Dombey and Son

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 room, and half out of it, ‘that my lovely and accomplished relative will excuse my having, by a little stratagem, effected this meeting. I cannot say that I was, at first, wholly incredulous as to the possibility of my lovely and accomplished relative having, very unfortunately, committed herself with the deceased person with white teeth; because in point of fact, one does see, in this world – which is remarkable for devilish strange arrangements, and for being decidedly the most unintelligible thing within a man’s experience – very odd conjunctions of that sort. But as I mentioned to my friend Dombey, I could not admit the criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative until it was perfectly established. And feeling, when the deceased person was, in point of fact, destroyed in a devilish horrible manner, that her position was a very painful one – and feeling besides that our family had been a little to blame in not paying more attention to her, and that we are a careless family – and also that my aunt, though a devilish lively woman, had perhaps not been the very best of mothers – I took the liberty of seeking her in France, and offering her such protection as a man very much out at elbows could offer. Upon which occasion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the honour to express that she believed I was, in my way, a devilish good sort of fellow; and that therefore she put herself under my protection. Which in point of fact I understood to be a kind thing on the part of my lovely and accomplished relative, as I am getting extremely shaky, and have derived great comfort from her solicitude.’

Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a gesture with her hand as if she would have begged him to say no more.

‘My lovely and accomplished relative,’ resumed Cousin Feenix, still ambling about at the door, ‘will excuse me, if, for her satisfaction, and my own, and that of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished daughter we so much admire, I complete the thread of my observations. She will remember that, from the first, she and I never alluded to the subject of her elopement. My impression, certainly, has always been, that there was a mystery in the affair which she could explain if so inclined. But my lovely and accomplished relative being a devilish resolute woman, I knew that she was not, in point of fact, to be trifled with, and therefore did not involve myself in any discussions. But, observing lately, that her accessible point did appear to be a very strong description of tenderness for the daughter of my friend Dombey, it occurred to me that if I could bring about a meeting, unexpected on both sides, it might lead to beneficial results. Therefore, we being in London, in the present private way, before going to the South of Italy, there to establish ourselves, in point of fact, until we go to our long homes, which is a devilish disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied myself to the discovery of the residence of my friend Gay – handsome man of an uncommonly frank disposition, who is probably known to my lovely and accomplished relative – and had the happiness of bringing his amiable wife to the present place. And now,’ said Cousin Feenix, with a real and genuine earnestness shining through the levity of his manner and his slipshod speech, ‘I do conjure my relative, not to stop half way, but to set right, as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong – not for the honour of her family, not for her own fame, not for any of those considerations which unfortunate circumstances have induced her to regard as hollow, and in point of fact, as approaching to humbug – but because it is wrong, and not right.’

Cousin Feenix’s legs consented to take him away after this; and leaving them alone together, he shut the door.

Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close beside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.

‘I debated with myself a long time,’ she said in a low voice, ‘whether to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and feeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and how to destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.’

‘Is it for Papa?’ asked Florence.

‘It is for whom you will,’ she answered. ‘It is given to you, and is obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.’

Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.

‘Mama,’ said Florence, ‘he has lost his fortune; he has been at the point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I shall say to him from you?’

‘Did you tell me,’ asked Edith, ‘that you were very dear to him?’

‘Yes!’ said Florence, in a thrilling voice.

‘Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.’

‘No more?’ said Florence after a pause.

‘Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done – not yet – for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is a changed man – ’

She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence’s hand that stopped her.

‘ – But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. Tell him I wish it never had been.’

‘May I say,’ said Florence, ‘that you grieved to hear of the afflictions he has suffered?’

‘Not,’ she replied, ‘if they have taught him that his daughter is very dear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if they have brought that lesson, Florence.’

‘You wish well to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you would!’ said Florence. ‘Oh! let me be able, if I have the occasion at some future time, to say so?’

Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly before her, and did not reply until Florence had repeated her entreaty; when she drew her hand within her arm, and said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night outside:

‘Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to compassionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find a reason to think less bitterly of me, I asked him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one another, never more to meet on this side of eternity, he knows there is one feeling in common between us now, that there never was before.’

Her sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in her dark eyes.

‘I trust myself to that,’ she said, ‘for his better thoughts of me, and mine of him. When he loves his Florence most, he will hate me least. When he is most proud and happy in her and her children, he will be most repentant of his own part in the dark vision of our married life. At that time, I will be repentant too – let him know it then – and think that when I thought so much of all the causes that had made me what I was, I needed to have allowed more for the causes that had made him what he was. I will try, then, to forgive him his share of blame. Let him try to forgive me mine!’

‘Oh Mama!’ said Florence. ‘How it lightens my heart, even in such a strange meeting and parting, to hear this!’

‘Strange words in my own ears,’ said Edith, ‘and foreign to the sound of my own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I have given him occasion to believe me, I think I could have said them still, hearing that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, when you are dearest, ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts of me – that I am most forbearing in my thoughts of him! Those are the last words I send him! Now, goodbye, my life!’

She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out all her woman’s soul of love and tenderness at once.

‘This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your head! My own dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell!’

‘To meet again!’ cried Florence.

‘Never again! Never again! When you leave me in this dark room, think that you have left me in the grave. Remember only that I was once, and that I loved you!’

And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but accompanied by her embraces and caresses to the last.

Cousin Feenix met her at the door, and took her down to Walter in the dingy dining room, upon whose shoulder she laid her head weeping.

‘I am devilish sorry,’ said Cousin Feenix, lifting his wristbands to his eyes in the simplest manner possible, and without the least concealment, ‘that the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey and amiable wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive nature so very much distressed and cut up by the interview which is just concluded. But I hope and trust I have acted for the best, and that my honourable friend Dombey will find his mind relieved by the disclosures which have taken place. I exceedingly lament that my friend Dombey should have got himself, in point of fact, into the devil’s own state of conglomeration by an alliance with our family; but am strongly of opinion that if it hadn’t been for the infernal scoundrel Barker – man with white teeth – everything would have gone on pretty smoothly. In regard to my relative who does me the honour to have formed an uncommonly good opinion of myself, I can assure the amiable wife of my friend Gay, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a father to her. And in regard to the changes of human life, and the extraordinary manner in which we are perpetually conducting ourselves, all I can say is, with my friend Shakespeare – man who wasn’t for an age but for all time, and with whom my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted – that its like the shadow of a dream.’