 Chapter 34 of Dombie and Son. Chapter 34 Another mother and daughter. In an ugly and dark room, an old woman, ugly and dark too, sat listening to the wind and rain and crouching over a meagre fire. More constant to the last named occupation than the first, she never changed her attitude, unless, when any stray drops of rain fell hissing on the smoldering embers, to raise her head with an awakened attention to the whistling and pattering outside, and gradually to let it fall again lower and lower and lower, as she sunk into a brooding state of thought, in which the noises of the night were as indistinctly regarded as is the monotonous rolling of a sea by one who sits in contemplation on its shore. There was no light in the room, say that which the fire afforded. Glaring sullenly from time to time like the eye of a fierce beast half asleep, it revealed no objects that needed to be jealous of a better display. A heap of rags, a heap of bones, a wretched bed, two or three mutilated chairs or stools, the black walls and blacker ceiling were all its winking brightness shone upon. As the old woman, with a gigantic and distorted image of herself, thrown half upon the wall behind her, half upon the roof above, sat bending over the few loose bricks within which it was pent, on the damp half of the chimney, for there was no stove. She looked as if she were watching at some witch's altar for a favourable token, and but that the movement of her chattering jaws and trembling chin was too frequent and too fast for the slow flickering of the fire. It would have seemed an illusion wrought by the light, as it came and went, upon a face as motionless as the form to which it belonged. If Florence could have stood within the room and looked upon the original of the shadow thrown upon the wall and roof as it cowered thus over the fire, a glance might have sufficed to recall the figure of Good Mrs. Brown. Notwithstanding that her childish recollection of that terrible old woman was as grotesque and exaggerated a presentment of the truth, perhaps, as the shadow on the wall. But Florence was not there to look on, and Good Mrs. Brown remained unrecognised, and sat staring at her fire, unobserved. Attracted by a louder sputtering than usual, as the rain came hissing down the chimney in a little stream, the old woman raised her head, impatiently, to listen afresh. And this time she did not drop it again, for there was a hand upon the door, and a footstep in the room. Who's that? she said, looking over her shoulder. One who brings you news was the answer in a woman's voice. News? Where from? From abroad. From beyond seas? cried the old woman, starting up. I, from beyond seas. The old woman raked the fire together hurriedly, and going close to her visitor who had entered, and shut the door, and who now stood in the middle of the room, put her hand upon the drenched cloak, and turned the unresisting figure so as to have it in the full light of the fire. She did not find what she had expected, whatever that might be, for she let the cloak go again, and uttered a quarrelous cry of disappointment and misery. What is the matter? asked her visitor. Oh! oh! cried the old woman, turning her face upward with a terrible howl. What is the matter? asked the visitor again. It's not my gal! cried the old woman, tossing up her arms and clasping her hands above her head. Where's my Alice? Where's my handsome daughter? They've been the death of her. They've not been the death of her yet, if your name's Marwood, said the visitor. Have you seen my gal, then? cried the old woman. Has she wrote to me? She said you couldn't read, returned the other. No more I can, explained the old woman, bringing her hands. Have you no light here? said the other, looking round the room. The old woman, mumbling and shaking her head and muttering to herself about her handsome daughter, brought a candle from a cupboard in the corner, and thrusting it into the fire with a trembling hand, lighted it with some difficulty, and set it on the table. Its dirty wick burnt dimly at first, being choked in its own grease, and when the bleared eyes and failing sight of the old woman could distinguish anything by its light, her visitor was sitting with her arms folded, her eyes turned downwards, and a handkerchief she had worn upon her head, lying on the table by her side. She sent to me by word of mouth, then, my gal Alice, mumbled the old woman, after waiting for some moments. What did she say? Look! returned the visitor. The old woman repeated the word, in a scared, uncertain way, and, shading her eyes, looked at the speaker, round the room, and at the speaker once again. Alice said, look again, mother! and the speaker fixed her eyes upon her. Again the old woman looked round the room, and at her visitor, and round the room once more. Hastily seizing the candle, and rising from her seat, she held it to the visitor's face, uttered a loud cry, set down the light, and fell upon her neck. It's my gal, it's my Alice, it's my handsome daughter living and come back! screamed the old woman, rocking herself to and fro upon the breast that coldly suffered her embrace. It's my gal, it's my Alice, it's my handsome daughter living and come back! She screamed again, dropping on the floor before her, clasping her knees, laying her head against them, and still rocking herself to and fro with every frantic demonstration of which her vitality was capable. Yes, mother! returned Alice, stooping forward for a moment and kissing her, but endeavouring, even in the act, to disengage herself from her embrace. I'm here at last. Let go, mother, let go. Get up and sit in your chair. What good does this do? She's come back harder than she went, cried the mother looking up in her face, and still holding to her knees. She don't care for me, after all these years and all the wretched life I've led. Why, mother! said Alice, shaking her ragged skirts to detach the old woman from them. There are two sides to that. They have been years for me as well as you, and there has been wretchedness for me as well as you. Get up, get up. Her mother rose and cried and wrung her hands and stood at a little distance, gazing on her. Then she took the candle again, and going round her, surveyed her from head to foot, making a low moaning all the time. Then she put the candle down, resumed her chair, and beating her hands together to a kind of weary tune, and rolling herself from side to side, continued moaning and wailing to herself. Alice got up, took off her wet cloak, and laid her to side. That done she sat down as before, and with her arms folded, and her eyes gazing at the fire, remained silently listening with a contemptuous face to her old mother's inarticulate complainings. Did you expect to see me return as youthful as I went away, mother? She said at length, turning her eyes upon the old woman. Did you think a foreign life like mine was good for good looks? One would believe so to hear you. It ain't that, cried the mother. She knows it. What is it then? returned the daughter. It had best be something that don't last, mother, or my way out is easier than my way in. Hear that! exclaimed the mother. After all these years she's threatened us to desert me in the moment of her coming back again. I tell you, mother, for the second time there have been years for me as well as you, said Alice. Come back harder. Of course I have come back harder. What else did you expect? Harder to me? To her own dear mother? cried the old woman. I don't know who began to harden me if my own dear mother didn't. She returned, sitting with her folded arms and knitted brows, and compressed lips, as if she were bent on excluding by force every softer feeling from her breast. Listen, mother, to a word or two. If we understand each other now we shall not fall out any more, perhaps. I went away a girl, and have come back a woman. I went away undutiful enough, and have come back no better you may swear. But have you been very dutiful to me? Aye, cried the old woman. To my girl, a mother dutiful to her own child. It sounds unnatural, don't it? returned the daughter, looking coldly on her with her stern, regardless hardy, beautiful face. But I have thought of it sometimes in the course of my lone years, till I have got used to it. I have heard some talk about duty first and last, but it has always been of my duty to other people. I have wondered now and then, to pass away the time, whether no one ever owed any duty to me. Her mother sat mowing and mumbling and shaking her head, but whether angrily or remorsefully or in denial, or only in her physical infirmity, did not appear. There was a child called Alice Marwood, said the daughter with a laugh, and looking down at herself in terrible derision of herself. Born among poverty and neglect and nursed in it, nobody taught her, nobody stepped forward to help her, nobody cared for her. Nobody! echoed the mother pointing to herself and striking her breast. The only care she knew, returned the daughter, was to be beaten and stinted and abused sometimes, and she might have done better without that. She lived in homes like this, and in the streets with a crowd of little wretches like herself, and yet she brought good looks out of this childhood, so much the worse for her. She had better have been hunted and worried to death for ugliness. Go on, go on, explained the mother. I am going on, returned the daughter. There was a girl called Alice Marwood. She was handsome. She was taught too late, and taught all wrong. She was too well cared for, too well trained, too well helped on, too much looked after. You were very fond of her. You were better off then. What came to that girl comes to thousands every year. It was only ruin, and she was born to it. And after all these years, wind the old woman, my girl begins with this. She'll soon have ended, said the daughter. There was a criminal called Alice Marwood, a girl still, but deserted and an outcast, and she was tried, and she was sentenced. And Lord, how the gentleman in the court talked about it, and how grave the judge was on her duty, and on her having perverted the gifts of nature, as if he didn't know better than anybody there that they had been made curses to her, and how he preached about the strong arm of the law, so very strong to save her, when she was an innocent and helpless little wretch, and how solemn and religious it all was. I have thought of that many times since, to be sure. She folded her arms tightly on her breast, and laughed in a tone that made the howl of the old woman musical. So Alice Marwood was transported, mother, she pursued, and was sent to learn her duty, where there was twenty times less duty, and more wickedness and wrong and infamy than here. And Alice Marwood is come back a woman. Such a woman as she ought to be, after all this. In good time there will be more solemnity, and more fine talk, and more strong arm, most likely, and there will be an end of her. But the gentleman needing to be afraid of being thrown out of work. There's crowds of little wretches, boy and girl, growing up in any of the streets they live in, that'll keep them to it till they've made their fortunes. The old woman leaned her elbows on the table, and resting her face upon her two hands, made a show of being in great distress, or really was, perhaps. There, I have done, mother, said the daughter, with a motion of her head as if in dismissal of the subject. I have said enough, don't let you and I talk of being dutiful whatever we do. Your childhood was like mine, I suppose. So much the worse for both of us. I don't want to blame you, or to defend myself. Why should I? That's all over long ago. But I am a woman, not a girl, now. And you and I needn't make a show of our history, like the gentleman in the court. We know all about it well enough. Lost and degraded as she was, there was a beauty in her, both of face and form, which even in its worst expression, could not but be recognized as such, by anyone regarding her with the least attention. As she subsided into silence, and her face which had been harshly agitated, quieted down, while her dark eyes, fixed upon the fire, exchanged the reckless light that had animated them, for one that was softened by something like sorrow. There shone through all her way-worn misery and fatigue a ray of the departed radiance of the fallen angel. Her mother, after watching her for some time without speaking, ventured to steal her withered hand a little nearer to her across the table, and finding that she permitted this to touch her face and smooth her hair. With the feeling, as it seemed, that the old woman was at least sincere in this show of interest, Alice made no movement to check her. So advancing by degrees, she bound up her daughter's hair afresh, took off her wet shoes, if they deserved the name, spread something dry upon her shoulders, and hovered humbly about her, muttering to herself as she recognized her old features and expression more and more. You are a very poor mother, I see," said Alice, looking round, when she had sat thus for some time. Better poor, my dearie," replied the old woman. She admired her daughter and was afraid of her. Perhaps her admiration, such as it was, had originated long ago when she first found anything that was beautiful appearing in the midst of the squalid fight of her existence. Perhaps her fear was referable, in some sort, to the retrospect she had so lately heard. Be this as it might. She stood submissively and deferentially before her child, and inclined her head as if in a pitiful entreaty to be spared any further reproach. How have you lived? By begging, my dearie," and pilfering, mother. Sometimes, Ali. In a very small way. I am old and timid. I have taken trifle some children now and then, my dearie, but not often. I have tramped about the country-pet, and I know what I know. I have watched. Watched? Returned the daughter, looking at her. I have hung about a family, my dearie. Said the mother, even more humbly and submissively than before. What family? Hush, darling. Don't be angry with me. I did it for the love of you, in memory of my poor gal beyond seas. She put out her hand deprecatingly, and drawing it back again, laden on her lips. Is a girl, my dearie? She pursued glancing timidly at the attentive and stern face opposed to her. I came across his little child by chance. Whose child? Not his, Alice, dearie. Don't look at me like that. Not his. How could it be his? You know he has none. Whose, then? returned the daughter. You said his. Hush, shelly. You frighten me, dearie. Mr. Dombies. Only Mr. Dombies. Since then, darling, I have seen them often. I have seen him. In uttering this last word, the old woman shrunk and recoiled, as if with sudden fear that her daughter would strike her. But though the daughter's face was fixed upon her, and expressed the most vehement passion, she remained still, except that she clenched her arms tighter and tighter within each other, on her bosom, as if to restrain them by that means from doing an injury to herself, or someone else, in the blind fury of the wrath that suddenly possessed her. Little he thought who I was, said the old woman, shaking her clenched hand. And little he cared, muttered her daughter between her teeth. But there we were, said the old woman, face to face. I spoke to him, and he spoke to me. I sat and watched him as he went away down a long grove of trees, and at every step he took I cursed him soul and body. He will thrive in spite of that, returned the daughter, distinctly. I, he is thriving, said the mother. She held her peace, for the face and form before her were unshaped by rage. It seemed as if the bosom would burst with the emotion that strove within it. The effort that constrained and held it pent up was no less formidable than the rage itself, no less bespeaking the violent and dangerous character of the woman who made it. But it succeeded, and she asked, after a silence, Is he married? No, dearie, said the mother. Going to be? Not that I know of, dearie, but his master and friend is married. Oh, we may give him joy. We may give him all joy. Cried the old woman, hugging herself with her lean arms in her exultation. Nothing but joy to us will come of that marriage, mind me. The daughter looked at her for an explanation. But you are wet and tired, hungry and thirsty, said the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard, and there's little here, and little—diving down into her pocket and jingling a few haypence on the table— little here. Have you any money, Alastairie? The covetous sharp eager face with which she asked the question and looked on, as her daughter took out of her bosom the little gift she had so lately received, told almost as much of the history of this parent and child as the child herself had told in words. Is that all? said the mother. I have no more. I should not have this but for charity. Not for charity, eh, dearie? Said the old woman, bending greedily over the table to look at the money, which she appeared distrustful of her daughter still retaining in her hand and gazing on. Six and six is twelve and six eighteen. So, we must make the most of it. I'll go buy something to eat and drink. With greater alacrity than might have been expected in one of her appearance, for age and misery seemed to have made her as decrepit as ugly, she began to occupy her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet on her head and folding a torn shawl about herself, still eyeing the money in her daughter's hand with the same sharp desire. What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother? asked the daughter. You have not told me that. The joy, she replied, attiring herself with fumbling fingers, of no love at all and much pride and hate, my dearie, the joy of confusion and strife among them, proud as they are, and of danger, danger, Alice. What danger? I have seen what I have seen. I know what I know. Chuckled the mother. Let some look to it. Let some be upon their guard. My gal may keep good company yet. Then, seeing that in the wondering earnestness with which her daughter regarded her, her hand involuntarily closed upon the money. The old woman made more speed to secure it, and hurriedly added, But I'll go buy something. I'll go buy something. As she stood with her hand stretched out before her daughter, her daughter, glancing at the money, put it to her lips before parting with it. What, Allie? Do you kiss it? Chuckled the old woman. That's like me. I often do. Oh, it's so good to us. Squeezing her own tarnished havens up to her bag of a throat, so good to us in everything but not coming in heaps. I kiss it, mother, said the daughter, or I did then, I don't know that I ever did before, for the giver's sake. The giver, eh, dearie? We thought of the old woman whose dimmed eyes listened as she took it. Aye, I'll kiss it for the giver's sake, too, when the giver can make a go, Father, but I'll go spend it, dearie. I'll be back directly. You seem to say you know a great deal, mother, said the daughter, following her to the door with her eyes. You have grown very wise since we parted. No, croaked the old woman, coming back a step or two. I know more than you think I know, more than he thinks, dearie, as I'll tell you by and by. I know all. The daughter smiled incredulously. I know of his brother, Alice, said the old woman, stretching out her neck with a leer of malice absolutely frightful, who might have been where you have been for stealing money, and who lives with his sister over yonder by the North Road out of London. Where? By the North Road out of London, dearie. You shall see the house, if you like. It ain't much to boast of, gentile, as his own is. No, no, no. cried the old woman, shaking her head and laughing, for her daughter had started up. Not now. It's too far off. It's by the milestone where the stones are heaped. Tomorrow, dearie, if it's fine and you're in the humour, but I'll go spend— Stop! And the daughter flung herself upon her with her former passion raging like a fire. The sister is a fair-faced devil with brown hair. The old woman, amazed and terrified, nodded her head. I see the shadow of him in her face. It's a red house standing by itself. Before the door there is a small green porch. Again the old woman nodded. In which I sat today. Give me back the money. Alice, dearie, give me back the money, or you'll be hurt. She forced it from the old woman's hand, as she spoke, and utterly indifferent to her complainings and entreaties, threw on the garments she had taken off, and hurried out with headlong speed. The mother followed, limping after her as she could, and expostulating with no more effect upon her than upon the wind and rain and darkness that encompassed them. Obdurate and fierce in her own purpose, and indifferent to all besides, the daughter defied the weather and the distance, as if she had known no travel or fatigue, and made for the house where she had been relieved. After some quarter of an hour's walking, the old woman, spent and out of breath, ventured to hold by her skirts, but she ventured no more, and they travelled on in silence through the wet and gloom. If the mother now and then uttered a word of complaint, she stifled it, lest her daughter should break away from her, and leave her behind, and the daughter was dumb. It was within an hour or so of midnight, when they left the regular streets behind them, and entered on the deeper gloom of that neutral ground where the house was situated. The town lay in the distance, lurid and lowering, the bleak wind howled over the open space, all around was black, wild, desolate. This is a fit place for me, said the daughter, stopping to look back. I thought so, when I was here before, to-day. Alice, my dearie, cried the mother, pulling her gently by the skirt. Alice! What now, mother? Don't give them money back, my darling, please don't. We can't afford it. We want supper, dearie. Money is money, whoever gives it. Say what you will, but keep the money. See there! was all the daughter's answer. That is the house I mean. Is that it? The old woman nodded in the affirmative, and a few more paces brought them to the threshold. There was the light of fire and candle in the room where Alice had sat to dry her clothes, and on her knocking at the door, John Karker appeared from that room. He was surprised to see such visitors at such an hour, and asked Alice what she wanted. I want your sister, she said. The woman who gave me money today. At the sound of her raised voice, Harriet came out. Oh! said Alice. You are here. Do you remember me? Yes! she answered, wondering. The face that had humbled itself before her, looked on her now with such invincible hatred and defiance, and the hand that had gently touched her arm was clenched with such a show of evil purpose, as if it would gladly strangle her, that she drew close to her brother for protection. That I could speak with you and not know you, that I could come near you, and not feel what blood was running in your veins by the tingling of my own, said Alice with a menacing gesture. What do you mean? What have I done? Done? returned the other. You have sat me by your fire. You have given me food and money. You have bestowed your compassion on me. You whose name I spit upon. The old woman, with a malevolence that made her ugliness quite awful, shook her withered hand at the brother and sister in confirmation of her daughter, but plucked her by the skirts again nevertheless, employing her to keep the money. If I dropped a tear upon your hand, may it wither it up. If I spoke a gentle word in your hearing, may it deafen you. If I touched you with my lips, may the touch be poison to you. A curse upon this roof that gave me shelter, sorrow and shame upon your head, ruin upon all belonging to you. As she said the words, she threw the money down upon the ground and spurned it with her foot. I tread it in the dust. I wouldn't take it if it paved my way to heaven. I would the bleeding foot that brought me here today had rotted off before it led me to your house. Harriet, pale and trembling, restrained her brother, and suffered her to go on uninterrupted. It was well that I should be pitied and forgiven by you, or any one of your name, in the first hour of my return. It was well that you should act the kind good lady to me. I'll thank you when I die. I'll pray for you, and all your race, he who may be sure. With a fierce action of her hand, as if she sprinkled hatred on the ground, and with it devoted those who were standing there to destruction. She looked up once at the black sky, and strode out into the wild night. The mother, who had plucked at her skirts again and again in vain, and had eyed the money lying on the threshold for an absorbing greed that seemed to concentrate her faculties upon it, would have prowled about until the house was dark, and then groped in the mire on the chance of repossessing herself of it. But the daughter drew her away, and they set forth, straight, on their return to their dwelling. The old woman whimpering and bemoaning their loss upon the road, and fretfully bewailing, as openly as she dared, the undutiful conduct of her handsome girl, and depriving her of a supper on the very first night of their reunion. Supperless to bed she went, saving for a few coarse fragments, and those she sat mumbling and munching over a scrap of fire, long after her undutiful daughter lay asleep. Were this miserable mother and this miserable daughter only the reduction to their lowest grade of certain social vices sometimes prevailing higher up? In this round world of many circles within circles, do we make a weary journey from the high grade to the low, to find at last that they lie close together, that the two extremes touch, and that our journey's end is but our starting place? Allowing for great difference of stuff and texture, was the pattern of this wolf repeated among gentle blood at all? Say, Edith Dombey, and Cleopatra, best of mothers, let us have your testimony. End of Chapter 34 Chapter 35 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 Mill Nicholson. Dombey and Son by Charles Dickens. Chapter 35 The Happy Pair The dark blot on the street is gone. Mr. Dombey's mansion, if it be a gap among the other houses any longer, is only so because it is not to be vied within its brightness and haughtily cast them off. The saying is that home is home, be it never so homely. If it hold good, in the opposite contingency, and home is home, be it never so stately, what an altar to the household guards is raised up here. Lights are sparkling in the windows this evening, and the ruddy glow of fires is warm and bright upon the hangings and soft carpets, and the dinner waits to be served, and the dinner table is handsomely set forth, though only for four persons, and the sideboard is cumbersome with plate. It is the first time that the house has been arranged for occupation since its late changes, and the Happy Pair are looked for every minute. Only second to the wedding morning, in the interest and expectation it engenders among the household, is this evening of the coming home. Mrs. Perch is in the kitchen taking tea, and has made the tour of the establishment, and priced the silks and damasks by the yard, and exhausted every interjection in the dictionary and out of it expressive of admiration and wonder. The upholsterer's foreman, who has left his hat with a pocket handkerchief in it, both smelling strongly of varnish, under a chair in the hall, lurks about the house, gazing upwards at the cornices, and downward at the carpets, and occasionally in a silent transport of enjoyment, taking a rule out of his pocket, and skirmishingly measuring expensive objects with unutterable feelings. Cook is in high spirits, and says give her a place where there's plenty of company, as she'll bet you six months there will be now, for she is of a lively disposition, and she always was from a child, and she don't mind who knows it. Which sentiment elicits from the breast of Mrs. Perch a responsive murmur of support and approbation? All the housemaid hopes is happiness for him. But marriage is a lottery, and the more she thinks about it, the more she feels the independence and the safety of a single wife. Mr. Talonson is satinine and grim, and says that's his opinion too, and give him war besides, and down with the French. For this young man has a general impression that every foreigner is a Frenchman, and must be by the laws of nature. At each new sound of wheels they all stop whatever they are saying and listen, and more than once there is a general starting up and a cry of here they are, but here they are not, yet. And Cook begins to mourn over the dinner, which has been put back twice, and the upholsterer's foreman still goes lurking about the rooms undisturbed in his blissful reverie. Florence is ready to receive her father and her new mama. Whether the emotions that are throbbing in her breast originate in pleasure or in pain, she hardly knows. But the fluttering heart sends added colour to her cheeks, and brightness to her eyes, and they say downstairs, drawing their heads together, for they always speak softly when they speak of her, how beautiful Miss Florence looks tonight, and what a sweet young lady she has grown, poor dear. A pause succeeds, and then Cook, feeling, as president, that her sentiments are waited for, wonders whether, and there stops. The housemaid wonders too, and so does Mrs. Perch, who has the happy social faculty of always wondering when other people wonder, without being at all particular what she wonders at. Mr. Talonson, who now describes an opportunity of bringing down the spirits of the ladies to his own level, says, wait and see. He wishes some people were well out of this. Cook leads a sigh then, and a murmur of, ah, it's a strange world, it is indeed, and when it has gone round the table, adds persuasively, but Miss Florence can't well be the worse for any change, Tom. Mr. Talonson's rejoinder, pregnant with frightful meaning, is, oh, can't she, though, and sensible that a mere man can scarcely be more prophetic, or improve upon that, he holds his peace. Mrs. Scuton, prepared to greet her darling daughter and dear son-in-law with open arms, is appropriately attired for that purpose, and a very youthful costume with short sleeves. At present, however, her ripe charms are blooming in the shade of her own apartments, whence she had not emerged since she took possession of them a few hours ago, and where she is fast growing fretful on account of the postponement of dinner. The maid who ought to be a skeleton, but is in truth a buxom damsel, is, on the other hand, in a most amiable state, considering her quarterly stipend much safer than here too for, and for seeing a great improvement in her board and lodging. Where are the happy pair for whom this brave home is waiting? Do steam, tide, wind, and horses all abate their speed to linger on such happiness? Does the swarm of loves and graces hovering about them retard their progress by its numbers? Are there so many flowers in their happy path that they can scarcely move along without entanglement in thornless roses and sweetest briar? They are here at last. The noise of wheels is heard, grows louder, and a carriage drives up to the door. A thundering knock from the obnoxious foreigner anticipates the rush of Mr. Towinson and party to open it, and Mr. Dombie and his bride alight and walk in, arm in arm. My sweetest idea! cries an agitated voice upon the stairs. My dearest Dombie! and the short sleeves read themselves about the happy couple in turn, and embrace them. Florence had come down to the hall too, but did not advance, reserving her timid welcome until these nearer and dearer transports should subside. But the eyes of Edith sought her out upon the threshold, and dismissing her sensitive parent with a slight kiss on the cheek, she hurried on to Florence and embraced her. How do you do, Florence? said Mr. Dombie, putting out his hand. As Florence, trembling, raised it to her lips, she met his glance. The look was cold and distant enough, but it stirred her heart to think that she observed in it something more of interest than he had ever shown before. It even expressed a kind of faint surprise, and not a disagreeable surprise, at sight of her. She dared not raise her eyes to his any more, but she felt that he looked at her it once again, and not less favourably. Oh! what a thrill of joy shot through her, awakened by even this intangible and baseless confirmation of her hope that she would learn to win him through her new and beautiful mamma. You will not be long-dressing, Mrs. Dombie, I presume? said Mr. Dombie. I shall be ready immediately. Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour. With that Mr. Dombie stalked away to his own dressing-room, and Mrs. Dombie went upstairs to hers. Mrs. Scuton and Florence repaired to the drawing-room, where that excellent mother considered it incumbent on her to shed a few irrepressible tears, supposed to be forced from her by her daughter's felicity, and which she was still drying, very gingerly, with a laced corner of her pocket-hanker-chief when her son-in-law appeared. And how, my dearest Dombie, did you find that delightfulest of cities Paris? She asked, subduing her emotion. It was cold, returned Mr. Dombie. Gay is ever? said Mrs. Scuton. Of course. Not particularly. I thought it dull, said Mr. Dombie. Five, my dearest Dombie! Archly, dull! It made that impression upon me, madam, said Mr. Dombie, with grave politeness. I believe Mrs. Dombie found it dull, too. She mentioned once or twice that she thought it so. Why, you naughty girl! cried Mrs. Scuton, rallying her dear child, who now entered. What dreadfully heretical things have you been saying about Paris? Edith raised her eyebrows with an air of weariness, and passing the folding doors which were thrown open to display the suite of rooms in their new and handsome garniture, and barely glancing at them as she passed, sat down by Florence. My dear Dombie! said Mrs. Scuton. How charmingly these people have carried out every idea that we hinted! They have made a perfect palace of the house positively. It is handsome, said Mr. Dombie, looking round. I directed that no expense should be spared, and all that money could do has been done, I believe. And what can it not do, dear Dombie? observed Cleopatra. It is powerful, madam, said Mr. Dombie. He looked in his solemn way towards his wife, but not a word said she. I hope, Mrs. Dombie, addressing her after a moment's silence with a special distinctness, that these alterations meet with your approval, They are as handsome as they can be, she returned, with haughty carelessness. They should be so, of course, and I suppose they are. An expression of scorn was habitual to the proud face, and seemed inseparable from it. But the contempt with which it received any appeal to admiration, respect, or consideration on the ground of his riches, no matter how slight or ordinary in itself, was a new and different expression, unequaled in intensity by any other of which it was capable. Whether Mr. Dombie wrapped in his own greatness, was it all aware of this, or no, they had not been wanting opportunities already for his complete enlightenment. And at that moment it might have been affected by the one glance of the dark eye that lighted on him, after it had rapidly and scornfully surveyed the theme of his self-glorification. He might have read in that one glance, that nothing that his wealth could do, though it were increased to ten thousandfold, could win him for its own sake, one look of softened recognition from the defiant woman linked to him, but arrayed with a whole soul against him. He might have read in that one glance, that even for its sordid and mercenary influence upon herself, she spurned it, while she claimed its utmost power as her right, her bargain, as the base and worthless recompense for which she had become his wife. He might have read in it that, ever bearing her own head, for the lightning of her own contempt and pride to strike, the most innocent allusion to the power of his riches degraded her anew, sunk her deeper in her own respect, and made the blight and waste within her more complete. But dinner was announced, had Mr. Dombie led down Cleopatra, Edith and his daughter following. Sweeping past the gold and silver demonstration on the sideboard as if it were heaped up dirt, and deigning to bestow no look upon the elegancies around her, she took her place at his board for the first time, and sat, like a statue, at the feast. Mr. Dombie, being a good deal in the statue way himself, was well enough pleased to see his handsome wife immovable and proud and cold. Her deportment being always elegant and graceful, this, as a general behaviour, was agreeable and congenial to him. Presiding therefore with his accustomed dignity, and not at all reflecting on his wife by any warmth or hilarity of his own, he performed his share of the honours of the table with a cool satisfaction, and the installation dinner, though not regarded downstairs as a great success, or very promising beginning, passed oil above in a sufficiently polite, genteel and frosty manner. Soon after tea, Mrs. Scuton, who affected to be quite overcome and worn out by her emotions of happiness, arising in the contemplation of her dear child, united to the man of her heart, but who, there is reason to suppose, found this family party somewhat dull, as she yawned for one hour continually behind her fan, retired to bed. Edith also silently withdrew and came back no more. Thus it happened that Florence, who had been upstairs to have some conversation with Diogenes, returning to the drawing-room with her little work-basket, found no one there but her father, who was walking to and fro in dreary magnificence. I beg your pardon. Shall I go away, papa? said Florence faintly, hesitating at the door. No! returned Mr. Donby, looking round over his shoulder. You can come and go here, Florence, as you please. This is not my private room. Florence entered, and sat down at a distant little table with her work, finding herself for the first time in her life, for the very first time within her memory, from her infancy to that hour, alone with her father, as his companion. She, his natural companion, his only child, who, in her lonely life and grief, had known the suffering of a breaking heart, who, in her rejected love, had never breathed his name to God at night, but with a tearful blessing, heavier on him than a curse, who had prayed to die young, so she might only die in his arms, who had, all through, repaid the agony of slight and coldness and dislike, with patient, unexacting love, excusing him and pleading for him like his better angel. She trembled, and her eyes were dim. His figure seemed to grow in height and bulk before her, as he paced the room. Now it was all blurred and indistinct, now clear again and plain, and now she seemed to think that this had happened just the same, a multitude of years ago. She yearned towards him, and yet shrunk from his approach—unnatural emotion in a child, innocent of wrong, unnatural of the hand that had directed the sharp plow, which furrowed up her gentle nature for the sowing of its seeds. Bent upon not distressing or offending him by her distress, Florence controlled herself, and sat quietly at her work. After a few more turns across and across the room, he left off pacing it, and was drawing into a shadowy corner at some distance, where there was an easy chair, covered his head with a handkerchief, and composed himself to sleep. It was enough for Florence to sit there watching him, turning her eyes towards his chair from time to time, watching him with her thoughts, when her face was intent upon her work, and sorrowfully glad to think that he could sleep while she was there, and that he was not made restless by her strange and long-forbidden presence. What would have been her thoughts if she had known that he was steadily regarding her? That the veil upon his face, by accident or by design, was so adjusted that his sight was free, and that it never wandered from her face an instant. That when she looked towards him in the obscure dark corner, her speaking eyes, more earnest and pathetic in their voiceless speech than all the orators of all the world, and impeaching him more nearly in their mute address, met his, and did not know it. That when she bent her head again over her work, he drew his breath more easily, but with the same attention looked upon her still, upon her white brow, and her falling hair, and busy hands, and once attracted seemed to have no power to turn his eyes away. And what were his thoughts meanwhile? With what emotions did he prolong the attentive gaze covertly directed on this unknown daughter? Was there approach to him in the quiet figure and the mild eyes? Had he begun to feel her disregarded claims, and did they touch him home at last, and waken him to some sense of his cruel injustice? There are yielding moments in the lives of the sternest and harshest men, though such men often keep their secret well. The sight of her in her beauty almost changed into a woman without his knowledge, may have struck out some such moments even in his life of pride. Some passing thought that he had had a happy home within his reach, had had a household spirit bending at his feet, had overlooked it in his stiff-necked sullen arrogance, and wandered away, and lost himself, may have engendered them. Some simple eloquence distinctly heard, though only uttered in her eyes, unconscious that he read them, as, by the deathbeds I have tended, by the childhood I have suffered, by our meeting in this dreary house at midnight, by the cry rung from me in the anguish of my heart, O Father, turn to me and seek a refuge in my love before it is too late. May have arrested them. Mina and lower thoughts, as that his dead boy was now superseded by new ties, and he could forgive the having been supplanted in his affection, may have occasioned them. The mere association of her as an ornament, with all the ornament and pomp about him, may have been sufficient. But as he looked, he softened to her more and more. As he looked, she became blended with the child he had loved, and he could hardly separate the two. As he looked, he saw her for an instant by a clearer and a brighter light. Not bending over that child's pillow as his rival, monstrous thought, but as the spirit of his home, and in the action tending himself no less, as he sat once more with his bowed-down head upon his hand at the foot of the little bed. He felt inclined to speak to her, and call her to him. The words, Florence come here, were rising to his lips, but slowly, and with difficulty, they were so very strange. When they were checked and stifled by a footstep on the stair. It was his wife's. She had exchanged her dinner-dress for a loose robe, and unbound her hair, which fell freely about her neck. But this was not the change in her that startled him. Florence, dear, she said, I have been looking for you everywhere. As she sat down by the side of Florence, she stooped and kissed her hand. He hardly knew his wife. She was so changed. It was not merely that her smile was new to him, though that he had never seen, but her manner, the tone of her voice, the light of her eyes, the interest and confidence and winning wish to please, expressed in all this, was not Edith. Softly, dear mama, papa is asleep. It was Edith now. She looked towards the corner where he was, and he knew that face and manner very well. I scarcely thought you could be here, Florence. Again, how altered and how softened in an instant. I left here early, pursued Edith, purposely to sit upstairs and talk with you, but going to your room, I found my bird was flown, and I had been waiting there ever since, expecting its return. If it had been a bird, indeed, she could not have taken it more tenderly and gently to her breast, than she did Florence. Come, dear. Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, when he awakes. Hesitated Florence. Do you think he will, Florence? said Edith, looking full upon her. Florence strooped her head and rose, and put up her work-basket. Edith drew her hand through her arm, and they went out of the room like sisters. Her very step was different and new to him, Mr. Dombie thought, as his eyes followed her to the door. He sat in his shadowy corner so long, that the church clocks struck the hour three times before he moved that night. All that while, his face was still intent upon the spot where Florence had been seated. The room grew darker as the candles waned and went out, but a darkness gathered on his face, exceeding any that the night could cast, and rested there. Florence and Edith, seated before the fire in the remote room where little Paul had died, talked together for a long time. Diogenes, who was of the party, had at first objected to the admission of Edith, and, even in deference to his mistress's wish, had only permitted it under growling protest. But, emerging by little and little from the anti-room with that he had retired in Duggin, he soon appeared to comprehend that with the most amiable intentions he had made one of those mistakes which will occasionally arise in the best regulated dog's minds, as a friendly apology for which he stuck himself up on end between the two in a very hot place in front of the fire, and sat panting at it with his tongue out, and a most imbecile expression of countenance listening to the conversation. It turned at first on Florence's books and favourite pursuits, and on the manner in which she had beguiled the interval since the marriage. The last theme opened up to her a subject which lay very near her heart, and she said, with the tears starting to her eyes, Oh, Mama, I have had a great sorrow since that day. You, a great sorrow, Florence? Yes. Poor Walter is drowned. Florence spread her hands before her face, and wept with all her heart. Many, as were the secret tears which Walter's fate had cost her, they flowed yet when she thought of a spoke of him. But tell me, dear, said Edith, soothing her. Who was Walter? What was he to you? He was my brother, Mama. After dear Paul died, we said we would be brother and sister. I had known him a long time from a little child. He knew Paul, who liked him very much. Paul said, almost at the last, Take care of Walter, dear Papa. I was fond of him. Walter had been brought in to see him, and was there then in this room. And did he take care of Walter? inquired Edith Stirling. Papa, he appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in shipwreck on his voyage, said Florence sobbing. Does he know that he is dead? asked Edith. I cannot tell, Mama. I have no means of knowing, dear Mama. cried Florence, clinging to her as for help, and hiding her face upon her bosom. I know that you have seen— Stay. Stop, Florence. Edith turned so pale, and spoke so earnestly, that Florence did not need her restraining hand upon her lips. Tell me all about Walter first. Let me understand this history all through. Florence related it, and everything belonging to it, even down to the friendship of Mr. Toots, of whom she could hardly speak in her distress without a tearful smile, although she was deeply grateful to him. When she had concluded her account, to the whole of which Edith, holding her hand, listened with close attention, and when a silence had succeeded, Edith said, What is it that you know I have seen, Florence? That I am not, said Florence, with the same mute appeal, and the same quick concealment of her face as before. That I am not a favourite child, Mama. I never have been. I have never known how to be. I have missed the way, and had no one to show it to me. Oh, let me learn from you how to become dearer to Papa. Teach me. You who can so well. And clinging closer to her, with some broken fervent words of gratitude and endearment, Florence, relieved of her sad secret, wept long, but not as painfully as of your, within the encircling arms of her new mother. Pale even to her lips, and with a face that strove for composure until its proud beauty was as fixed as death, Edith looked down upon the weeping girl, and once kissed her. Then, gradually disengaging herself, and putting Florence away, she said, stately, and quiet as a marble image, and in a voice that deepened as she spoke, but had no other token of emotion in it. Florence, you do not know me. Heaven forbid that you should learn from me. Not learn from you, repeated Florence in surprise. That I should teach you how to love or be loved. Heaven forbid, said Edith. If you could teach me, that were better, but it is too late. You are dear to me, Florence. I did not think that anything could ever be so dear to me, as you are in this little time. She saw that Florence would have spoken here, so checked her with her hand, and went on. I will be your true friend always. I will cherish you, as much, if not as well as anyone in this world could. You may trust in me. I know it, and I say it, dear, with the whole confidence even of your pure heart. There are hosts of women whom we might have married, better and truer in all other respects than I am, Florence. But there is not one who could come here, his wife, whose heart could beat with greater truth to you than mine does. I know it, dear Mamar, cried Florence, from that first most happy day I have known it. Most happy day. Edith seemed to repeat the words involuntarily, and went on. Though the merit is not mine, for I thought little of you until I saw you. Let the undeserved reward be mine in your trust and love. And in this, in this, Florence, on the first night of my taking up my abode here, I am led on, as it is best I should be, to say it for the first and last time. Florence, without knowing why, felt almost afraid to hear her proceed, but kept her eyes riveted on the beautiful face so fixed upon her own. Never seek to find in me, said Edith, laying her hand upon her breast. What is not here? Never, if you can help it, Florence, fall off from me, because it is not here. Little by little you will know me better, and the time will come when you will know me as I know myself. Then be as lenient to me as you can, and do not turn to bitterness the only sweet remembrance I shall have. The tears that were visible in her eyes as she kept them fixed on Florence, showed that the composed face was but as a handsome mask. But she preserved it, and continued, I have seen what you say, and know how true it is, but believe me, you will soon, if you cannot now, there is no one on this earth less qualified to set it right or help you, Florence, than I. Never ask me why, or speak to me about it, or of my husband more. There should be, so far, a division and a silence between us two, like the grave itself. She sat for some time silent. Florence scarcely venturing to breathe, meanwhile, as dim and imperfect shadows of the tooth and all its daily consequences chased each other through her terrified yet incredulous imagination. Almost as soon as she had ceased to speak, Edith's face began to subside from its set composure to that quieter and more relenting aspect which it usually wore when she and Florence were alone together. She shaded it after this change with her hands, and when she arose and with an affectionate embrace bade Florence goodnight, went quickly and without looking round. But when Florence was in bed and the room was dark except for the glow of the fire, Edith returned, and saying that she could not sleep and that her dressing room was lonely, drew a chair upon the hearth and watched the embers as they died away. Florence watched them too from her bed, until they, and the noble figure before them, crowned with its flowing hair and its thoughtful eyes, reflecting back their light, became confused and indistinct, and finally were lost in slumber. In her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an undefined impression of what had so recently passed. It formed the subject of her dreams and haunted her, now in one shape, now in another, but always oppressively, and with a sense of fear. She dreamed of seeking her father in wildernesses, of following his track up fearful heights, and down into deep mines and caverns, of being charged with something that would release him from extraordinary suffering. She knew not what or why, yet never being able to attain the goal and set him free. Then she saw him dead, upon that very bed, and in that very room, and knew that he had never loved her till the last, and fell upon his cold breast, passionately weeping. Then a prospect opened, and a river flowed, and a plaintive voice she knew cried, It is running on, Floy! It has never stopped! You are moving with it! And she saw him at a distance, stretching out his arms towards her, while a figure, such as Walters used to be, stood near him, awfully serene and still. In every vision Edith came and went, sometimes to her joy, sometimes to her sorrow, until they were all alone upon the brink of a dark grave, and Edith pointing down, she looked and saw. What, another Edith lying at the bottom? In the terror of this dream she cried out and awoke, she thought. A soft voice seemed to whisper in her ear, Florence, dear Florence, it is nothing but a dream, and stretching out her arms she returned the caress of her new mama, who then went out at the door in the light of the grey morning. In a moment Florence sat up, wondering whether this had really taken place or not, but she was only certain that it was grey morning indeed, and that the blackened ashes of the fire were on the hearth, and that she was alone. So passed the night on which the happy pair came home. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 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. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Dombie and Son by Charles Dickens Chapter 36 Housewarming Many succeeding days passed in like manner, except that there were numerous visits received and paid, and that Mrs. Scuton held little levies in her own apartments, at which Major Bagstock was a frequent attendant, and that Florence encountered no second look from her father, although she saw him every day. Nor had she much communication in words with her new mama, who was imperious and proud to all the house but her. Florence could not but observe that, and who, although she always sent for her, or went to her when she came home from visiting, and would always go into her room at night, before retiring to rest, however late the hour, and never lost an opportunity of being with her, was often her silent and thoughtful companion for a long time together. Florence, who had hoped for so much from this marriage, could not help sometimes comparing the bright house with the faded, dreary place out of which it had arisen, and wondering when, in any shape, it would begin to be a home, for that it was no home then for anyone, though everything went on luxuriously and regularly, she had always a secret misgiving. Many an hour of sorrowful reflection by day and night, and many a tear of blighted hope. Florence bestowed upon the assurance her new mama had given her so strongly, that there was no one on the earth more powerless than herself to teach her how to win her father's heart. And soon Florence began to think—resolved to think—would be the true phrase, that as no one knew so well how hopeless of being subdued or changed her father's coldness to her was, so she had given her this warning, and forbidden the subject in very compassion. Unselfish here, as in her every act and fancy, Florence preferred to bear the pain of this new wound, rather than encourage any faint foreshadowings of the truth, as it concerned her father, tender of him, even in her wandering thoughts. As for his home, she hoped it would become a better one, when its state of novelty and transition should be over, and for herself, thought little, and lamented less. If none of the new family were particularly at home in private, it was resolved that Mrs. Donby at least should be at home in public, without delay. A series of entertainments in celebration of the late nuptials, and in cultivation of society, were arranged chiefly by Mr. Donby and Mrs. Scootin, and it was settled that the festive proceedings should commence by Mrs. Donby's being at home upon a certain evening, and by Mr. and Mrs. Donby's requesting the honour of the company of a great many incongruous people to dinner on the same day. Accordingly, Mr. Donby produced a list of sundry eastern magnates, who were to be bitten to this feast on his behalf, to which Mrs. Scootin, acting for her dearest child, who was hortily careless on the subject, subjoined a western list, comprising Cousin Phoenix, not yet returned to Barden-Bardon, greatly to the detriment of his personal estate, and a variety of moths of various degrees and ages who had at various times fluttered round the light of her fair daughter, or herself, without any lasting injury to their wings. Florence was enrolled as a member of the dinner party by Edith's command, elicited by a moment's doubt and hesitation on the part of Mrs. Scootin, and Florence with a wondering heart and with a quick instinctive sense of everything that graded on her father in the least, took her silent share in the proceedings of the day. The proceedings commenced by Mr. Donby in a cravat of extraordinary height and stiffness, walking restlessly about the drawing-room until the hour appointed for dinner, punctual to which an East India director of immense wealth, in a waistcoat apparently constructed in serviceable deal by some plain carpenter, but really engendered in the tailor's art, and composed of a material called Nankine, arrived and was received by Mr. Donby alone. The next stage of the proceedings was Mr. Donby's sending his compliments to Mrs. Donby with the correct statement of the time, and the next, the East India director's falling prostrate, in a conversational point of view, and as Mr. Donby was not the man to pick him up, staring at the fire until rescue appeared in the shape of Mrs. Scootin, whom the director, as a pleasant start in life for the evening, mistook for Mrs. Donby and greeted with enthusiasm. The next arrival was a bank director, reputed to be able to buy up anything, human nature generally, if he should take it into his head to influence the money market in that direction, but who was a wonderfully modest-spoken man, almost boastfully so, and mentioned his little place at Kingston upon Thames, and it's just being barely equal to giving Donby a bed and a chop if he would come and visit it. Ladies, he said, it was not for a man who lived in his quiet way to take upon himself to invite, but if Mrs. Scootin and her daughter, Mrs. Donby, should ever find themselves in that direction, and would do him the honour to look at a little bit of a shrubbery they would find there, and a poor little flower bed or so, and a humble apology for a pinery, and two or three little attempts of that sort without any pretension they would distinguish him very much. Carrying out his character, this gentleman was very plainly dressed, in a wisp of cambrick for a neck-cloth, big shoes, a coat that was too loose for him, and a pair of trousers that were too spare, and mentioned being made of the opera by Mrs. Scootin, he said he very seldom went there, for he couldn't afford it. It seemed greatly to delight and exhilarate him to say so, and he beamed on his audience afterwards with his hands in his pockets and excessive satisfaction twinkling in his eyes. Now Mrs. Donby appeared, beautiful and proud, and as disdainful and defiant of them all, as if the bridal wreath upon her head had been a garland of steel spikes, put on to force concession from her, which she would die sooner than yield. With her was Florence. When they entered together, the shadow of the night of the return again darkened Mr. Donby's face. But unobserved, for Florence did not venture to raise her eyes to his, and Edith's indifference was too supreme to take the least heed of him. The arrivals quickly became numerous. More directors, chairman of public companies, elderly ladies carrying burdens on their heads for full dress, Cousin Phoenix, Major Bagstock, friends of Mrs. Scootin with the same bright bloom on their complexion and very precious netlises on very withered necks. Among these a young lady of 65, remarkably coolly dressed as to her back and shoulders, who spoke with an engaging lisp, and whose eyelids wouldn't keep up well without a great deal of trouble on her part, and whose manners had that indefinable charm which so frequently attaches to the giddiness of youth. As the greater part of Mr. Donby's list were disposed to be taciturn, and the greater part of Mrs. Donby's list were disposed to be talkative, and there was no sympathy between them, Mrs. Donby's list, by magnetic agreement, entered into a bond of union against Mr. Donby's list, who, wandering about the rooms in a desolate manner, or seeking refuge in corners, entangled themselves with company coming in, and became barricaded behind sofas, and had doors opened smartly from without against their heads, and underwent every sort of discomforture. When dinner was announced, Mr. Donby took down an old lady like a crimson velvet pincushion stuffed with banknotes, who might have been the identical old lady of Thread Needle Street. She was so rich, and looked so unaccommodating. Cousin Phoenix took down Mrs. Donby. Major Bagstock took down Mrs. Scootin. The young thing with the shoulders was bestowed as an extinguisher upon the East India director, and the remaining ladies were left on view in the drawing-room by the remaining gentleman, until a forlorn hope volunteered to conduct them downstairs, and those brave spirits with their captives blocked up the dining-room door, shutting out seven mild men in the stony-hearted hall. When all the rest were got in and were seated, one of these mild men still appeared in smiling confusion, totally destitute and unprovided for, and, escorted by the butler, made the complete circuit of the table twice before his chair could be found, which it finally was, on Mrs. Donby's left hand, after which the mild man never held up his head again. Now the spacious dining-room, but the company seated round the glittering table, busy with the glittering spoons, and knives, and forks, and plates, might have been taken for a grown-up exposition of Tom Tiddler's ground, where children pick up gold and silver. Mr. Donby, as Tiddler, looked his character to admiration, and the long plateau of precious metal frosted, separating him from Mrs. Donby, whereon frosted cupids offered scentless flowers to each of them was allegorical to see. Cousin Phoenix was in great force, and looked astonishingly young, but he was sometimes thoughtless in his good humour, his memory occasionally wandering like his legs, and on this occasion caused the company to shudder. It happened thus. The young lady with the back, who regarded Cousin Phoenix with sentiments of tenderness, had entrapped the East India director into leading her to the chair next to him. In return for which good office, she immediately abandoned the director, who, being shaded on the other side by a gloomy black velvet hat, surmounting a bony and speechless female with a fan, yielded to a depression of spirits, and withdrew into himself. Cousin Phoenix and the young lady were very lively and humorous, and the young lady laughed so much at something Cousin Phoenix related to her, that Major Bagstock, begged leave to inquire on behalf of Mrs. Scuton, they were sitting opposite a little lower down, whether that might not be considered public property. Why upon my life? said Cousin Phoenix. There's nothing in it, it really is not worth repeating, in point of fact it's a merely an anecdote of Jack Adams. I dare say my friend Donby, for the general attention was concentrated on Cousin Phoenix. May remember Jack Adams. Jack Adams, not Joe. That was his brother. Jack, little Jack, man with a cast in his eye and slight impediment at his speech, man who sat for somebody's burrow. We used to call him, in my parliamentary time, W. P. Adams, in consequence of his being warming pan for a young fellow who is in his minority. Perhaps my friend Donby may have known the man. Mr. Donby, who is as likely to have known Guy Fawkes, replied in the negative. But one of the seven mild men unexpectedly left into distinction by saying he had known him, and adding, Always wore Hessian boots. Exactly, said Cousin Phoenix, bending forward to see the mild man, and smile encouragement at him down the table. That was Jack. Joe wore Chops, cried the mild man, rising in public estimation every instant. Of course, said Cousin Phoenix, you were intimate with him. I knew them both, said the mild man, with whom Mr. Donby immediately took wine. Devilish good fellow, Jack, said Cousin Phoenix, again bending forward and smiling. Excellent! returned the mild man, becoming bold on his success. One of the best fellows I ever knew. No doubt you have heard the story, said Cousin Phoenix. I shall know, replied the bold mild man, when I have heard your ludge ship tell it. With that he leaned back in his chair and smiled at the ceiling, as knowing it by heart, and being already tickled. In point of fact, it's nothing of a story in itself, said Cousin Phoenix, addressing the table with a smile and a gay shake of his head. And not worth a word of preface, but it's illustrative of the neatness of Jack's humour. The fact is that Jack was invited down to a marriage, which I think to place in a boxer. Shropshire, said the bold mild man, finding himself appealed to. Was it? Well, in point of fact, it might have been in any shire, said Cousin Phoenix. So, my friend being invited down to this marriage in any shire, with the pleasant sense of the readiness of this joke, goes, just as some of us, having had the honour of being invited to the marriage of my lovely and accomplished relative, with my friend Dombie, didn't require to be asked twice, and were devilish glad to be present on so interesting an occasion. Goes, Jack goes. Now this marriage was, in point of fact, the marriage of an uncommonly fine girl, with a man for whom she didn't care a button, but whom she accepted on account of his property, which was immense. When Jack returned to town after the nuptials, a man who knew meeting him in the lobby of the House of Commons says, Well, Jack, how are the ill-matched couple? Ill-matched, says Jack, not at all. It's a perfectly and equal transaction. She is regularly bought, and you may take your oath, he is as regularly sold. In his full enjoyment of this culminating point of his story, the shutter which had gone all round the table like an electric spark, struck Cousin Phoenix, and he stopped. Not a smile occasioned by the only general topic of conversation broached that day appeared on any face, a profound silence ensued, and the wretched, mild man, who had been as innocent of any real foreknowledge of the story as the child unborn, had the exquisite misery of reading in every eye that he was regarded as the prime mover of the mischief. Mr. Donby's face was not a changeful one, and being cast in its mould of state that day, showed little other apprehension of the story, if any, than that which he expressed, when he said solemnly amidst the silence that it was very good. There was a rapid glance from Edith towards Florence, but otherwise she remained externally impassive and unconscious. Through the various stages of rich meats and wines, continual gold and silver, dainties of earth, air, fire and water, heaped up fruits, and that unnecessary article in Mr. Donby's banquets, ice, the dinner slowly made its way. The later stages being achieved to the sonorous music of incessant double knocks, announcing the arrival of visitors whose portion of the feast was limited to the smell thereof. When Mrs. Donby rose, it was a sight to see her lord, with stiff throat and erect head, hold the door open for the withdrawal of the ladies, and to see how she swept past him with his daughter on her arm. Mr. Donby was a gravesite behind the decanters in a state of dignity, and the East India director was a forlorn sight near the unoccupied end of the table in a state of solitude. And the major was a military sight, relating stories of the Duke of York to six of the seven mild men. The ambitious one was utterly quenched. And the bank director was a lowly sight, making a plan of his little attempt at a pinery with dessert knives for a group of admirers. And Cousin Phoenix was a thoughtful sight as he smoothed his long wristbands and stealthily adjusted his wig. But all these sights were of short duration, being speedily broken up by coffee, and the desertion of the room. There was a throng in the stateroom upstairs, increasing every minute. But still Mr. Donby's list of visitors appeared to have some native impossibility of amalgamation with Mrs. Donby's list, and no one could have doubted which was which. The single exception to this rule, perhaps, was Mr. Karka, who now smiled among the company, and who, as he stood in the circle that was gathered about Mrs. Donby, watchful of her, of them, his chief, Cleopatra, and the major, Florence, and everything around, appeared at ease with both divisions of guests, and not marked as exclusively belonging to either. Florence had a dread of him, which made his presence in the room a nightmare to her. She could not avoid the recollection of it, for her eyes were drawn towards him every now and then by an attraction of dislike and distrust that she could not resist. Yet her thoughts were busy with other things. For as she set apart, not unadmired or unsought, but in the gentleness of her quiet spirit, she felt how little part her father had in what was going on, and saw with pain how ill at ease he seemed to be, and how little regarded he was, as he lingered about near the door, for those visitors whom he wished to distinguish with particular attention, and took them up to introduce them to his wife, who received them with proud coldness, but showed no interest or wish to please, and never, after the bare ceremony of reception in consultation of his wishes, or in welcome of his friends, opened her lips. It was not the less perplexing or painful to Florence, that she who acted thus treated her so kindly, and with such loving consideration, that it almost seemed an ungrateful return on her part, even to know of what was passing before her eyes. Happy Florence would have been, might she have ventured, to bear her father company by so much as a look, and happy Florence was, in little suspecting the main cause of his uneasiness. But afraid of seeming to know that he was placed at any disadvantage, as he should be resentful of that knowledge, and divided between her impulse towards him, and her greatful affection for Edith, she scarcely dared to raise her eyes towards either. Anxious and unhappy for them both, the thought stole on her through the crowd, that it might have been better for them if this noise of tongues and tread of feet had never come there, if the old dullness and decay had never been replaced by novelty and splendour, if an neglected child had found no friend in Edith, but had lived her solitary life, unpitted and forgotten. Mrs. Chick had some such thoughts too, but they were not so quietly developed in her mind. This good matron had been outraged, in the first instance, by not receiving an invitation to dinner. That blow partially recovered, she had gone to a vast expense to make such a figure before Mrs. Donby at home, as should dazzle the senses of that lady, and heap mortification mountains high on the head of Mrs. Scootin. But I am made, said Mrs. Chick, to Mr. Chick, of no more account than Florence, who takes the smallest notice of me. No one. No one, my dear, assented Mr. Chick, who was seated by the side of Mrs. Chick against the wall, and could console himself, even there, by softly whistling. Does it at all appear, if I was wanted here? exclaimed Mrs. Chick, with flashing eyes. No, my dear, I don't think it does, said Mr. Chick. Paul's mad, said Mrs. Chick. Mr. Chick whistled. Unless you are a monster, which I sometimes think you are, said Mrs. Chick, with candour, don't sit there humming tunes, how anyone with the most distant feelings of a man can see that mother-in-law of Paul's, dressed as she is, going on like that, with major back-stock, for whom, among other precious things, we are indebted to your Lucretia Tox. My Lucretia Tox, my dear, said Mr. Chick, astounded. Yes, retorted Mrs. Chick, with great severity, your Lucretia Tox. I say how anybody can see that mother-in-law of Paul's, and that haughty wife of Paul's, and these indecent old frights with their backs and shoulders, and, in short, this at home generally, and hum, on which word Mrs. Chick, laid a scornful emphasis, had made Mr. Chick start, is, I think, heaven, a mystery to me. Mr. Chick screwed his mouth into a form irreconcilable with humming, or whistling, and looked very contemplative. But I hope I know what is due to myself, said Mrs. Chick, swelling with indignation. Though Paul has forgotten what is due to me, I am not going to sit here, a member of this family, to be taken no notice of. I am not the dirt under Mrs. Donby's feet yet, not quite yet, said Mrs. Chick, as if she expected to become so, about the day after tomorrow. And I shall go, I will not say, whatever I may think, that this affair has been got up solely to degrade and insult me. I shall merely go, I shall not be missed. Mrs. Chick rose erect with these words, and took the arm of Mr. Chick, who escorted her from the room, after half an hour's shady sojourn there, and it is due to her penetration to observe that she certainly was not missed at all. But she was not the only indignant guest, for Mr. Donby's list, still constantly in difficulties, were, as a body, indignant with Mrs. Donby's list, for looking at them through eyeglasses, and audibly wondering who all those people were. While Mrs. Donby's list complained of weariness, and the young thing with the shoulders, deprived of the attentions of that gay youth cousin Phoenix, who went away from the dinner table, confidentially alleged to thirty or forty friends that she was bored to death. All the old ladies with the burdens on their heads had greater or less cause of complaint against Mr. Donby, and the directors and chairman coincided in thinking that if Donby must marry, he had better have married somebody nearer his own age, not quite so handsome, and a little better off. The general opinion among this class of gentlemen was, that it was a weak thing in Donby, and he'd live to repent it. Hardly anybody there, except the mild men, stayed or went away without considering himself or herself neglected and aggrieved by Mr. Donby or Mrs. Donby, and the speechless female in the black velvet hat was found to have been stricken mute, because the lady in the crimson velvet had been handed down before her. The nature even of the mild men got corrupted, either from their curdling it with too much lemonade, or from the general inoculation that prevailed, and they made sarcastic jokes to one another, and whispered disparagement on stairs and in by-places. The general dissatisfaction and discomfort so diffused itself, that the assembled footmen in the hall were as well acquainted with it as the company above. Nay, the very link-man outside got hold of it, and compared the party to a funeral out of mourning, with none of the company remembered in the will. At last the guests were all gone, and the link-men too, and the street, crowded so long with carriages, was clear, and the dying lights showed no one in the rooms with Mr. Donby and Mr. Karka, who were talking together apart, and Mrs. Donby and her mother, the former seated on an ottoman, the latter reclining in the Cleopatra attitude, awaiting the arrival of her maid. Mr. Donby, having finished his communication to Karka, the latter advanced obsequiously to take leave. I trust, he said, that the fatigues of this delightful evening will not inconvenience Mrs. Donby to-morrow. Mrs. Donby, said Mr. Donby advancing, has sufficiently spared herself fatigue to relieve you from any anxiety of that kind. I regret to say, Mrs. Donby, that I could have wished you had fatigued yourself a little more on this occasion. She looked at him with a supercilious glance, that it seemed not worth her while to protract and turned away her eyes without speaking. I am sorry, madam, said Mr. Donby, that you should not have thought it your duty. She looked at him again. Your duty, madam, pursued Mr. Donby, to have received my friends with a little more deference. Some of those whom you have been pleased to slight tonight in a very marked manner, Mrs. Donby, confer a distinction upon you. I must tell you, in any visit they pay you. Do you know that there is someone here? She returned, now looking at him steadily. No, Karka, I beg that you do not. I insist that you do not, cried Mr. Donby, stopping that noiseless gentleman in his withdrawal. Mr. Karka, madam, as you know, possesses my confidence. He is as well acquainted as myself with the subject on which I speak. I beg to tell you, for your information, Mrs. Donby, that I consider these wealthy and important persons confer a distinction upon me. And Mr. Donby drew himself up as having now rendered them of the highest possible importance. I ask you, she repeated, bending her disdainful steady gaze upon him, do you know that there is someone here, sir? I must entreat, said Mr. Karka, stepping forward. I must beg, I must demand, to be released. Slight and unimportant, as this difference is, Mrs. Scootin, who had been intent upon her daughter's face, took him up here. My sweetest Edith! She said, and my dearest Donby, our excellent friend Mr. Karka, for so I am sure I ought to mention him. Mr. Karka murmured, too much honour. Has used the very words that were in my mind, and that I have been dying these ages for an opportunity of introducing, slight and unimportant, my sweetest Edith, and my dearest Donby, do we not know that any difference between you two? No, flowers, not now. Flowers was the maid, who, finding gentlemen present, retreated with precipitation. That any difference between you two, resumed Mrs. Scootin, with the heart you possess in common, and the excessively charming bond of feeling that there is between you, must be slight and unimportant? What words could better define the fact? None. Therefore I am glad to take this slight occasion, this trifling occasion, that is so replete with nature, and your individual characters and all that, so truly calculated to bring the tears into a parent's eyes, to say that I attach no importance to them in the least, except as developing these minor elements of soul. And that, unlike most Burmese in law, that odious phrase dear Donby, as they have been represented to me to exist in this, I fear, too artificial world, I never shall attempt to interpose between you at such a time, and never can much regret, after all, such little flashes of the torch of what is name, not Cupid, but the other delightful creature. There was a sharpness in the good mother's glance at both her children, as she spoke, that may have been expressive of a direct and well considered purpose hidden between these rambling words, that purpose providently to detach herself in the beginning from all the clankings of their chain that were to come, and to shelter herself with the fiction of her innocent belief in their mutual affection, and their adaptation to each other. I have pointed out to Mrs. Donby, said Mr. Donby, in his most stately manner, that in her conduct, thus early in our married life, to which I object, and which I request, may be corrected. Carca, with a nod of dismissal, good night to you. Mr. Carca bowed to the imperious form of the bride, whose sparkling eye was fixed upon her husband, and, stopping at Cleopatra's couch on his way out, raised to his lips the hand she graciously extended to him in lowly and admiring homage. If his handsome wife had approached him, or even changed countenance, or broken the silence in which she remained by one word, now that they were alone, for Cleopatra made off with all speed, Mr. Donby would have been equal to some assertion of his case against her. But the intense, unutterable, withering scorn, with which, after looking upon him, she dropped her eyes, as if he were too worthless and indifferent to her to be challenged with a syllable, the ineffable disdain and haughtiness in which she sat before him, a cold inflexible resolve with which her every feature seemed to bear him down, and put him by. These he had no resource against, and he left her with her whole overbearing beauty concentrated on despising him. Was he coward enough to watch her, and hour afterwards, on the old well staircase where he had once seen Florence in the moonlight toiling up with Paul? Or was he in the dark by accident, when, looking up, he saw her coming with a light from the room where Florence lay, and marked again the face so changed which he could not subdue. But it could never alter as his own did. It never, in its uttermost pride and passion, knew the shadow that had fallen on his in the dark corner on the night of the return, and often since, and which deepened on it now as he looked up.