Dombey and Son

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