carcass. And I tell you what, Donby? At such a time, a man must blurt out what he feels, or put a muzzle on. And Joseph Bagstock tells you to your face, Donby, as he tells his club behind your back, that he never will be muzzled when Paul Donby is in question. Now, damn, sir, concludes the Major with great firmness. What do you make of that? Major, says Mr. Donby, I assure you that I am really obliged to you. I have no idea of checking your two-partial friendship. Not two-partial, sir, exclaims the choleric Major. Donby, I deny it. Your friendship, I will say then, pursues Mr. Donby, on any account, nor can I forget, Major, on such an occasion as the present, how much I am indebted to it. Donby, says the Major, with appropriate action. That is the hand of Joseph Bagstock, of plain old Joey Beesa, if you like that better. That is the hand of which his Royal Highness, the late Duke of York, did me the honor to observe, sir, to his Royal Highness, the late Duke of Kent, that it was the hand of Josh, a rough and tough and possibly an up-to-snuff old vagabond Donby, may the present moment be the least unhappy of our lives. God bless you. Now enters Mr. Carca, gorgeous likewise, and smiling like a wedding guest indeed. He can scarcely let Mr. Donby's hand go, he is so congratulatory, and he shakes the Major's hand so heartily at the same time, that his voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it comes sliding from between his teeth. The very day is auspicious, says Mr. Carca. The brightest and most genial weather, I hope I am not a moment late. Put you to your time, sir. Says the Major. I am rejoiced, I am sure, says Mr. Carca. I was afraid I might be a few seconds after the appointed time, for I was delayed by a procession of wagons, and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook Street, this to Mr. Donby, to leave a few poor rarities of flowers for Mrs. Donby, the man in my position, and so distinguished as to be invited here, is proud to offer some homage in acknowledgement of his versilage, and as I have no doubt Mrs. Donby is overwhelmed with what is costly and magnificent. With a strange glance at his patron, I hope the very poverty of my offering may find favour for it. Mrs. Donby, that is to be, returns Mr. Donby condescendingly, will be very sensible of your attention, Carca, I am sure. And if she is to be Mrs. Donby this morning, sir, says the Major, putting down his coffee cup and looking at his watch, it's high time you were off. Fourth, in a barouche, ride Mr. Donby, major bag stock, and Mr. Carca to the church. Mr. Sounds, the beetle, has long risen from steps, and isn't waiting with his cocked hat in his hand. Mrs. Miff curtsies and proposes chairs in the vestry. Mr. Donby prefers remaining in the church. As he looks up at the organ, Ms. Tox, in the gallery, shrinks behind the fat leg of a cherubim on a monument, with cheeks like a young wind. Captain Cuttle, on the contrary, stands up and waves his hook in token of welcome and encouragement. Mr. Toots informs the chicken behind his hand that the middle gentleman, he in the fawn-coloured pantaloons, is the father of his love. The chicken hoarsely whispers, Mr. Toots, that he's as stiff a cove as ever he see, but that it is within the resources of science to double him up with one blow in the waistcoat. Mr. Sounds and Mrs. Miff are eyeing Mr. Donby from a little distance. When the noise of approaching wheels is heard, and Mr. Sounds goes out. Mrs. Miff, meeting Mr. Donby's eye, as it is withdrawn from the presumptuous maniac upstairs, who solutes him with so much urbanity, drops a curtsy and informs him that she believes his good lady has come. Then there is a crowding and a whispering at the door, and the good lady enters with a haughty step. There is no sign upon her face of last night's suffering. There is no trace in her manner of the woman on the bended knees reposing her wild head in beautiful abandonment upon the pillow of the sleeping girl. That girl, all gentle and lovely, is at her side, a striking contrast to her own disdainful and defiant figure, standing there, composed, erect, inscrutable of will, resplendent and majestic in the zenith of its charms, yet beating down and treading on the admiration that it challenges. There is a pause while Mr. Sounds, the beetle, glides into the vestry for the clergyman and clerk. At this juncture, Mr. Scuton speaks to Mr. Donby, more distinctly and emphatically than her custom is, and moving at the same time close to Edith. My dear Donby, said the good mamar, I fear I must relinquish darling Florence, after all, and suffer her to go home as she herself proposed. After my loss of today, my dear Donby, I feel I shall not have spirits, even for her society. Had she not better stay with you? returns the Brigham. I think not, my dear Donby. No, I think not. I shall be better alone. Besides, my dearest Edith will be her natural and constant guardian when you return, and I had better not encroach upon her trust, perhaps. She might be jealous, eh, dear Edith? The affectionate mamar presses her daughter's arm, as she says this, perhaps in treating her attention earnestly. To be serious, my dear Donby, she resumes, I will relinquish our dear child, and not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled that just now. She fully understands, dear Donby. Edith, my dear, she fully understands. Again the good mother presses her daughter's arm. Mr. Donby offers no additional remonstrance, but the clergyman and clerk appear, and Mrs. Miff and Mr. Sounds the Beedle group the party in their proper places at the altar rails. The sun is shining down upon the golden letters of the Ten Commandments. Why does the bride's eye read them one by one? Which one of all the Ten appears the plainest to her in the glare of light? False gods? Murder? Theft? The honor that she owes her mother? Which is it that appears to leave the wall and printing itself in glowing letters on her book? Who giveth this woman to be married to this man? Cousin Phoenix does that. He has come from Barden-Barden on purpose. Confounded, Cousin Phoenix says, Good-natured creature, Cousin Phoenix, when we do get a rich city fellow into the family, let us show him some attention, let us do something for him. I give this woman to be married to this man, Seth Cousin Phoenix, therefore. Cousin Phoenix, meaning to go in a straight line, returning off sideways by reason of his willful legs, gives the wrong woman to be married to this man at first, to wit a bridesmaid of some condition, distantly connected with the family, and ten years Mrs. Scuton's junior. But Mrs. Miff, interposing her mortified bonnet, dexterously turns him back, and runs him, as on casters, full at the good lady, whom Cousin Phoenix giveth to be married to this man accordingly. And will they in the sight of heaven? I that they will. Mr. Donby says he will. And what says Edith? She will. So, from that day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, and sickness, and in health, to love, and to cherish, till death do them part, they plight their truth to one another, and are married. In a firm, free hand, the bride subscribes her name and the register, when they adjourn to the vestry. There ain't a many ladies come here, Mrs. Miff says with the cursey, to look at Mrs. Miff at such a season as to make her mortified bonnet go down with the dip, writes their names like this good lady. Mr. Sounds the Beedle thinks it is a truly spanking signature, and worthy of the writer. This, however, between himself and conscience. Florence signs, too, but unapplauded, for her handshakes. All the party sign. Cousin Phoenix last, who puts his noble name into a wrong place, and enrols himself as having been born that morning. The major now salutes the bride right gallantly, and carries out that branch of military tactics in reference to all the ladies, notwithstanding Mrs. Scootens being extremely hard to kiss, and squeaking shrilly in the sacred edifice. The example is followed by Cousin Phoenix, and even by Mr. Donby. Lastly, Mr. Karker, with his white teeth glistening, approaches Edith more as if he meant to bite her, and to taste the sweets that linger on her lips. There is a glow upon her proud cheek, and a flashing in her eyes, that may be meant to stay him. But it does not, for he salutes her as the rest have done, and wishes her all happiness. If wishes, says he in a low voice, are not superfluous supplied to such a union? I thank you, sir," she answers, with a curled lip, and a heaving bosom. But does Edith feel still, as on the night when she knew that Mr. Donby would return to offer his alliance, that Karker knows her thoroughly, and reads her right, and that she is more degraded by his knowledge of her than by ought else? Is it for this reason that her haughtiness shrinks beneath his smile, like snow within the hands that grasps it firmly, and that her imperious glance droops in meeting his, and seeks the ground? I am proud to see, said Mr. Karker, of the servile stooping of his neck, which the revelations making by his eyes and teeth proclaim to be a lie. I am proud to see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs. Donby's hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place, in so joyful an occasion. Though she bends her head in answer, there is something in the momentary action of her hand, as if she would crush the flowers it holds, and fling them with contempt upon the ground. But she puts the hand through the arm of her new husband, who has been standing near, conversing with the major, and is proud again, and motionless, and silent. The carriages are once more at the church door. Mr. Donby, with his bride upon his arm, conducts her through the twenty families of little women who are on the steps, and every one of whom remembers the fashion and the colour of her every article of dress from that moment, and reproduces it on her doll, who is forever being married. Cleopatra and Cousin Phoenix enter the same carriage, the major hands into a second carriage, Florence, and the bridesmaid, who so narrowly escaped being given away by mistake, and then enters it himself, and is followed by Mr. Carca. Horses, prance, and caper, coachman, and footman shine in fluttering favours, flowers, and new-made liveries. A way they dash and rattle through the streets, and as they pass along, a thousand heads are turned to look at them, and a thousand sober moralists revenge themselves for not being married to, that morning, by reflecting that these people little think such happiness can't last. Ms. Tox emerges from behind the cherubim's leg, when all is quiet, and comes slowly down from the gallery. Ms. Tox's eyes are red, and her pocket handkerchief is damp. She is wounded, but not exasperated, and she hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to herself the beauty of the bride, and her own comparatively feeble and faded attractions, that the stately image of Mr. Dombey in his lilac waistcoat, and his fawn-coloured pantaloons, is present to her mind, and Ms. Tox weeps afresh behind her veil on her way home to Princess's place. Captain Cuttle, having joined in all the arm-ends and responses with a devout growl, feels much improved by his religious exercises, and in a peaceful frame of mind pervades the body of the church, glazed hat in hand, and reads the tablet to the memory of little Paul. The gallant Mr. Toots, attended by the faithful chicken, leaves the building in torments of love. The chicken is as yet unable to elaborate a scheme for winning Florence, but his first idea has gained possession of him, and he thinks the doubling up of Mr. Dombey would be a move in the right direction. Mr. Dombey's servants come out of their hiding places, and prepare to rush to Brook Street, when they are delayed by symptoms of indisposition on the part of Mrs. Perch, who entreats a glass of water and becomes alarming. Mrs. Perch gets better soon, however, and is born away, and Mrs. Miff, and Mr. Sounds the Beedle, sit upon the steps to count what they have gained by the affair, and talk it over while the sexton tolls a funeral. Now the carriages arrive at the bride's residence, and the players on the bells begin to jingle, and the band strikes up, and Mr. Punch, that model of cannubial bliss, salutes his wife. Now the people run and push, and press round in a gaping throng, while Mr. Dombey, leading Mrs. Dombey by the hand, advances solemnly into the Phoenix Halls. Now the rest of the wedding party alight, and enter after them. And why is Mr. Carca, passing through the people to the hall door, think of the old woman who called to him in the grove that morning? Or why does Florence, as she passes, think with the tremble of her childhood, when she was lost, and of the visage of good Mrs. Browne? Now there are more congratulations on this happiest of days, and more company, though not much. And now they leave the drawing-room, and range themselves at table in the dark brown dining-room, which no confectioner can brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted negroes with as many flowers and love-nots as he will. The pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though, and a rich breakfast is set forth. Mr. and Mrs. Chick have joined the party, among others. Mrs. Chick admires that Edith should be, by nature, such a perfect Dombey, and is affable and confidential to Mrs. Scootin, whose mind is relieved of a great load, and who takes her share of the champagne. The very tall young man, who suffered from excitement early, is better, but a vague sentiment of repentance has seized upon him, and he hates the other very tall young man, and rests dishes from him by violence, and takes a grim delight in disobliging the company. The company are cool and calm, and do not outrage the black hatchments of pictures looking down upon them by any excess of mirth. Cousin Phoenix and the Major are the gayest there, but Mr. Karka has a smile for the whole table. He has a special smile for the bride, who very, very seldom meets it. Cousin Phoenix rises, when the company have breakfasted, and the servants have left the room, and wonderfully young he looks, with his white wristbands almost covering his hands, otherwise rather bony, and the bloom of the champagne in his cheeks. Upon my honour, says Cousin Phoenix, although it's an unusual sort of thing in a private to gentleman's house, I must beg leave to call upon you to drink what is usually called a, in fact, a toast. The Major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr. Karka, bending his head forward over the table in the direction of Cousin Phoenix, smiles and nods a great many times. In fact, it's not a Cousin Phoenix beginning again, thus comes to a dead stop. Here, here, says the Major in a tone of conviction. Mr. Karka softly claps his hands, and bending forward over the table again smiles and nods a great many more times than before, as if he were particularly struck by this last observation, and desired personally to express his sense of the good it has done. It is, says Cousin Phoenix, an occasion, in fact, when the general usages of life may be a little departed from, without impropriety, and although I never was an orator in my life, and when I was in the House of Commons, and had the honour of seconding the address, was, in fact, was laid up for a fortnight with the consciousness of failure. Major and Mr. Karka are so much delighted by this fragment of personal history that Cousin Phoenix laughs, and addressing them individually goes on to say, and in point of fact, when I was devilish ill, still, you know, I feel that a duty devolves upon me, and when a duty devolves upon an Englishman, he is bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best way he can. Well, our family has had the gratification today of connecting itself in the person of my lovely and accomplished relative, whom I now see in point of fact present. Here there is general applause. Present, repeats Cousin Phoenix, feeling that it is a neat point which will bear repetition, with one who, that is to say, with a man at whom the finger of scorn can never, in fact, with my honourable friend, if he will allow me to call him so. Cousin Phoenix bows to Mr. Dombie. Mr. Dombie solemnly returns the bow. Everybody is more or less gratified and affected by this extraordinary, and perhaps unprecedented, appeal to the feelings. I have not, says Cousin Phoenix, enjoyed those opportunities which I could have desired of cultivating the acquaintance of my friend Dombie, and studying those qualities, which do equal honour to his head, and in point of fact to his heart. For it has been my misfortune to be, as we used to say in my time in the House of Commons, when it was not the custom to allude to the lords, and when the order of parliamentary proceedings was perhaps better observed than it is now, to be in point of fact, says Cousin Phoenix, cherishing his joke with great slinus, and finally bringing it out with a jerk in another place. The major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with difficulty. But I know sufficient of my friend Dombie, resumes Cousin Phoenix in a graver tone, as if he had suddenly become a sadder and wiser man, to know that he is in point of fact what may be emphatically called a merchant, a British merchant, and a man. And although I have been resident abroad for some years, it would give me great pleasure to receive my friend Dombie and everybody here at Barden-Barden and to have an opportunity of making him known to the Grand Duke. Still I know enough, I flatter myself, of my lovely and accomplished relative, to know that she possesses every requisite to make a man happy, and that her marriage with my friend Dombie is one of inclination and affection on both sides. Many smiles and nods from Mr. Kaka. Therefore, says Cousin Phoenix, I congratulate the family of which I am a member on the acquisition of my friend Dombie. I congratulate my friend Dombie on his union with my lovely and accomplished relative, who possesses every requisite to make a man happy. And I take the liberty of calling on you all in point of fact to congratulate both my friend Dombie and my lovely and accomplished relative on the present occasion. The speech of Cousin Phoenix is received with great applause, and Mr. Dombie returns thanks on behalf of himself and Mrs. Dombie. J.B., shortly afterwards, proposes Mrs. Gutten. The breakfast languishes when that is done. The violated hatchments are avenged, and Edith rises to assume her travelling dress. All the servants in the meantime have been breakfasting below. Champagne has grown too common among them to be mentioned, and roast fowls, raised pies, and lobster salad have become mere drugs. The very tall young man has recovered his spirits, and again alludes to the excisement. His comrade's eye begins to emulate his own, and he too stares at objects without taking cognizance thereof. There is a general redness in the faces of the ladies, in the face of Mrs. Perch particularly, who is joyous and beaming, and lifted so far above the cares of life, that if she were asked just now to direct a wayfarer to Ball's pond, where her own care is large, she would have some difficulty in recalling the way. Mr. Towlinson has proposed the happy pair, to which the silver-headed butler has responded neatly and with emotion, for he half begins to think he is an old retainer of the family, and that he is bound to be affected by these changes. The whole party, and especially the ladies, are very frolicsome. Mr. Dombie's cook, who generally takes the lead in society, has said it is impossible to settle down after this, and why not go, in a party, to the play. Everybody, Mrs. Perch included, has agreed to this, even the native, who is tigerish in his drink, and who alarms the ladies, Mrs. Perch particularly, by the rolling of his eyes. One of the very tall young men has even proposed a ball after the play, and it presents itself to no one, Mrs. Perch included, in the light of an impossibility. Words have arisen between the housemaid and Mr. Towlinson. She, on the authority of an old sore, asserting marriages to be made in heaven. He, affecting to trace the manufacture elsewhere, he supposing that she says so, because she thinks of being married her own self. She saying, Lord forbid, at any rate, that you should ever marry him. To calm these flying taunts, the silver-headed butler rises to propose the health of Mr. Towlinson, whom to know is to esteem, and to esteem is to wish well settled in life with the object of his choice. Wherever, here, the silver-headed butler eyes the housemaid, she may be. Mr. Towlinson returns thanks, in a speech replete with feeling, of which the peroration turns on foreigners, regarding whom he says they may find favour, sometimes, with weak and inconstant intellects, that can be led away by hair, but all he hopes is, he may never hear of no foreigner never boning nothing out of no travelling chariot. The eye of Mr. Towlinson is so severe, and so expressive here, that the housemaid is turning hysterical. When she and all the rest, roused by the intelligence that the bride is going away, hurry upstairs to witness her departure. The chariot is at the door. The bride is descending to the hall, where Mr. Donby waits for her. Florence is ready on the staircase to depart, too, and Miss Nipper, who has held a middle state between the parlour and the kitchen, is prepared to accompany her. As Edith appears, Florence hastens to want her to bid her farewell. Is Edith cold, that she should tremble? Is there anything unnatural or unwholesome in the touch of Florence, that the beautiful form recedes and contracts, as if he could not bear it? Is there so much hurry in this going away, that Edith, with the wave of her hand, sweeps on, and is gone? Mrs. Scootin, overpowered by her feelings as a mother, sinks on her sofa in the Cleopatra attitude, when the clatter of the chariot wheels is lost, and sheds several tears. The major, coming with the rest of the company from table, endeavours to comfort her, but she will not be comforted on any terms, and so the major takes his leave. Custon Phoenix takes his leave, and Mr. Carker takes his leave. The guests all go away. Cleopatra, left alone, feels a little giddy from her strong emotion, and falls asleep. Giddiness prevails below stairs, too. The very tall young man, whose excitement came on so soon, appears to have his head glued to the table in the pantry, and cannot be detached from it. A violent revulsion has taken place in the spirits of Mrs. Perch, who is low on account of Mr. Perch, and tells Cook that she fears he is not so much attached to his home as he used to be, when there were only nine in family. Mr. Talenson has a singing in his ears, and a large wheel going round and round inside his head. The housemaid wishes it wasn't wicked to wish that one was dead. There is a general delusion likewise, in these lower regions, on the subject of time. Everybody conceiving that it ought to be, at the earliest, ten o'clock at night, whereas it is not yet three in the afternoon. A shadowy idea of wickedness committed haunts every individual in the party, and each one secretly thinks the other a companion in guilt, whom it would be agreeable to avoid. No man or woman has the hardy-hood to hint at the projected visit to the play. Anyone reviving the notion of the ball would be scouted as a malignant idiot. Mrs. Scuton sleeps upstairs, two hours afterwards, and naps are not yet over in the kitchen. The hatchments in the dining room look down on crumbs, dirty plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed ice, stale discoloured heel-taps, scraps of lobster, drumsticks of fouls, and pensive jellies, gradually resolving themselves into a lukewarm, gummy soup. The marriage is, by this time, almost as denuded of its show and garnish as the breakfast. Mr. Dombi's servants moralise so much about it, and are so repentant over their early tea at home, that by eight o'clock or so they settle down into confirmed seriousness. And Mr. Perch, arriving at that time from the city, fresh and jocular with a white waistcoat and a comic song ready to spend the evening in prepared for any amount of dissipation, is amazed to find himself coldly received, and Mrs. Perch but poorly, and to have the pleasing duty of escorting that lady home by the next omnibus. Night closes in. Florence, having rambled through the handsome house from room to room, seeks her own chamber, where the care of Edith has surrounded her with luxuries and comforts, and divesting herself of her handsome dress, puts on her old simple mourning for dear Paul, and sits down to read, with diogenes winking and blinking on the ground beside her. But Florence cannot read to-night. The house seems strange and new, and there are loud echoes in it. There is a shadow on her heart. She knows not why or what, but it is heavy. Florence shuts her book, and gruff diogenes, who takes that for a signal, puts his paws upon her lap, and rubs his ears against her caressing hands. But Florence cannot see him plainly in a little time, for there is a mist between her eyes and him, and her dead brother and dead mother shine in it like angels. Walter too, poor wandering shipwrecked boy. Oh, where is he? The Major don't know. That's for certain, and don't care. The Major, having choked and slumbered all the afternoon, has taken a late dinner at his club, and now sits over his pint of wine, driving a modest young man with a fresh-coloured face at the next table, who would give a handsome sum to be able to rise and go away, but cannot do it, to the verge of madness, by anecdotes of bag-stock-sa, at Domby's wedding, and old Joe's devilish, gentle-manly friend, Lord Phoenix. While Cousin Phoenix, who ought to be at Longs and in bed, finds himself instead at a gaming table, where his wilful legs have taken him, perhaps in his own despite. Night, like a giant, fills the church from pavement to roof, and holds dominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping through the windows, and giving place to day, sees night withdraw into the vaults, and follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead. The timid mice again cower close together, when the great door clashes, and Mr. Sound and Mrs. Miff treading the circle of their daily lives, unbroken as a marriage ring, come in. Again the cocked-hat and the mortified bonnet stand in the background at the marriage hour, and again this man taketh this woman, and this woman taketh this man, on the solemn terms, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do them part. The very words that Mr. Karker rides into town repeating, with his mouth stretched to the utmost, as he picks his dainty way. End of Chapter 31