Housewarming
MANY succeeding days passed in like manner; except that there were numerous
visits received and paid, and that Mrs. Skewton held little levees in her own
apartments, at which Major Bagstock was a frequent attendant, and that Florence
encountered no second look from her father, although she saw him every day. Nor
had she much communication in words with her new mama, who was imperious and
proud to all the house but her--Florence could not but observe that--and who,
although she always sent for her or went to her when she came home from
visiting, and would always go into her room at night, before retiring to rest,
however late the hour, and never lost an opportunity of being with her, was
often her silent and thoughtful companion for a long time together.
Florence, who had hoped for so much from this marriage, could not help
sometimes comparing the bright house with the faded dreary place out of which it
had arisen, and wondering when, in any shape, it would begin to be a home; for
that it was no home then, for any one, though everything went on luxuriously and
regularly, she had always a secret misgiving. Many an hour of sorrowful
reflection by day and night, and many a tear of blighted hope, Florence bestowed
upon the assurance her new mama had given her so strongly, that there was no one
on the earth more powerless than herself to teach her how to win her father's
heart. And soon Florence began to think--resolved to think would be the truer
phrase--that as no one knew so well, how hopeless of being subdued or changed
her father's coldness to her was, so she had given her this warning, and
forbidden the subject in very compassion. Unselfish here, as in her every act
and fancy, Florence preferred to bear the pain of this new wound, rather than
encourage any faint foreshadowings of the truth as it concerned her father;
tender of him, even in her wandering thoughts. As for his home, she hoped it
would become a better one, when its state of novelty and transition should be
over; and for herself, thought little and lamented less.
If none of the new family were particularly at home in private, it was
resolved that Mrs. Dombey at least should be at home in public, without delay. A
series of entertainments in celebration of the late nuptials, and in cultivation
of society, were arranged, chiefly by Mr. Dombey and Mrs. Skewton; and it was
settled that the festive proceedings should commence by Mrs. Dombey's being at
home upon a certain evening, and by Mr. and Mrs. Dombey's requesting the honour
of the company of a great many incongruous people to dinner on the same day.
Accordingly, Mr. Dombey produced a list of sundry eastern magnates who were
to be bidden to this feast on his behalf; to which Mrs. Skewton, acting for her
dearest child, who was haughtily careless on the subject, subjoined a western
list, comprising Cousin Feenix, not yet returned to Baden-Baden, greatly to the
detriment of his personal estate; and a variety of moths of various degrees and
ages, who had, at various times, fluttered round the light of her fair daughter,
or herself, without any lasting injury to their wings. Florence was enrolled as
a member of the dinner-party, by Edith's command--elicited by a moment's doubt
and hesitation on the part of Mrs. Skewton; and Florence, with a wondering
heart, and with a quick instinctive sense of everything that grated on her
father in the least, took her silent share in the proceedings of the day.
The proceedings commenced by Mr. Dombey, in a cravat of extraordinary height
and stiffness, walking restlessly about the drawing-room until the hour
appointed for dinner; punctual to which, an East India Director, of immense
wealth, in a waistcoat apparently constructed in serviceable deal by some plain
carpenter, but really engendered in the tailor's art, and composed of the
material called nankeen, arrived and was received by Mr. Dombey alone. The next
stage of the proceedings was Mr. Dombey's sending his compliments to Mrs.
Dombey, with a correct statement of the time; and the next, the East India
Director's falling prostrate, in a conversational point of view, and as Mr.
Dombey was not the man to pick him up, staring at the fire until rescue appeared
in the person of Mrs. Skewton; whom the director, as a pleasant start in life
for the evening, mistook for Mrs. Dombey, and greeted with enthusiasm.
The next arrival was a Bank Director, reputed to be able to buy up
anything--human Nature generally, if he should take it in his head to influence
the money market in that direction--but who was a wonderfully modest-spoken man,
almost boastfully so, and mentioned his `little place' at Kingston-uponThames,
and its just being barely equal to giving Dombey a bed and a chop, if he would
come and visit it. Ladies, he said, it was not for a man who lived in his quiet
way to take upon himself to invite--but if Mrs. Skewton and her daughter, Mrs.
Dombey, should ever find themselves in that direction, and would do him the
honour to look at a little bit of a shrubbery they would find there, and a poor
little flower-bed or so, and a humble apology for a pinery, and two or three
little attempts of that sort without any pretension, they would distinguish him
very much. Carrying out his character, this gentleman was very plainly dressed,
in a wisp of cambric for a neckcloth, big shoes, a coat that was too loose for
him, and a pair of trousers that were too spare; and mention being made of the
Opera by Mrs. Skewton, he said he very seldom went there, for he couldn't afford
it. It seemed greatly to delight and exhilarate him to say so: and he beamed on
his audience afterwards, with his hands in his pockets, and excessive
satisfaction twinkling in his eyes.
Now Mrs. Dombey appeared, beautiful and proud, and as disdainful and defiant
to them all as if the bridal wreath upon her head had been a garland of steel
spikes put on to force concession from her which she would die sooner than
yield. With her was Florence. When they entered together, the shadow of the
night of the return again darkened Mr. Dombey's face. But unobserved: for
Florence did not venture to raise her eyes to his, and Edith's indifference was
too supreme to take the least heed of him.
The arrivals quickly became numerous. More directors, chairmen of public
companies, elderly ladies carrying burdens on their heads for full dress, Cousin
Feenix, Major Bagstock, friends of Mrs. Skewton, with the same bright bloom on
their complexion, and very precious necklaces on very withered necks. Among
these, a young lady of sixty-five, remarkably coolly dressed as to her back and
shoulders, who spoke with an engaging lisp, and whose eyelids wouldn't keep up
well, without a great deal of trouble on her part, and whose manners had that
indefinable charm which so frequently attaches to the giddiness of youth. As the
greater part of Mr. Dombey's list were disposed to be taciturn, and the greater
part of Mrs. Dombey's list were disposed to be talkative, and there was no
sympathy between them, Mrs. Dombey's list, by magnetic agreement, entered into a
bond of union against Mr. Dombey's list, who, wandering about the rooms in a
desolate manner, or seeking refuge in corners, entangled themselves with company
coming in, and became barricaded behind sofas, and had doors opened smartly from
without against their heads, and under went every sort of discomfiture.
When dinner was announced, Mr. Dombey took down an old lady like a crimson
velvet pincushion stuffed with bank notes, who might have been the identical old
lady of Threadneedle Street, she was so rich, and looked so unaccommodating;
Cousin Feenix took down Mrs. Dombey; Major Bagstock took down Mrs. Skewton; the
young thing with the shoulders was bestowed, as an extinguisher, upon the East
India Director; and the remaining ladies were left on view in the drawing-room
by remaining gentlemen, until a forlorn hope volunteered to conduct them
downstairs, and those brave spirits with their captives blocked up the
dining-room door, shutting out seven mild men in the stony-hearted hall. When
all the rest were got in and were seated, one of these mild men still appeared,
in smiling confusion, totally destitute and unprovided for, and escorted by the
butler, made the complete circuit of the table twice before his chair could be
found, which it finally was, on Mrs. Dombey's left hand; after which the mild
man never held up his head again.
Now, the spacious dining-room, with the company seated round the glittering
table, busy with their glittering spoons, and knives and forks, and plates,
might have been taken for a grown-up exposition of Tom Tiddler's ground, where
children pick up gold and silver. Mr. Dombey, as Tiddler, looked his character
to admiration; and the long plateau of precious metal frosted, separating him
from Mrs. Dombey, whereon frosted Cupids offered scentless flowers to each of
them, was allegorical to see.
Cousin Feenix was in great force, and looked astonishingly young. But he was
sometimes thoughtless in his good humour--his memory occasionally wandering like
his legs--and on this occasion caused the company to shudder. It happened thus.
The young lady with the back, who regarded Cousin Feenix with sentiments of
tenderness, had entrapped the East India Director into leading her to the Chair
next him; in return for which good office, she immediately abandoned the
Director, who, being shaded on the other side by a gloomy black velvet hat
surmounting a bony and speechless female with a fan, yielded to a depression of
spirits and withdrew into himself. Cousin Feenix and the young lady were very
lively and humorous, and the young lady laughed so much at something Cousin
Feenix related to her, that Major Bagstock begged leave to inquire on behalf of
Mrs. Skewton (they were sitting opposite, a little lower down), whether that
might not be considered public property.
`Why, upon my life,' said Cousin Feenix, `there's nothing in it; it really is
not worth repeating; in point of fact, it's merely an anecdote of Jack Adams. I
dare say my friend Dombey;' for the general attention was concentrated on Cousin
Feenix; `may remember Jack Adams, Jack Adams, not Joe; that was his brother.
Jack--little Jack--man with a cast in his eye, and slight impediment in his
speech--man who sat for somebody's borough. We used to call him in my
parliamentary time W. P. Adams, in consequence of his being Warming Pan for a
young fellow who was in his minority. Perhaps my friend Dombey may have known
the man?'
Mr. Dombey, who was as likely to have known Guy Fawkes, replied in the
negative. But one of the seven mild men unexpectedly leaped into distinction, by
saying he had known him, and adding--`always wore Hessian boots!'
`Exactly,' said Cousin Feenix, bending forward to see the mild man, and smile
encouragement at his down the table. `That was Jack. Joe wore--'
`Tops!' cried the mild man, rising in public estimation every instant.
`Of course,' said Cousin Feenix, `you were intimate with 'em?'
`I knew them both,' said the mild man. With whom Mr. Dombey immediately took
wine.
`Devilish good fellow, Jack!' said Cousin Feenix, again bending forward, and
smiling.
`Excellent,' returned the mild man, becoming bold on his success. `One of the
best fellows I ever knew.'
`No doubt you have heard the story?' said Cousin Feenix.
`I shall know,' replied the bold mild man, `when I have heard your Ludship
tell it.' With that, he leaned back in his chair and smiled at the ceiling, as
knowing it by heart, and being already tickled.
`In point of fact, it's nothing of a story in itself,' said Cousin Feenix,
addressing the table with a smile, and a gay shake of his head, `and not worth a
word of preface. But it's illustrative of the neatness of Jack's humour. The
fact is, that Jack was invited down to a marriage--which I think took place in
Barkshire?'
`Shropshire,' said the bold mild man, finding himself appealed to.
`Was it? Well! In point of fact it might have been in any shire,' said Cousin
Feenix. `So my friend being invited down to this marriage in Anyshire,' with a
pleasant sense of the readiness of this joke, `goes. Just as some of us, having
had the honour of being invited to the marriage of my lovely and accomplished
relative with my friend Dombey, didn't require to be asked twice, and were
devilish glad to be present on so interesting an occasion.--Goes--Jack goes.
Now, this marriage was, in point of fact, the marriage of an uncommonly fine
girl with a man for whom she didn't care a button, but whom she accepted on
account of his property, which was immense. When Jack returned to town, after
the nuptials, a man he knew, meeting him in the lobby of the House of Commons,
says,' "Well, Jack, how are the ill-matched couple?" "Illmatched," says Jack.
"Not at all. It's a perfectly fair and equal transaction. She is regularly
bought, and you may take your oath he is as regularly sold!"'
In his full enjoyment of this culminating point of his story, the shudder,
which had gone all round the table like an electric spark, struck Cousin Feenix,
and he stopped. Not a smile occasioned by the only general topic of conversation
broached that day, appeared on any face. A profound silence ensued; and the
wretched mild man, who had been as innocent of any real foreknowledge of the
story as the child unborn, had the exquisite misery of reading in every eye that
he was regarded as the prime mover of the mischief.
Mr. Dombey's face was a changeful one, and being cast in its mould of state
that day, showed litter other apprehension of the story, if any, than that which
he expressed when he said solemnly, amidst the silence, that it was `Very good.'
There was a rapid glance from Edith towards Florence, but otherwise she
remained, externally, impassive and unconscious.
Through the various stages of rich meats and wines, continual gold and
silver, dainties of earth, air, fire, and water, heaped-up fruits, and that
unnecessary article in Mr. Dombey's banquets--ice--the dinner slowly made its
way: the later stages being achieved to the sonorous music of incessant double
knocks, announcing the arrival of visitors, whose portion of the feast was
limited to the smell thereof. When Mrs. Dombey rose, it was a sight to see her
lord, with stiff throat and erect head, hold the door open for the withdrawal of
the ladies; and to see how she swept past him with his daughter on her arm.
Mr. Dombey was a grave sight, being the decanters, in a state of dignity; and
the East India Director was a forlorn sight near the unoccupied end of the
table, in a state of solitude; and the Major was a military sight, relating
stories of the Duke of York to six of the seven mild men (the ambitious one was
utterly quenched); and the Bank Director was a lowly sight, making a plan of his
little attempt at a pinery, with dessertknives, for a group of admirers; and
Cousin Feenix was a thoughtful sight, as he smoothed his long wristbands and
stealthily adjusted his wig. But all these sights were of short duration, being
speedily broken up by coffee, and the desertion of the room.
There was a throng in the state-rooms upstairs, increasing every minute; but
still Mr. Dombey's list of visitors appeared to have some native impossibility
of amalgamation with Mrs. Dombey's list, and no one could have doubted which was
which. The single exception to this rule perhaps was Mr. Carker, who now smiled
among the company, and who, as he stood in the circle that was gathered about
Mrs. Dombey--watchful of her, of them, his chief, Cleopatra and the Major,
Florence, and everything around--appeared at ease with both divisions of guests,
and not marked as exclusively belonging to either.
Florence had a dread of him, which made his presence in the room a nightmare
to her. She could not avoid the recollection of it, for her eyes were drawn
towards him every now and then, by an attraction of dislike and distrust that
she could not resist. Yet her thoughts were busy with other things; for as she
sat apart--not unadmired or unsought, but in the gentleness of her quiet
spirit--she felt how little part her father had in what was going on, and saw,
with pain, how ill at ease he seemed to be, and how little regarded he was as he
lingered about near the door, for those visitors whom he wished to distinguish
with particular attention, and took them up to introduce them to his wife, who
received them with proud coldness, but showed no interest or wish to please, and
never, after the bare ceremony of reception, in consultation of his wishes, or
in welcome of his friends, opened her lips. It was not the less perplexing or
painful to Florence, that she who acted thus, treated her so kindly and with
such loving consideration, that it almost seemed an ungrateful return on her
part even to know of what was passing before her eyes.
Happy Florence would have been, might she have ventured to bear her father
company, by so much as a look: and happy Florence was, in little suspecting the
main cause of his uneasiness. But afraid of seeming to know that he was placed
at any disadvantage, lest he should be resentful of that knowledge; and divided
between her impulse towards him, and her grateful affection for Edith; she
scarcely dared to raise her eyes towards either. Anxious and unhappy for them
both, the thought stole on her through the crowd, that it might have been better
for them if this noise of tongues and tread of feet had never come there,--if
the old dulness and decay had never been replaced by novelty and splendour,--if
the neglected child had found no friend in Edith, but had lived her solitary
life, unpitied and forgotten.
Mrs. Chick had some such thoughts too, but they were not so quietly developed
in her mind. This good matron had been outraged in the first instance by not
receiving an invitation to dinner. That blow partially recovered, she had gone
to a vast expense to make such a figure before Mrs. Dombey at home, as should
dazzle the senses of that lady, and heap mortification, mountains high, on the
head of Mrs. Skewton.
`But I am made,' said Mrs. Chick to Mr. Chick, `of no more account than
Florence! Who takes the smallest notice of me? No one!'
`No one, my dear,' assented Mr. Chick, who was seated by the side of Mrs.
Chick against the wall, and could console himself, even there, by softly
whistling.
`Does it at all appear as if I was wanted here?' exclaimed Mrs. Chick, with
flashing eyes.
`No, my dear, I don't think it does,' said Mr. Chick.
`Paul's mad!' said Mrs. Chick.
Mr. Chick whistled.
`Unless you are a monster, which I sometimes think you are,' said Mrs. Chick
with candour, `don't sit there humming tunes. How any one with the most distant
feelings of a man, can see that mother-in-law of Paul's, dressed as she is,
going on like that, with Major Bagstock, for whom, among other precious things,
we are indebted to your Lucretia Tox--'
`My Lucretia Tox, my dear!' said Mr. Chick, astounded.
`Yes,' retorted Mrs. Chick, with great severity, `your Lucretia Tox--I say
how anybody can see that mother-in-law of Paul's, and that haughty wife of
Paul's, and these indecent old frights with their backs and shoulders, and in
short this at home generally, and hum--,' on which word Mrs. Chick laid a
scornful emphasis that made Mr. Chick start, `is, I thank Heaven, a mystery to
me!'
Mr. Chick screwed his mouth into a form irreconcilable with humming or
whistling, and looked very contemplative.
`But I hope I know what is due to myself,' said Mrs. Chick, swelling with
indignation, `though Paul has forgotten what is due to me. I am not going to sit
here, a member of this family, to be taken no notice of. I am not the dirt under
Mrs. Dombey's feet, yet--not quite yet,' said Mrs. Chick, as if she expected to
become so, about the day after to-morrow. `And I shall go. I will not say
(whatever I may think) that this affair has been got up solely to degrade and
insult me. I shall merely go. I shall not be missed!'
Mrs. Chick rose erect with these words, and took the arm of Mr. Chick, who
escorted her from the room, after half an hour's shady sojourn there. And it is
due to her penetration to observe that she certainly was not missed at all.
But she was not the only indignant guest; for Mr. Dombey's list (still
constantly in difficulties) were, as a body, indignant with Mrs. Dombey's list
for looking at them through eyeglasses, and audibly wondering who all those
people were; while Mrs. Dombey's list complained of weariness, and the young
thing with the shoulders, deprived of the attentions of that gay youth Cousin
Feenix (who went away from the dinnertable), confidentially alleged to thirty or
forty friends that she was bored to death. All the old ladies with the burdens
on their heads, had greater or less cause of complaint against Mrs. Dombey; and
the Directors and Chairmen coincided in thinking that if Dombey must marry, he
had better have married somebody nearer his own age, not quite so handsome, and
a little better off. The general opinion among this class of gentlemen was, that
it was a weak thing in Dombey, and he'd live to repent it. Hardly anybody there,
except the mild men, stayed, or went away, without considering himself or
herself neglected and aggrieved by Mr. Dombey or Mrs. Dombey; and the speechless
female in the black velvet hat was found to have been stricken mute, because the
lady in the crimson velvet had been handed down before her. The nature even of
the mild men got corrupted, either from their curdling it with too much
lemonade, or from the general inoculation that prevailed; and they made
sarcastic jokes to one another, and whispered disparagement on stairs and in
bye-places. The general dissatisfaction and discomfort so diffused itself, that
the assembled footmen in the hall were as well acquainted with it as the company
above. Nay, the very linkmen outside got hold of it, and compared the party to a
funeral out of mourning, with none of the company remembered in the will.
At last, the guests were all gone, and the linkmen too; and the street,
crowded so long with carriages, was clear; and the dying lights showed no one in
the rooms, but Mr. Dombey and Mr. Carker, who were talking together apart, and
Mrs. Dombey and her mother: the former seated on an ottoman; the latter
reclining in the Cleopatra attitude, awaiting the arrival of her maid. Mr.
Dombey having finished his communication to Carker, the latter advanced
obsequiously to take leave.
`I trust,' he said, `that the fatigues of this delightful evening will not
inconvenience Mrs. Dombey to-morrow.'
`Mrs. Dombey,' said Mr. Dombey, advancing, `has sufficiently spared herself
fatigue, to relieve you from any anxiety of that kind. I regret to say, Mrs.
Dombey, that I could have wished you had fatigued yourself a little more on this
occasion.'
She looked at him with a supercilious glance, that it seemed not worth her
while to protract, and turned away her eyes without speaking.
`I am sorry, Madam,' said Mr. Dombey, `that you should not have thought it
your duty--'
She looked at him again.
`Your duty, Madam,' pursued Mr. Dombey, `to have received my friends with a
little more deference. Some of those whom you have been pleased to slight
to-night in a very marked manner, Mrs. Dombey, confer a distinction upon you, I
must tell you, in any visit they pay you.'
`Do you know that there is some one here?' she returned, now looking at him
steadily.
`No! Carker! I beg that you do not. I insist that you do not,' cried Mr.
Dombey, stopping that noiseless gentleman in his withdrawal. `Mr. Carker, Madam,
as you know, possesses my confidence. He is as well acquainted as myself with
the subject on which I speak. I beg to tell you, for your information, Mrs.
Dombey, that I consider these wealthy and important persons confer a distinction
upon me:' and Mr. Dombey drew himself up, as having now rendered them of the
highest possible importance.
`I ask you,' she repeated, bending her disdainful, steady gaze upon him, `do
you know that there is some one here, Sir?'
`I must entreat,' said Mr. Carker, stepping forward, `I must beg, I must
demand, to be released. Slight and unimportant as this difference is--'
Mrs. Skewton, who had been intent upon her daughter's face, took him up here.
`My sweetest Edith,' she said, `and my dearest Dombey; our excellent friend
Mr. Carker, for so I am sure I ought to mention him--'
Mr. Carker murmured, `Too much honour.'
`--has used the very words that were in my mind, and that I have been dying,
these ages, for an opportunity of introducing. Slight and unimportant! My
sweetest Edith, and my dearest Dombey, do we not know that any difference
between you two--No, Flowers; not now.'
Flowers was the maid, who, finding gentlemen present, retreated with
precipitation.
`That any difference between you two,' resumed Mrs. Skewton, `with the Heart
you possess in common, and the excessively charming bond of feeling that there
is between you, must be slight and unimportant? What words could better define
the fact? None. Therefore I am glad to take this slight occasion--this trifling
occasion, that is so replete with Nature, and your individual characters, and
all that--so truly calculated to bring the tears into a parent's eyes--to say
that I attach no importance to them in the least, except as developing these
minor elements of Soul; and that, unlike most mamas-inlaw (that odious phrase,
dear Dombey!) as they have been represented to me to exist in this I fear too
artificial world, I never shall attempt to interpose between you, at such a
time, and never can much regret, after all, such little flashes of the torch of
What's-his-name--not Cupid, but the other delightful creature.'
There was a sharpness in the good mother's glance at both her children as she
spoke, that may have been expressive of a direct and well-considered purpose
hidden between these rambling words. That purpose, providently to detach herself
in the beginning from all the clankings of their chain that were to come, and to
shelter herself with the fiction of her innocent belief in their mutual
affection, and their adaptation to each other.
`I have pointed out to Mrs. Dombey,' said Mr. Dombey, in his most stately
manner, `that in her conduct thus early in our married life, to which I object,
and which, I request, may be corrected. Carker,' with a nod of dismissal, `good
night to you!'
Mr. Carker bowed to the imperious form of the Bride, whose sparkling eye was
fixed upon her husband; and stopping at Cleopatra's couch on his way out, raised
to his lips the hand she graciously extended to him, in lowly and admiring
homage.
If his handsome wife had reproached him, or even changed countenance, or
broken the silence in which she remained, by one word, now that they were alone
(for Cleopatra made off with all speed), Mr. Dombey would have been equal to
some assertion of his case against her. But the intense, unutterable, withering
scorn, with which, after looking upon him, she dropped her eyes, as if he were
too worthless and indifferent to her to be challenged with a syllable--the
ineffable disdain and haughtiness in which she sat before him--the cold
inflexible resolve with which her every feature seemed to bear him down, and put
him by--these, he had no resource against; and he left her, with her whole
overbearing beauty concentrated on despising him.
Was he coward enough to watch her, an hour afterwards, on the old well
staircase, where he had once seen Florence in the moonlight, toiling up with
Paul? Or was he in the dark by accident, when, looking up, he saw her coming,
with a light, from the room where Florence lay, and marked again the face so
changed, which he could not subdue?
But it could never alter as his own did. It never, in its utmost pride and
passion, knew the shadow that had fallen on his, in the dark corner, on the
night of the return; and often since; and which deepened on it now as he looked
up.
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