More Warnings than One
Florence, Edith, and Mrs Skewton were together next day, and the
carriage was waiting at the door to take them out. For Cleopatra had
her galley again now, and Withers, no longer the wan, stood upright in
a pigeon-breasted jacket and military trousers, behind her wheel-less
chair at dinner-time and butted no more. The hair of Withers was
radiant with pomatum, in these days of down, and he wore kid gloves and
smelt of the water of Cologne.
They were assembled in Cleopatra’s room. The Serpent of old Nile (not
to mention her disrespectfully) was reposing on her sofa, sipping her
morning chocolate at three o’clock in the afternoon, and Flowers the
Maid was fastening on her youthful cuffs and frills, and performing a
kind of private coronation ceremony on her, with a peach-coloured
velvet bonnet; the artificial roses in which nodded to uncommon
advantage, as the palsy trifled with them, like a breeze.
“I think I am a little nervous this morning, Flowers,” said Mrs
Skewton. “My hand quite shakes.”
“You were the life of the party last night, Ma’am, you know,” returned
Flowers, “and you suffer for it today, you see.”
Edith, who had beckoned Florence to the window, and was looking out,
with her back turned on the toilet of her esteemed mother, suddenly
withdrew from it, as if it had lightened.
“My darling child,” cried Cleopatra, languidly, “_you_ are not nervous?
Don’t tell me, my dear Edith, that you, so enviably self-possessed, are
beginning to be a martyr too, like your unfortunately constituted
mother! Withers, someone at the door.”
“Card, Ma’am,” said Withers, taking it towards Mrs Dombey.
“I am going out,” she said without looking at it.
“My dear love,” drawled Mrs Skewton, “how very odd to send that message
without seeing the name! Bring it here, Withers. Dear me, my love; Mr
Carker, too! That very sensible person!”
“I am going out,” repeated Edith, in so imperious a tone that Withers,
going to the door, imperiously informed the servant who was waiting,
“Mrs Dombey is going out. Get along with you,” and shut it on him.
But the servant came back after a short absence, and whispered to
Withers again, who once more, and not very willingly, presented himself
before Mrs Dombey.
“If you please, Ma’am, Mr Carker sends his respectful compliments, and
begs you would spare him one minute, if you could—for business, Ma’am,
if you please.”
“Really, my love,” said Mrs Skewton in her mildest manner; for her
daughter’s face was threatening; “if you would allow me to offer a
word, I should recommend—”
“Show him this way,” said Edith. As Withers disappeared to execute the
command, she added, frowning on her mother, “As he comes at your
recommendation, let him come to your room.”
“May I—shall I go away?” asked Florence, hurriedly.
Edith nodded yes, but on her way to the door Florence met the visitor
coming in. With the same disagreeable mixture of familiarity and
forbearance, with which he had first addressed her, he addressed her
now in his softest manner—hoped she was quite well—needed not to ask,
with such looks to anticipate the answer—had scarcely had the honour to
know her, last night, she was so greatly changed—and held the door open
for her to pass out; with a secret sense of power in her shrinking from
him, that all the deference and politeness of his manner could not
quite conceal.
He then bowed himself for a moment over Mrs Skewton’s condescending
hand, and lastly bowed to Edith. Coldly returning his salute without
looking at him, and neither seating herself nor inviting him to be
seated, she waited for him to speak.
Entrenched in her pride and power, and with all the obduracy of her
spirit summoned about her, still her old conviction that she and her
mother had been known by this man in their worst colours, from their
first acquaintance; that every degradation she had suffered in her own
eyes was as plain to him as to herself; that he read her life as though
it were a vile book, and fluttered the leaves before her in slight
looks and tones of voice which no one else could detect; weakened and
undermined her. Proudly as she opposed herself to him, with her
commanding face exacting his humility, her disdainful lip repulsing
him, her bosom angry at his intrusion, and the dark lashes of her eyes
sullenly veiling their light, that no ray of it might shine upon
him—and submissively as he stood before her, with an entreating injured
manner, but with complete submission to her will—she knew, in her own
soul, that the cases were reversed, and that the triumph and
superiority were his, and that he knew it full well.
“I have presumed,” said Mr Carker, “to solicit an interview, and I have
ventured to describe it as being one of business, because—”
“Perhaps you are charged by Mr Dombey with some message of reproof,”
said Edith “You possess Mr Dombey’s confidence in such an unusual
degree, Sir, that you would scarcely surprise me if that were your
business.”
“I have no message to the lady who sheds a lustre upon his name,” said
Mr Carker. “But I entreat that lady, on my own behalf, to be just to a
very humble claimant for justice at her hands—a mere dependant of Mr
Dombey’s—which is a position of humility; and to reflect upon my
perfect helplessness last night, and the impossibility of my avoiding
the share that was forced upon me in a very painful occasion.”
“My dearest Edith,” hinted Cleopatra in a low voice, as she held her
eye-glass aside, “really very charming of Mr What’s-his-name. And full
of heart!”
“For I do,” said Mr Carker, appealing to Mrs Skewton with a look of
grateful deference,—“I do venture to call it a painful occasion, though
merely because it was so to me, who had the misfortune to be present.
So slight a difference, as between the principals—between those who
love each other with disinterested devotion, and would make any
sacrifice of self in such a cause—is nothing. As Mrs Skewton herself
expressed, with so much truth and feeling last night, it is nothing.”
Edith could not look at him, but she said after a few moments.
“And your business, Sir—”
“Edith, my pet,” said Mrs Skewton, “all this time Mr Carker is
standing! My dear Mr Carker, take a seat, I beg.”
He offered no reply to the mother, but fixed his eyes on the proud
daughter, as though he would only be bidden by her, and was resolved to
be bidden by her. Edith, in spite of herself, sat down, and slightly
motioned with her hand to him to be seated too. No action could be
colder, haughtier, more insolent in its air of supremacy and
disrespect, but she had struggled against even that concession
ineffectually, and it was wrested from her. That was enough! Mr Carker
sat down.
“May I be allowed, Madam,” said Carker, turning his white teeth on Mrs
Skewton like a light—“a lady of your excellent sense and quick feeling
will give me credit, for good reason, I am sure—to address what I have
to say, to Mrs Dombey, and to leave her to impart it to you who are her
best and dearest friend—next to Mr Dombey?”
Mrs Skewton would have retired, but Edith stopped her. Edith would have
stopped him too, and indignantly ordered him to speak openly or not at
all, but that he said, in a low Voice—“Miss Florence—the young lady who
has just left the room—”
Edith suffered him to proceed. She looked at him now. As he bent
forward, to be nearer, with the utmost show of delicacy and respect,
and with his teeth persuasively arrayed, in a self-depreciating smile,
she felt as if she could have struck him dead.
“Miss Florence’s position,” he began, “has been an unfortunate one. I
have a difficulty in alluding to it to you, whose attachment to her
father is naturally watchful and jealous of every word that applies to
him.” Always distinct and soft in speech, no language could describe
the extent of his distinctness and softness, when he said these words,
or came to any others of a similar import. “But, as one who is devoted
to Mr Dombey in his different way, and whose life is passed in
admiration of Mr Dombey’s character, may I say, without offence to your
tenderness as a wife, that Miss Florence has unhappily been
neglected—by her father. May I say by her father?”
Edith replied, “I know it.”
“You know it!” said Mr Carker, with a great appearance of relief. “It
removes a mountain from my breast. May I hope you know how the neglect
originated; in what an amiable phase of Mr Dombey’s pride—character I
mean?”
“You may pass that by, Sir,” she returned, “and come the sooner to the
end of what you have to say.”
“Indeed, I am sensible, Madam,” replied Carker,—“trust me, I am deeply
sensible, that Mr Dombey can require no justification in anything to
you. But, kindly judge of my breast by your own, and you will forgive
my interest in him, if in its excess, it goes at all astray.”
What a stab to her proud heart, to sit there, face to face with him,
and have him tendering her false oath at the altar again and again for
her acceptance, and pressing it upon her like the dregs of a sickening
cup she could not own her loathing of, or turn away from! How shame,
remorse, and passion raged within her, when, upright and majestic in
her beauty before him, she knew that in her spirit she was down at his
feet!
“Miss Florence,” said Carker, “left to the care—if one may call it
care—of servants and mercenary people, in every way her inferiors,
necessarily wanted some guide and compass in her younger days, and,
naturally, for want of them, has been indiscreet, and has in some
degree forgotten her station. There was some folly about one Walter, a
common lad, who is fortunately dead now: and some very undesirable
association, I regret to say, with certain coasting sailors, of
anything but good repute, and a runaway old bankrupt.”
“I have heard the circumstances, Sir,” said Edith, flashing her
disdainful glance upon him, “and I know that you pervert them. You may
not know it. I hope so.”
“Pardon me,” said Mr Carker, “I believe that nobody knows them so well
as I. Your generous and ardent nature, Madam—the same nature which is
so nobly imperative in vindication of your beloved and honoured
husband, and which has blessed him as even his merits deserve—I must
respect, defer to, bow before. But, as regards the circumstances, which
is indeed the business I presumed to solicit your attention to, I can
have no doubt, since, in the execution of my trust as Mr Dombey’s
confidential—I presume to say—friend, I have fully ascertained them. In
my execution of that trust; in my deep concern, which you can so well
understand, for everything relating to him, intensified, if you will
(for I fear I labour under your displeasure), by the lower motive of
desire to prove my diligence, and make myself the more acceptable; I
have long pursued these circumstances by myself and trustworthy
instruments, and have innumerable and most minute proofs.”
She raised her eyes no higher than his mouth, but she saw the means of
mischief vaunted in every tooth it contained.
“Pardon me, Madam,” he continued, “if in my perplexity, I presume to
take counsel with you, and to consult your pleasure. I think I have
observed that you are greatly interested in Miss Florence?”
What was there in her he had not observed, and did not know? Humbled
and yet maddened by the thought, in every new presentment of it,
however faint, she pressed her teeth upon her quivering lip to force
composure on it, and distantly inclined her head in reply.
“This interest, Madam—so touching an evidence of everything associated
with Mr Dombey being dear to you—induces me to pause before I make him
acquainted with these circumstances, which, as yet, he does not know.
It so shakes me, if I may make the confession, in my allegiance, that
on the intimation of the least desire to that effect from you, I would
suppress them.”
Edith raised her head quickly, and starting back, bent her dark glance
upon him. He met it with his blandest and most deferential smile, and
went on.
“You say that as I describe them, they are perverted. I fear not—I fear
not: but let us assume that they are. The uneasiness I have for some
time felt on the subject, arises in this: that the mere circumstance of
such association often repeated, on the part of Miss Florence, however
innocently and confidingly, would be conclusive with Mr Dombey, already
predisposed against her, and would lead him to take some step (I know
he has occasionally contemplated it) of separation and alienation of
her from his home. Madam, bear with me, and remember my intercourse
with Mr Dombey, and my knowledge of him, and my reverence for him,
almost from childhood, when I say that if he has a fault, it is a lofty
stubbornness, rooted in that noble pride and sense of power which
belong to him, and which we must all defer to; which is not assailable
like the obstinacy of other characters; and which grows upon itself
from day to day, and year to year.”
She bent her glance upon him still; but, look as steadfast as she
would, her haughty nostrils dilated, and her breath came somewhat
deeper, and her lip would slightly curl, as he described that in his
patron to which they must all bow down. He saw it; and though his
expression did not change, she knew he saw it.
“Even so slight an incident as last night’s,” he said, “if I might
refer to it once more, would serve to illustrate my meaning, better
than a greater one. Dombey and Son know neither time, nor place, nor
season, but bear them all down. But I rejoice in its occurrence, for it
has opened the way for me to approach Mrs Dombey with this subject
today, even if it has entailed upon me the penalty of her temporary
displeasure. Madam, in the midst of my uneasiness and apprehension on
this subject, I was summoned by Mr Dombey to Leamington. There I saw
you. There I could not help knowing what relation you would shortly
occupy towards him—to his enduring happiness and yours. There I
resolved to await the time of your establishment at home here, and to
do as I have now done. I have, at heart, no fear that I shall be
wanting in my duty to Mr Dombey, if I bury what I know in your breast;
for where there is but one heart and mind between two persons—as in
such a marriage—one almost represents the other. I can acquit my
conscience therefore, almost equally, by confidence, on such a theme,
in you or him. For the reasons I have mentioned I would select you. May
I aspire to the distinction of believing that my confidence is
accepted, and that I am relieved from my responsibility?”
He long remembered the look she gave him—who could see it, and forget
it?—and the struggle that ensued within her. At last she said:
“I accept it, Sir You will please to consider this matter at an end,
and that it goes no farther.”
He bowed low, and rose. She rose too, and he took leave with all
humility. But Withers, meeting him on the stairs, stood amazed at the
beauty of his teeth, and at his brilliant smile; and as he rode away
upon his white-legged horse, the people took him for a dentist, such
was the dazzling show he made. The people took her, when she rode out
in her carriage presently, for a great lady, as happy as she was rich
and fine. But they had not seen her, just before, in her own room with
no one by; and they had not heard her utterance of the three words, “Oh
Florence, Florence!”
Mrs Skewton, reposing on her sofa, and sipping her chocolate, had heard
nothing but the low word business, for which she had a mortal aversion,
insomuch that she had long banished it from her vocabulary, and had
gone nigh, in a charming manner and with an immense amount of heart, to
say nothing of soul, to ruin divers milliners and others in
consequence. Therefore Mrs Skewton asked no questions, and showed no
curiosity. Indeed, the peach-velvet bonnet gave her sufficient
occupation out of doors; for being perched on the back of her head, and
the day being rather windy, it was frantic to escape from Mrs Skewton’s
company, and would be coaxed into no sort of compromise. When the
carriage was closed, and the wind shut out, the palsy played among the
artificial roses again like an almshouse-full of superannuated zephyrs;
and altogether Mrs Skewton had enough to do, and got on but
indifferently.
She got on no better towards night; for when Mrs Dombey, in her
dressing-room, had been dressed and waiting for her half an hour, and
Mr Dombey, in the drawing-room, had paraded himself into a state of
solemn fretfulness (they were all three going out to dinner), Flowers
the Maid appeared with a pale face to Mrs Dombey, saying:
“If you please, Ma’am, I beg your pardon, but I can’t do nothing with
Missis!”
“What do you mean?” asked Edith.
“Well, Ma’am,” replied the frightened maid, “I hardly know. She’s
making faces!”
Edith hurried with her to her mother’s room. Cleopatra was arrayed in
full dress, with the diamonds, short sleeves, rouge, curls, teeth, and
other juvenility all complete; but Paralysis was not to be deceived,
had known her for the object of its errand, and had struck her at her
glass, where she lay like a horrible doll that had tumbled down.
They took her to pieces in very shame, and put the little of her that
was real on a bed. Doctors were sent for, and soon came. Powerful
remedies were resorted to; opinions given that she would rally from
this shock, but would not survive another; and there she lay
speechless, and staring at the ceiling, for days; sometimes making
inarticulate sounds in answer to such questions as did she know who
were present, and the like: sometimes giving no reply either by sign or
gesture, or in her unwinking eyes.
At length she began to recover consciousness, and in some degree the
power of motion, though not yet of speech. One day the use of her right
hand returned; and showing it to her maid who was in attendance on her,
and appearing very uneasy in her mind, she made signs for a pencil and
some paper. This the maid immediately provided, thinking she was going
to make a will, or write some last request; and Mrs Dombey being from
home, the maid awaited the result with solemn feelings.
After much painful scrawling and erasing, and putting in of wrong
characters, which seemed to tumble out of the pencil of their own
accord, the old woman produced this document:
“Rose-coloured curtains.”
The maid being perfectly transfixed, and with tolerable reason,
Cleopatra amended the manuscript by adding two words more, when it
stood thus:
“Rose-coloured curtains for doctors.”
The maid now perceived remotely that she wished these articles to be
provided for the better presentation of her complexion to the faculty;
and as those in the house who knew her best, had no doubt of the
correctness of this opinion, which she was soon able to establish for
herself, the rose-coloured curtains were added to her bed, and she
mended with increased rapidity from that hour. She was soon able to sit
up, in curls and a laced cap and nightgown, and to have a little
artificial bloom dropped into the hollow caverns of her cheeks.
It was a tremendous sight to see this old woman in her finery leering
and mincing at Death, and playing off her youthful tricks upon him as
if he had been the Major; but an alteration in her mind that ensued on
the paralytic stroke was fraught with as much matter for reflection,
and was quite as ghastly.
Whether the weakening of her intellect made her more cunning and false
than before, or whether it confused her between what she had assumed to
be and what she really had been, or whether it had awakened any
glimmering of remorse, which could neither struggle into light nor get
back into total darkness, or whether, in the jumble of her faculties, a
combination of these effects had been shaken up, which is perhaps the
more likely supposition, the result was this:—That she became hugely
exacting in respect of Edith’s affection and gratitude and attention to
her; highly laudatory of herself as a most inestimable parent; and very
jealous of having any rival in Edith’s regard. Further, in place of
remembering that compact made between them for an avoidance of the
subject, she constantly alluded to her daughter’s marriage as a proof
of her being an incomparable mother; and all this, with the weakness
and peevishness of such a state, always serving for a sarcastic
commentary on her levity and youthfulness.
“Where is Mrs Dombey?” she would say to her maid.
“Gone out, Ma’am.”
“Gone out! Does she go out to shun her Mama, Flowers?”
“La bless you, no, Ma’am. Mrs Dombey has only gone out for a ride with
Miss Florence.”
“Miss Florence. Who’s Miss Florence? Don’t tell me about Miss Florence.
What’s Miss Florence to her, compared to me?”
The apposite display of the diamonds, or the peach-velvet bonnet (she
sat in the bonnet to receive visitors, weeks before she could stir out
of doors), or the dressing of her up in some gaud or other, usually
stopped the tears that began to flow hereabouts; and she would remain
in a complacent state until Edith came to see her; when, at a glance of
the proud face, she would relapse again.
“Well, I am sure, Edith!” she would cry, shaking her head.
“What is the matter, mother?”
“Matter! I really don’t know what is the matter. The world is coming to
such an artificial and ungrateful state, that I begin to think there’s
no Heart—or anything of that sort—left in it, positively. Withers is
more a child to me than you are. He attends to me much more than my own
daughter. I almost wish I didn’t look so young—and all that kind of
thing—and then perhaps I should be more considered.”
“What would you have, mother?”
“Oh, a great deal, Edith,” impatiently.
“Is there anything you want that you have not? It is your own fault if
there be.”
“My own fault!” beginning to whimper. “The parent I have been to you,
Edith: making you a companion from your cradle! And when you neglect
me, and have no more natural affection for me than if I was a
stranger—not a twentieth part of the affection that you have for
Florence—but I am only your mother, and should corrupt her in a
day!—you reproach me with its being my own fault.”
“Mother, mother, I reproach you with nothing. Why will you always dwell
on this?”
“Isn’t it natural that I should dwell on this, when I am all affection
and sensitiveness, and am wounded in the cruellest way, whenever you
look at me?”
“I do not mean to wound you, mother. Have you no remembrance of what
has been said between us? Let the Past rest.”
“Yes, rest! And let gratitude to me rest; and let affection for me
rest; and let me rest in my out-of-the-way room, with no society and no
attention, while you find new relations to make much of, who have no
earthly claim upon you! Good gracious, Edith, do you know what an
elegant establishment you are at the head of?”
“Yes. Hush!”
“And that gentlemanly creature, Dombey? Do you know that you are
married to him, Edith, and that you have a settlement and a position,
and a carriage, and I don’t know what?”
“Indeed, I know it, mother; well.”
“As you would have had with that delightful good soul—what did they
call him?—Granger—if he hadn’t died. And who have you to thank for all
this, Edith?”
“You, mother; you.”
“Then put your arms round my neck, and kiss me; and show me, Edith,
that you know there never was a better Mama than I have been to you.
And don’t let me become a perfect fright with teasing and wearing
myself at your ingratitude, or when I’m out again in society no soul
will know me, not even that hateful animal, the Major.”
But, sometimes, when Edith went nearer to her, and bending down her
stately head, put her cold cheek to hers, the mother would draw back as
If she were afraid of her, and would fall into a fit of trembling, and
cry out that there was a wandering in her wits. And sometimes she would
entreat her, with humility, to sit down on the chair beside her bed,
and would look at her (as she sat there brooding) with a face that even
the rose-coloured curtains could not make otherwise than scared and
wild.
The rose-coloured curtains blushed, in course of time, on Cleopatra’s
bodily recovery, and on her dress—more juvenile than ever, to repair
the ravages of illness—and on the rouge, and on the teeth, and on the
curls, and on the diamonds, and the short sleeves, and the whole
wardrobe of the doll that had tumbled down before the mirror. They
blushed, too, now and then, upon an indistinctness in her speech which
she turned off with a girlish giggle, and on an occasional failing in
her memory, that had no rule in it, but came and went fantastically, as
if in mockery of her fantastic self.
But they never blushed upon a change in the new manner of her thought
and speech towards her daughter. And though that daughter often came
within their influence, they never blushed upon her loveliness
irradiated by a smile, or softened by the light of filial love, in its
stern beauty.