“So it is not enough,” said Edith, “that you know what has passed between yourself and me; it is not enough that you can look here,” pointing at Carker, who still listened, with his eyes cast down, “and be reminded of the affronts you have put upon me; it is not enough that you can look here,” pointing to Florence with a hand that slightly trembled for the first and only time, “and think of what you have done, and of the ingenious agony, daily, hourly, constant, you have made me feel in doing it; it is not enough that this day, of all others in the year, is memorable to me for a struggle (well-deserved, but not conceivable by such as you) in which I wish I had died! You add to all this, do you, the last crowning meanness of making her a witness of the depth to which I have fallen; when you know that you have made me sacrifice to her peace, the only gentle feeling and interest of my life, when you know that for her sake, I would now if I could—but I can not, my soul recoils from you too much—submit myself wholly to your will, and be the meekest vassal that you have!”
This was not the way to minister to Mr. Dombey’s greatness. The old feeling was roused by what she said, into a stronger and fiercer existence than it had ever had. Again, his neglected child, at this rough passage of his life, put forth by even this rebellious woman, as powerful where he was powerless, and everything where he was nothing!
He turned on Florence, as if it were she who had spoken, and bade her leave the room. Florence with her covered face obeyed, trembling and weeping as she went.
“I understand, Madam,” said Mr. Dombey, with an angry flush of triumph, “the spirit of opposition that turned your affections in that channel, but they have been met, Mrs. Dombey; they have been met, and turned back!”
“The worse for you!” she answered, with her voice and manner still unchanged. “Ay!” for he turned sharply when she said so, “what is the worse for me, is twenty million times the worse for you. Heed that, if you heed nothing else.”
The arch of diamonds spanning her dark hair, flashed and glittered like a starry bridge. There was no warning in them, or they would have turned as dull and dim as tarnished honour. Carker still sat and listened, with his eyes cast down.
“Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr. Dombey, resuming as much as he could of his arrogant composure, “you will not conciliate me, or turn me from any purpose, by this course of conduct.”
“It is the only true although it is a faint expression of what is within me,” she replied. “But if I thought it would conciliate you, I would repress it, if it were repressible by any human effort. I will do nothing that you ask.”
“I am not accustomed to ask, Mrs. Dombey,” he observed; “I direct.”
“I will hold no place in your house tomorrow, or on any recurrence of tomorrow. I will be exhibited to no one, as the refractory slave you purchased, such a time. If I kept my marriage day, I would keep it as a day of shame. Self-respect! appearances before the world! what are these to me? You have done all you can to make them nothing to me, and they are nothing.”
“Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, speaking with knitted brows, and after a moment’s consideration, “Mrs. Dombey is so forgetful of herself and me in all this, and places me in a position so unsuited to my character, that I must bring this state of matters to a close.”
“Release me, then,” said Edith, immoveable in voice, in look, and bearing, as she had been throughout, “from the chain by which I am bound. Let me go.”
“Madam?” exclaimed Mr. Dombey.
“Loose me. Set me free!”
“Madam?” he repeated, “Mrs. Dombey?”
“Tell him,” said Edith, addressing her proud face to Carker, “that I wish for a separation between us. That there had better be one. That I recommend it to him. Tell him it may take place on his own terms—his wealth is nothing to me—but that it cannot be too soon.”
“Good Heaven, Mrs. Dombey!” said her husband, with supreme amazement, “do you imagine it possible that I could ever listen to such a proposition? Do you know who I am, Madam? Do you know what I represent? Did you ever hear of Dombey and Son? People to say that Mr. Dombey—Mr. Dombey!—was separated from his wife! Common people to talk of Mr. Dombey and his domestic affairs! Do you seriously think, Mrs. Dombey, that I would permit my name to be banded about in such connection? Pooh, pooh, Madam! Fie for shame! You’re absurd.” Mr. Dombey absolutely laughed.
But not as she did. She had better have been dead than laugh as she did, in reply, with her intent look fixed upon him. He had better have been dead, than sitting there, in his magnificence, to hear her.
“No, Mrs. Dombey,” he resumed. “No, Madam. There is no possibility of separation between you and me, and therefore I the
