Dombey and Son, Charles Dickens [top ten ebook reader .TXT] 📗

much urging; but I am happy to know, that I am supported by my friend Gay’s influence and approval. As in my parliamentary time, when a man had a motion to make of any sort—which happened seldom in those days, for we were kept very tight in hand, the leaders on both sides being regular Martinets, which was a devilish good thing for the rank and file, like myself, and prevented our exposing ourselves continually, as a great many of us had a feverish anxiety to do—as, in my parliamentary time, I was about to say, when a man had leave to let off any little private popgun, it was always considered a great point for him to say that he had the happiness of believing that his sentiments were not without an echo in the breast of Mr Pitt; the pilot, in point of fact, who had weathered the storm. Upon which, a devilish large number of fellows immediately cheered, and put him in spirits. Though the fact is, that these fellows, being under orders to cheer most excessively whenever Mr Pitt’s name was mentioned, became so proficient that it always woke ‘em. And they were so entirely innocent of what was going on, otherwise, that it used to be commonly said by Conversation Brown—four-bottle man at the Treasury Board, with whom the father of my friend Gay was probably acquainted, for it was before my friend Gay’s time—that if a man had risen in his place, and said that he regretted to inform the house that there was an Honourable Member in the last stage of convulsions in the Lobby, and that the Honourable Member’s name was Pitt, the approbation would have been vociferous.’

This postponement of the point, put Florence in a flutter; and she looked from Cousin Feenix to Walter, in increasing agitation.

‘My love,’ said Walter, ‘there is nothing the matter.’

‘There is nothing the matter, upon my honour,’ said Cousin Feenix; ‘and I am deeply distressed at being the means of causing you a moment’s uneasiness. I beg to assure you that there is nothing the matter. The favour that I have to ask is, simply—but it really does seem so exceedingly singular, that I should be in the last degree obliged to my friend Gay if he would have the goodness to break the—in point of fact, the ice,’ said Cousin Feenix.

Walter thus appealed to, and appealed to no less in the look that Florence turned towards him, said:

‘My dearest, it is no more than this. That you will ride to London with this gentleman, whom you know.’

‘And my friend Gay, also—I beg your pardon!’ interrupted Cousin Feenix.

‘—And with me—and make a visit somewhere.’

‘To whom?’ asked Florence, looking from one to the other.

‘If I might entreat,’ said Cousin Feenix, ‘that you would not press for an answer to that question, I would venture to take the liberty of making the request.’

‘Do you know, Walter?’

‘Yes.’

‘And think it right?’

‘Yes. Only because I am sure that you would too. Though there may be reasons I very well understand, which make it better that nothing more should be said beforehand.’

‘If Papa is still asleep, or can spare me if he is awake, I will go immediately,’ said Florence. And rising quietly, and glancing at them with a look that was a little alarmed but perfectly confiding, left the room.

When she came back, ready to bear them company, they were talking together, gravely, at the window; and Florence could not but wonder what the topic was, that had made them so well acquainted in so short a time. She did not wonder at the look of pride and love with which her husband broke off as she entered; for she never saw him, but that rested on her.

‘I will leave,’ said Cousin Feenix, ‘a card for my friend Dombey, sincerely trusting that he will pick up health and strength with every returning hour. And I hope my friend Dombey will do me the favour to consider me a man who has a devilish warm admiration of his character, as, in point of fact, a British merchant and a devilish upright gentleman. My place in the country is in a most confounded state of dilapidation, but if my friend Dombey should require a change of air, and would take up his quarters there, he would find it a remarkably healthy spot—as it need be, for it’s amazingly dull. If my friend Dombey suffers from bodily weakness, and would allow me to recommend what has frequently done myself good, as a man who has been extremely queer at times, and who lived pretty freely in the days when men lived very freely, I should say, let it be in point of fact the yolk of an egg, beat up with sugar and nutmeg, in a glass of sherry, and taken in the morning with a slice of dry toast. Jackson, who kept the boxing-rooms in Bond Street—man of very superior qualifications, with whose reputation my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted—used to mention that in training for the ring they substituted rum for sherry. I should recommend sherry in this case, on account of my friend Dombey being in an invalided condition; which might occasion rum to fly—in point of fact to his head—and throw him into a devil of a state.’

Of all this, Cousin Feenix delivered himself with an obviously nervous and discomposed air. Then, giving his arm to Florence, and putting the strongest possible constraint upon his wilful legs, which seemed determined to go out into the garden, he led her to the door, and handed her into a carriage that was ready for her reception.

Walter entered after him, and they drove away.

Their ride was six or eight miles long. When they drove through certain dull and stately streets, lying westward in London, it was growing dusk. Florence had, by this time, put her hand in Walter’s; and was looking very earnestly, and with increasing agitation, into every new street into which they turned.

When the carriage stopped, at last, before that house in Brook Street, where her father’s unhappy marriage had been celebrated, Florence said, ‘Walter, what is this? Who is here?’ Walter cheering her, and not replying, she glanced up at the house-front, and saw that all the windows were shut, as if it were uninhabited. Cousin Feenix had by this time alighted, and was offering his hand.

‘Are you not coming, Walter?’

‘No, I will remain here. Don’t tremble there is nothing to fear, dearest Florence.’

‘I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am sure of that, but—’

The door was softly opened, without any knock, and Cousin Feenix led her out of the summer evening air into the close dull house. More sombre and brown than ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the wedding-day, and to have hoarded darkness and sadness ever since.

Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling; and stopped, with her conductor, at the drawing-room door. He opened it, without speaking, and signed an entreaty to her to advance into the inner room, while he remained there. Florence, after hesitating an instant, complied.

Sitting by the window at a table, where she seemed to have been writing or drawing, was a lady, whose head, turned away towards the dying light, was resting on her hand. Florence advancing, doubtfully, all at once stood still, as if she had lost the power of motion. The lady turned her head.

‘Great Heaven!’ she said, ‘what is this?’

‘No, no!’ cried Florence, shrinking back as she rose up and putting out her hands to keep her off. ‘Mama!’

They stood looking at each other. Passion and pride had worn it, but it was the face of Edith, and beautiful and stately yet. It was the face of Florence, and through all the terrified avoidance it expressed, there was pity in it, sorrow, a grateful tender memory. On each face, wonder and fear were painted vividly; each so still and silent, looking at the other over the black gulf of the irrevocable past.

Florence was the first to change. Bursting into tears, she said from her full heart, ‘Oh, Mama, Mama! why do we meet like this? Why were you ever kind to me when there was no one else, that we should meet like this?’

Edith stood before her, dumb and motionless. Her eyes were fixed upon her face.

‘I dare not think of that,’ said Florence, ‘I am come from Papa’s sick bed. We are never asunder now; we never shall be’ any more. If you would have me ask his pardon, I will do it, Mama. I am almost sure he will grant it now, if I ask him. May Heaven grant it to you, too, and comfort you!’

She answered not a word.

‘Walter—I am married to him, and we have a son,’ said Florence, timidly—‘is at the door, and has brought me here. I will tell him that you are repentant; that you are changed,’ said Florence, looking mournfully upon her; ‘and he will speak to Papa with me, I know. Is there anything but this that I can do?’

Edith, breaking her silence, without moving eye or limb, answered slowly:

‘The stain upon your name, upon your husband’s, on your child’s. Will that ever be forgiven, Florence?’

‘Will it ever be, Mama? It is! Freely, freely, both by Walter and by me. If that is any consolation to you, there is nothing that you may believe more certainly. You do not—you do not,’ faltered Florence, ‘speak of Papa; but I am sure you wish that I should ask him for his forgiveness. I am sure you do.’

She answered not a word.

‘I will!’ said Florence. ‘I will bring it you, if you will let me; and then, perhaps, we may take leave of each other, more like what we used to be to one another. I have not,’ said Florence very gently, and drawing nearer to her, ‘I have not shrunk back from you, Mama, because I fear you, or because I dread to be disgraced by you. I only wish to do my duty to Papa. I am very dear to him, and he is very dear to me. But I never can forget that you were very good to me. Oh, pray to Heaven,’ cried Florence, falling on her bosom, ‘pray to Heaven, Mama, to forgive you all this sin and shame, and to forgive me if I cannot help doing this (if it is wrong), when I remember what you used to be!’

Edith, as if she fell beneath her touch, sunk down on her knees, and caught her round the neck.

‘Florence!’ she cried. ‘My better angel! Before I am mad again, before my stubbornness comes back and strikes me dumb, believe me, upon my soul I am innocent!’

‘Mama!’

‘Guilty of much! Guilty of that which sets a waste between us evermore. Guilty of what must separate me, through the whole remainder of my life, from purity and innocence—from you, of all the earth. Guilty of a blind and passionate resentment, of which I do not, cannot, will not, even now, repent; but not guilty with that dead man. Before God!’

Upon her knees upon the ground, she held up both her hands, and swore it.

‘Florence!’ she said, ‘purest and best of natures,—whom I love—who might have changed me long ago, and did for a time work some change even in the woman that I am,—believe me, I am innocent of that; and once more, on my desolate heart, let me lay this dear head, for the last time!’

She was moved and weeping. Had she been oftener thus in older days, she had been happier now.

‘There is nothing else in all the world,’ she said, ‘that would have wrung denial from me. No love, no hatred, no hope, no threat. I said that I would die, and make no sign. I could have done so, and I would, if we had never met, Florence.’

‘I trust,’ said Cousin Feenix, ambling in at the door, and speaking, half in the