Chapter 47. The Thunderbolt

Dombey and Son

by Charles Dickens

The barrier between Mr Dombey and his wife was not weakened by
time. Ill-assorted couple, unhappy in themselves and in each other,
bound together by no tie but the manacle that joined their fettered
hands, and straining that so harshly, in their shrinking asunder,
that it wore and chafed to the bone, Time, consoler of affliction and
softener of anger, could do nothing to help them. Their pride,
however different in kind and object, was equal in degree; and, in
their flinty opposition, struck out fire between them which might
smoulder or might blaze, as circumstances were, but burned up
everything within their mutual reach, and made their marriage way a
road of ashes.

Let us be just to him. In the monstrous delusion of his life,
swelling with every grain of sand that shifted in its glass, he urged
her on, he little thought to what, or considered how; but still his
feeling towards her, such as it was, remained as at first. She had
the grand demerit of unaccountably putting herself in opposition to
the recognition of his vast importance, and to the acknowledgment of
her complete submission to it, and so far it was necessary to correct
and reduce her; but otherwise he still considered her, in his cold
way, a lady capable of doing honour, if she would, to his choice and
name, and of reflecting credit on his proprietorship.

Now, she, with all her might of passionate and proud resentment,
bent her dark glance from day to day, and hour to hour - from that
night in her own chamber, when she had sat gazing at the shadows on
the wall, to the deeper night fast coming - upon one figure directing
a crowd of humiliations and exasperations against her; and that
figure, still her husband's.

Was Mr Dombey's master-vice, that ruled him so inexorably, an
unnatural characteristic? It might be worthwhile, sometimes, to
inquire what Nature is, and how men work to change her, and whether,
in the enforced distortions so produced, it is not natural to be
unnatural. Coop any son or daughter of our mighty mother within
narrow range, and bind the prisoner to one idea, and foster it by
servile worship of it on the part of the few timid or designing
people standing round, and what is Nature to the willing captive who
has never risen up upon the wings of a free mind - drooping and
useless soon - to see her in her comprehensive truth!

Alas! are there so few things in the world, about us, most
unnatural, and yet most natural in being so? Hear the magistrate or
judge admonish the unnatural outcasts of society; unnatural in brutal
habits, unnatural in want of decency, unnatural in losing and
confounding all distinctions between good and evil; unnatural in
ignorance, in vice, in recklessness, in contumacy, in mind, in looks,
in everything. But follow the good clergyman or doctor, who, with his
life imperilled at every breath he draws, goes down into their dens,
lying within the echoes of our carriage wheels and daily tread upon
the pavement stones. Look round upon the world of odious sights -
millions of immortal creatures have no other world on earth - at the
lightest mention of which humanity revolts, and dainty delicacy
living in the next street, stops her ears, and lisps 'I don't believe
it!' Breathe the polluted air, foul with every impurity that is
poisonous to health and life; and have every sense, conferred upon
our race for its delight and happiness, offended, sickened and
disgusted, and made a channel by which misery and death alone can
enter. Vainly attempt to think of any simple plant, or flower, or
wholesome weed, that, set in this foetid bed, could have its natural
growth, or put its little leaves off to the sun as God designed it.
And then, calling up some ghastly child, with stunted form and wicked
face, hold forth on its unnatural sinfulness, and lament its being,
so early, far away from Heaven - but think a little of its having
been conceived, and born and bred, in Hell!

Those who study the physical sciences, and bring them to bear
upon the health of Man, tell us that if the noxious particles that
rise from vitiated air were palpable to the sight, we should see them
lowering in a dense black cloud above such haunts, and rolling slowly
on to corrupt the better portions of a town. But if the moral
pestilence that rises with them, and in the eternal laws of our
Nature, is inseparable from them, could be made discernible too, how
terrible the revelation! Then should we see depravity, impiety,
drunkenness, theft, murder, and a long train of nameless sins against
the natural affections and repulsions of mankind, overhanging the
devoted spots, and creeping on, to blight the innocent and spread
contagion among the pure. Then should we see how the same poisoned
fountains that flow into our hospitals and lazar-houses, inundate the
jails, and make the convict-ships swim deep, and roll across the
seas, and over-run vast continents with crime. Then should we stand
appalled to know, that where we generate disease to strike our
children down and entail itself on unborn generations, there also we
breed, by the same certain process, infancy that knows no innocence,
youth without modesty or shame, maturity that is mature in nothing
but in suffering and guilt, blasted old age that is a scandal on the
form we bear. unnatural humanity! When we shall gather grapes from
thorns, and figs from thistles; when fields of grain shall spring up
from the offal in the bye-ways of our wicked cities, and roses bloom
in the fat churchyards that they cherish; then we may look for
natural humanity, and find it growing from such seed.

Oh for a good spirit who would take the house-tops off, with a
mole potent and benignant hand than the lame demon in the tale, and
show a Christian people what dark shapes issue from amidst their
homes, to swell the retinue of the Destroying Angel as he moves forth
among them! For only one night's view of the pale phantoms rising
from the scenes of our too-long neglect; and from the thick and
sullen air where Vice and Fever propagate together, raining the
tremendous social retributions which are ever pouring down, and ever
coming thicker! Bright and blest the morning that should rise on such
a night: for men, delayed no more by stumbling-blocks of their own
making, which are but specks of dust upon the path between them and
eternity, would then apply themselves, like creatures of one common
origin, owing one duty to the Father of one family, and tending to
one common end, to make the world a better place!

Not the less bright and blest would that day be for rousing some
who never have looked out upon the world of human life around them,
to a knowledge of their own relation to it, and for making them
acquainted with a perversion of nature in their own contracted
sympathies and estimates; as great, and yet as natural in its
development when once begun, as the lowest degradation known.'

But no such day had ever dawned on Mr Dombey, or his wife; and
the course of each was taken.

Through six months that ensued upon his accident, they held the
same relations one towards the other. A marble rock could not have
stood more obdurately in his way than she; and no chilled spring,
lying uncheered by any ray of light in the depths of a deep cave,
could be more sullen or more cold than he.

The hope that had fluttered within her when the promise of her
new home dawned, was quite gone from the heart of Florence now. That
home was nearly two years old; and even the patient trust that was in
her, could not survive the daily blight of such experience. If she
had any lingering fancy in the nature of hope left, that Edith and
her father might be happier together, in some distant time, she had
none, now, that her father would ever love her. The little interval
in which she had imagined that she saw some small relenting in him,
was forgotten in the long remembrance of his coldness since and
before, or only remembered as a sorrowful delusion.

Florence loved him still, but, by degrees, had come to love him
rather as some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as
the hard reality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness
with which she loved the memory of little Paul, or of her mother,
seemed to enter now into her thoughts of him, and to make them, as it
were, a dear remembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and
that partly for this reason, partly for his share in those old
objects of her affection, and partly for the long association of him
with hopes that were withered and tendernesses he had frozen, she
could not have told; but the father whom she loved began to be a
vague and dreamy idea to her: hardly more substantially connected
with her real life, than the image she would sometimes conjure up, of
her dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a man, who would
protect and cherish her.

The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the
change from childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence
was almost seventeen, when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious
of these thoughts.'

She was often alone now, for the old association between her and
her Mama was greatly changed. At the time of her father's accident,
and when he was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first
observed that Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable
to reconcile this with her affection when they did meet, she sought
her in her own room at night, once more.

'Mama,' said Florence, stealing softly to her side, 'have I
offended you?'

Edith answered 'No.'

'I must have done something,' said Florence. 'Tell me what it
is. You have changed your manner to me, dear Mama. I cannot say how
instantly I feel the least change; for I love you with my whole
heart.'

'As I do you,' said Edith. 'Ah, Florence, believe me never more
than now!'

'Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?' asked
Florence. 'And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear
Mama? You do so, do you not?'

Edith signified assent with her dark eyes.

'Why?' returned Florence imploringly. 'Tell me why, that I may
know how to please you better; and tell me this shall not be so any
more.

'My Florence,' answered Edith, taking the hand that embraced her
neck, and looking into the eyes that looked into hers so lovingly, as
Florence knelt upon the ground before her; 'why it is, I cannot tell
you. It is neither for me to say, nor you to hear; but that it is,
and that it must be, I know. Should I do it if I did not?'

'Are we to be estranged, Mama?' asked Florence, gazing at her
like one frightened.

Edith's silent lips formed 'Yes.'

Florence looked at her with increasing fear and wonder, until
she could see her no more through the blinding tears that ran down
her face.

'Florence! my life!' said Edith, hurriedly, 'listen to me. I
cannot bear to see this grief. Be calmer. You see that I am composed,
and is it nothing to me?'

She resumed her steady voice and manner as she said the latter
words, and added presently:

'Not wholly estranged. Partially: and only that, in appearance,
Florence, for in my own breast I am still the same to you, and ever
will be. But what I do is not done for myself.'

'Is it for me, Mama?' asked Florence.

'It is enough,' said Edith, after a pause, 'to know what it is;
why, matters little. Dear Florence, it is better - it is necessary -
it must be - that our association should be less frequent. The
confidence there has been between us must be broken off.'

'When?' cried Florence. 'Oh, Mama, when?'

'Now,' said Edith.

'For all time to come?' asked Florence.

'I do not say that,' answered Edith. 'I do not know that. Nor
will I say that companionship between us is, at the best, an
ill-assorted and unholy union, of which I might have known no good
could come. My way here has been through paths that you will never
tread, and my way henceforth may lie - God knows - I do not see it -
'

Her voice died away into silence; and she sat, looking at
Florence, and almost shrinking from her, with the same strange dread
and wild avoidance that Florence had noticed once before. The same
dark pride and rage succeeded, sweeping over her form and features
like an angry chord across the strings of a wild harp. But no
softness or humility ensued on that. She did not lay her head down
now, and weep, and say that she had no hope but in Florence. She held
it up as if she were a beautiful Medusa, looking on him, face to
face, to strike him dead. Yes, and she would have done it, if she had
had the charm.

'Mama,' said Florence, anxiously, 'there is a change in you, in
more than what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you a
little.'

'No,' said Edith, 'no, dearest. I am best left alone now, and I
do best to keep apart from you, of all else. Ask me no questions, but
believe that what I am when I seem fickle or capricious to you, I am
not of my own will, or for myself. Believe, though we are stranger to
each other than we have been, that I am unchanged to you within.
Forgive me for having ever darkened your dark home - I am a shadow on
it, I know well - and let us never speak of this again.'

'Mama,' sobbed Florence, 'we are not to part?'

'We do this that we may not part,' said Edith. 'Ask no more. Go,
Florence! My love and my remorse go with you!'

She embraced her, and dismissed her; and as Florence passed out
of her room, Edith looked on the retiring figure, as if her good
angel went out in that form, and left her to the haughty and
indignant passions that now claimed her for their own, and set their
seal upon her brow.

From that hour, Florence and she were, as they had been, no
more. For days together, they would seldom meet, except at table, and
when Mr Dombey was present. Then Edith, imperious, inflexible, and
silent, never looked at her. Whenever Mr Carker was of the party, as
he often was, during the progress of Mr Dombey's recovery, and
afterwards, Edith held herself more removed from her, and was more
distant towards her, than at other times. Yet she and Florence never
encountered, when there was no one by, but she would embrace her as
affectionately as of old, though not with the same relenting of her
proud aspect; and often, when she had been out late, she would steal
up to Florence's room, as she had been used to do, in the dark, and
whisper 'Good-night,' on her pillow. When unconscious, in her
slumber, of such visits, Florence would sometimes awake, as from a
dream of those words, softly spoken, and would seem to feel the touch
of lips upon her face. But less and less often as the months went
on.

And now the void in Florence's own heart began again, indeed, to
make a solitude around her. As the image of the father whom she loved
had insensibly become a mere abstraction, so Edith, following the
fate of all the rest about whom her affections had entwined
themselves, was fleeting, fading, growing paler in the distance,
every day. Little by little, she receded from Florence, like the
retiring ghost of what she had been; little by little, the chasm
between them widened and seemed deeper; little by little, all the
power of earnestness and tenderness she had shown, was frozen up in
the bold, angry hardihood with which she stood, upon the brink of a
deep precipice unseen by Florence, daring to look down.

There was but one consideration to set against the heavy loss of
Edith, and though it was slight comfort to her burdened heart, she
tried to think it some relief. No longer divided between her
affection and duty to the two, Florence could love both and do no
injustice to either. As shadows of her fond imagination, she could
give them equal place in her own bosom, and wrong them with no
doubts

So she tried to do. At times, and often too, wondering
speculations on the cause of this change in Edith, would obtrude
themselves upon her mind and frighten her; but in the calm of its
abandonment once more to silent grief and loneliness, it was not a
curious mind. Florence had only to remember that her star of promise
was clouded in the general gloom that hung upon the house, and to
weep and be resigned.

Thus living, in a dream wherein the overflowing love of her
young heart expended itself on airy forms, and in a real world where
she had experienced little but the rolling back of that strong tide
upon itself, Florence grew to be seventeen. Timid and retiring as her
solitary life had made her, it had not embittered her sweet temper,
or her earnest nature. A child in innocent simplicity; a woman m her
modest self-reliance, and her deep intensity of feeling; both child
and woman seemed at once expressed in her face and fragile delicacy
of shape, and gracefully to mingle there; - as if the spring should
be unwilling to depart when summer came, and sought to blend the
earlier beauties of the flowers with their bloom. But in her
thrilling voice, in her calm eyes, sometimes in a sage ethereal light
that seemed to rest upon her head, and always in a certain pensive
air upon her beauty, there was an expression, such as had been seen
in the dead boy; and the council in the Servants' Hall whispered so
among themselves, and shook their heads, and ate and drank the more,
in a closer bond of good-fellowship.

This observant body had plenty to say of Mr and Mrs Dombey, and
of Mr Carker, who appeared to be a mediator between them, and who
came and went as if he were trying to make peace, but never could.
They all deplored the uncomfortable state of affairs, and all agreed
that Mrs Pipchin (whose unpopularity was not to be surpassed) had
some hand in it; but, upon the whole, it was agreeable to have so
good a subject for a rallying point, and they made a great deal of
it, and enjoyed themselves very much.

The general visitors who came to the house, and those among whom
Mr and Mrs Dombey visited, thought it a pretty equal match, as to
haughtiness, at all events, and thought nothing more about it. The
young lady with the back did not appear for some time after Mrs
Skewton's death; observing to some particular friends, with her usual
engaging little scream, that she couldn't separate the family from a
notion of tombstones, and horrors of that sort; but when she did
come, she saw nothing wrong, except Mr Dombey's wearing a bunch of
gold seals to his watch, which shocked her very much, as an exploded
superstition. This youthful fascinator considered a daughter-in-law
objectionable in principle; otherwise, she had nothing to say against
Florence, but that she sadly wanted 'style' - which might mean back,
perhaps. Many, who only came to the house on state occasions, hardly
knew who Florence was, and said, going home, 'Indeed, was that Miss
Dombey, in the corner? Very pretty, but a little delicate and
thoughtful in appearance!'

None the less so, certainly, for her life of the last six
months. Florence took her seat at the dinner-table, on the day before
the second anniversary of her father's marriage to Edith (Mrs Skewton
had been lying stricken with paralysis when the first came round),
with an uneasiness, amounting to dread. She had no other warrant for
it, than the occasion, the expression of her father's face, in the
hasty glance she caught of it, and the presence of Mr Carker, which,
always unpleasant to her, was more so on this day, than she had ever
felt it before.

Edith was richly dressed, for she and Mr Dombey were engaged in
the evening to some large assembly, and the dinner-hour that day was
late. She did not appear until they were seated at table, when Mr
Carker rose and led her to her chair. Beautiful and lustrous as she
was, there was that in her face and air which seemed to separate her
hopelessly from Florence, and from everyone, for ever more. And yet,
for an instant, Florence saw a beam of kindness in her eyes, when
they were turned on her, that made the distance to which she had
withdrawn herself, a greater cause of sorrow and regret than ever.

There was very little said at dinner. Florence heard her father
speak to Mr Carker sometimes on business matters, and heard him
softly reply, but she paid little attention to what they said, and
only wished the dinner at an end. When the dessert was placed upon
the table, and they were left alone, with no servant in attendance,
Mr Dombey, who had been several times clearing his throat in a manner
that augured no good, said:

'Mrs Dombey, you know, I suppose, that I have instructed the
housekeeper that there will be some company to dinner here
to-morrow.

'I do not dine at home,' she answered.

'Not a large party,' pursued Mr Dombey, with an indifferent
assumption of not having heard her; 'merely some twelve or fourteen.
My sister, Major Bagstock, and some others whom you know but
slightly.'

I do not dine at home,' she repeated.

'However doubtful reason I may have, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr
Dombey, still going majestically on, as if she had not spoken, 'to
hold the occasion in very pleasant remembrance just now, there are
appearances in these things which must be maintained before the
world. If you have no respect for yourself, Mrs Dombey - '

'I have none,' she said.

'Madam,' cried Mr Dombey, striking his hand upon the table,
'hear me if you please. I say, if you have no respect for yourself -
'

'And I say I have none,' she answered.

He looked at her; but the face she showed him in return would
not have changed, if death itself had looked.

'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, turning more quietly to that
gentleman, 'as you have been my medium of communication with Mrs
Dombey on former occasions, and as I choose to preserve the decencies
of life, so far as I am individually concerned, I will trouble you to
have the goodness to inform Mrs Dombey that if she has no respect for
herself, I have some respect for myself, and therefore insist on my
arrangements for to-morrow.

'Tell your sovereign master, Sir,' said Edith, 'that I will take
leave to speak to him on this subject by-and-bye, and that I will
speak to him alone.'

'Mr Carker, Madam,' said her husband, 'being in possession of
the reason which obliges me to refuse you that privilege, shall be
absolved from the delivery of any such message.' He saw her eyes
move, while he spoke, and followed them with his own.

'Your daughter is present, Sir,' said Edith.

'My daughter will remain present,' said Mr Dombey.

Florence, who had risen, sat down again, hiding her face in her
hands, and trembling.

'My daughter, Madam' - began Mr Dombey.

But Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not raised in
the least, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct, that it might have
been heard in a whirlwind.

'I tell you I will speak to you alone,' she said. 'If you are
not mad, heed what I say.'

'I have authority to speak to you, Madam,' returned her husband,
'when and where I please; and it is my pleasure to speak here and
now.'

She rose up as if to leave the room; but sat down again, and
looking at him with all outward composure, said, in the same
voice:

'You shall!'

'I must tell you first, that there is a threatening appearance
in your manner, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'which does not become
you.

She laughed. The shaken diamonds in her hair started and
trembled. There are fables of precious stones that would turn pale,
their wearer being in danger. Had these been such, their imprisoned
rays of light would have taken flight that moment, and they would
have been as dull as lead.

Carker listened, with his eyes cast down.

'As to my daughter, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, resuming the thread
of his discourse, 'it is by no means inconsistent with her duty to
me, that she should know what conduct to avoid. At present you are a
very strong example to her of this kind, and I hope she may profit by
it.'

'I would not stop you now,' returned his wife, immoveable in
eye, and voice, and attitude; 'I would not rise and go away, and save
you the utterance of one word, if the room were burning.'

Mr Dombey moved his head, as if in a sarcastic acknowledgment of
the attention, and resumed. But not with so much self-possession as
before; for Edith's quick uneasiness in reference to Florence, and
Edith's indifference to him and his censure, chafed and galled him
like a stiffening wound.

'Mrs Dombey,' said he, 'it may not be inconsistent with my
daughter's improvement to know how very much to be lamented, and how
necessary to be corrected, a stubborn disposition is, especially when
it is indulged in - unthankfully indulged in, I will add - after the
gratification of ambition and interest. Both of which, I believe, had
some share in inducing you to occupy your present station at this
board.'

'No! I would not rise, and go away, and save you the utterance
of one word,' she repeated, exactly as before, 'if the room were
burning.'

'It may be natural enough, Mrs Dombey,' he pursued, 'that you
should be uneasy in the presence of any auditors of these
disagreeable truths; though why' - he could not hide his real feeling
here, or keep his eyes from glancing gloomily at Florence - 'why
anyone can give them greater force and point than myself, whom they
so nearly concern, I do not pretend to understand. It may be natural
enough that you should object to hear, in anybody's presence, that
there is a rebellious principle within you which you cannot curb too
soon; which you must curb, Mrs Dombey; and which, I regret to say, I
remember to have seen manifested - with some doubt and displeasure,
on more than one occasion before our marriage - towards your deceased
mother. But you have the remedy in your own hands. I by no means
forgot, when I began, that my daughter was present, Mrs Dombey. I beg
you will not forget, to-morrow, that there are several persons
present; and that, with some regard to appearances, you will receive
your company in a becoming manner.

'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 to-morrow, or on any
recurrence of to-morrow. 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
connexion? 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
more advise you to be awakened to a sense of duty. And, Carker, as I
was about to say to you -

Mr Carker, who had sat and listened all this time, now raised
his eyes, in which there was a bright unusual light'

As I was about to say to you, resumed Mr Dombey, 'I must beg
you, now that matters have come to this, to inform Mrs Dombey, that
it is not the rule of my life to allow myself to be thwarted by
anybody - anybody, Carker - or to suffer anybody to be paraded as a
stronger motive for obedience in those who owe obedience to me than I
am my self. The mention that has been made of my daughter, and the
use that is made of my daughter, in opposition to me, are unnatural.
Whether my daughter is in actual concert with Mrs Dombey, I do not
know, and do not care; but after what Mrs Dombey has said today, and
my daughter has heard to-day, I beg you to make known to Mrs Dombey,
that if she continues to make this house the scene of contention it
has become, I shall consider my daughter responsible in some degree,
on that lady's own avowal, and shall visit her with my severe
displeasure. Mrs Dombey has asked "whether it is not enough," that
she had done this and that. You will please to answer no, it is not
enough.'

'A moment!' cried Carker, interposing, 'permit me! painful as my
position is, at the best, and unusually painful in seeming to
entertain a different opinion from you,' addressing Mr Dombey, 'I
must ask, had you not better reconsider the question of a separation.
I know how incompatible it appears with your high public position,
and I know how determined you are when you give Mrs Dombey to
understand' - the light in his eyes fell upon her as he separated his
words each from each, with the distinctness of so many bells - 'that
nothing but death can ever part you. Nothing else. But when you
consider that Mrs Dombey, by living in this house, and making it as
you have said, a scene of contention, not only has her part in that
contention, but compromises Miss Dombey every day (for I know how
determined you are), will you not relieve her from a continual
irritation of spirit, and a continual sense of being unjust to
another, almost intolerable? Does this not seem like - I do not say
it is - sacrificing Mrs Dombey to the preservation of your preeminent
and unassailable position?'

Again the light in his eyes fell upon her, as she stood looking
at her husband: now with an extraordinary and awful smile upon her
face.

'Carker,' returned Mr Dombey, with a supercilious frown, and in
a tone that was intended to be final, 'you mistake your position in
offering advice to me on such a point, and you mistake me (I am
surprised to find) in the character of your advice. I have no more to
say.

'Perhaps,' said Carker, with an unusual and indefinable taunt in
his air, 'you mistook my position, when you honoured me with the
negotiations in which I have been engaged here' - with a motion of
his hand towards Mrs Dombey.

'Not at all, Sir, not at all,' returned the other haughtily.
'You were employed - '

'Being an inferior person, for the humiliation of Mrs Dombey. I
forgot' Oh, yes, it was expressly understood!' said Carker. 'I beg
your pardon!'

As he bent his head to Mr Dombey, with an air of deference that
accorded ill with his words, though they were humbly spoken, he moved
it round towards her, and kept his watching eyes that way.

She had better have turned hideous and dropped dead, than have
stood up with such a smile upon her face, in such a fallen spirit's
majesty of scorn and beauty. She lifted her hand to the tiara of
bright jewels radiant on her head, and, plucking it off with a force
that dragged and strained her rich black hair with heedless cruelty,
and brought it tumbling wildly on her shoulders, cast the gems upon
the ground. From each arm, she unclasped a diamond bracelet, flung it
down, and trod upon the glittering heap. Without a word, without a
shadow on the fire of her bright eye, without abatement of her awful
smile, she looked on Mr Dombey to the last, in moving to the door;
and left him.

Florence had heard enough before quitting the room, to know that
Edith loved her yet; that she had suffered for her sake; and that she
had kept her sacrifices quiet, lest they should trouble her peace.
She did not want to speak to her of this - she could not, remembering
to whom she was opposed - but she wished, in one silent and
affectionate embrace, to assure her that she felt it all, and thanked
her.

Her father went out alone, that evening, and Florence issuing
from her own chamber soon afterwards, went about the house in search
of. Edith, but unavailingly. She was in her own rooms, where Florence
had long ceased to go, and did not dare to venture now, lest she
should unconsciously engender new trouble. Still Florence hoping to
meet her before going to bed, changed from room to room, and wandered
through the house so splendid and so dreary, without remaining
anywhere.

She was crossing a gallery of communication that opened at some
little distance on the staircase, and was only lighted on great
occasions, when she saw, through the opening, which was an arch, the
figure of a man coming down some few stairs opposite. Instinctively
apprehensive of her father, whom she supposed it was, she stopped, in
the dark, gazing through the arch into the light. But it was Mr
Carker coming down alone, and looking over the railing into the hall.
No bell was rung to announce his departure, and no servant was in
attendance. He went down quietly, opened the door for himself, glided
out, and shut it softly after him.

Her invincible repugnance to this man, and perhaps the stealthy
act of watching anyone, which, even under such innocent
circumstances, is in a manner guilty and oppressive, made Florence
shake from head to foot. Her blood seemed to run cold. As soon as she
could - for at first she felt an insurmountable dread of moving - she
went quickly to her own room and locked her door; but even then, shut
in with her dog beside her, felt a chill sensation of horror, as if
there were danger brooding somewhere near her.

It invaded her dreams and disturbed the whole night. Rising in
the morning, unrefreshed, and with a heavy recollection of the
domestic unhappiness of the preceding day, she sought Edith again in
all the rooms, and did so, from time to time, all the morning. But
she remained in her own chamber, and Florence saw nothing of her.
Learning, however, that the projected dinner at home was put off,
Florence thought it likely that she would go out in the evening to
fulfil the engagement she had spoken of; and resolved to try and meet
her, then, upon the staircase.

When the evening had set in, she heard, from the room in which
she sat on purpose, a footstep on the stairs that she thought to be
Edith's. Hurrying out, and up towards her room, Florence met her
immediately, coming down alone.

What was Florence's affright and wonder when, at sight of her,
with her tearful face, and outstretched arms, Edith recoiled and
shrieked!

'Don't come near me!' she cried. 'Keep away! Let me go by!'

'Mama!' said Florence.

'Don't call me by that name! Don't speak to me! Don't look at
me! - Florence!' shrinking back, as Florence moved a step towards
her, 'don't touch me!'

As Florence stood transfixed before the haggard face and staring
eyes, she noted, as in a dream, that Edith spread her hands over
them, and shuddering through all her form, and crouching down against
the wall, crawled by her like some lower animal, sprang up, and fled
away.

Florence dropped upon the stairs in a swoon; and was found there
by Mrs Pipchin, she supposed. She knew nothing more, until she found
herself lying on her own bed, with Mrs Pipchin and some servants
standing round her.

'Where is Mama?' was her first question.

'Gone out to dinner,' said Mrs Pipchin.

'And Papa?'

'Mr Dombey is in his own room, Miss Dombey,' said Mrs Pipchin,
'and the best thing you can do, is to take off your things and go to
bed this minute.' This was the sagacious woman's remedy for all
complaints, particularly lowness of spirits, and inability to sleep;
for which offences, many young victims in the days of the Brighton
Castle had been committed to bed at ten o'clock in the morning.

Without promising obedience, but on the plea of desiring to be
very quiet, Florence disengaged herself, as soon as she could, from
the ministration of Mrs Pipchin and her attendants. Left alone, she
thought of what had happened on the staircase, at first in doubt of
its reality; then with tears; then with an indescribable and terrible
alarm, like that she had felt the night before.

She determined not to go to bed until Edith returned, and if she
could not speak to her, at least to be sure that she was safe at
home. What indistinct and shadowy dread moved Florence to this
resolution, she did not know, and did not dare to think. She only
knew that until Edith came back, there was no repose for her aching
head or throbbing heart.

The evening deepened into night; midnight came; no Edith.

Florence could not read, or rest a moment. She paced her own
room, opened the door and paced the staircase-gallery outside, looked
out of window on the night, listened to the wind blowing and the rain
falling, sat down and watched the faces in the fire, got up and
watched the moon flying like a storm-driven ship through the sea of
clouds.

All the house was gone to bed, except two servants who were
waiting the return of their mistress, downstairs.

One o'clock. The carriages that rumbled in the distance, turned
away, or stopped short, or went past; the silence gradually deepened,
and was more and more rarely broken, save by a rush of wind or sweep
of rain. Two o'clock. No Edith!

Florence, more agitated, paced her room; and paced the gallery
outside; and looked out at the night, blurred and wavy with the
raindrops on the glass, and the tears in her own eyes; and looked up
at the hurry in the sky, so different from the repose below, and yet
so tranquil and solitary. Three o'clock! There was a terror in every
ash that dropped out of the fire. No Edith yet.

More and more agitated, Florence paced her room, and paced the
gallery, and looked out at the moon with a new fancy of her likeness
to a pale fugitive hurrying away and hiding her guilty face. Four
struck! Five! No Edith yet.

But now there was some cautious stir in the house; and Florence
found that Mrs Pipchin had been awakened by one of those who sat up,
had risen and had gone down to her father's door. Stealing lower down
the stairs, and observing what passed, she saw her father come out in
his morning gown, and start when he was told his wife had not come
home. He dispatched a messenger to the stables to inquire whether the
coachman was there; and while the man was gone, dressed himself very
hurriedly.

The man came back, in great haste, bringing the coachman with
him, who said he had been at home and in bed, since ten o'clock. He
had driven his mistress to her old house in Brook Street, where she
had been met by Mr Carker -

Florence stood upon the very spot where she had seen him coming
down. Again she shivered with the nameless terror of that sight, and
had hardly steadiness enough to hear and understand what followed.

- Who had told him, the man went on to say, that his mistress
would not want the carriage to go home in; and had dismissed him.

She saw her father turn white in the face, and heard him ask in
a quick, trembling voice, for Mrs Dombey's maid. The whole house was
roused; for she was there, in a moment, very pale too, and speaking
incoherently.

She said she had dressed her mistress early - full two hours
before she went out - and had been told, as she often was, that she
would not be wanted at night. She had just come from her mistress's
rooms, but -

'But what! what was it?' Florence heard her father demand like a
madman.

'But the inner dressing-room was locked and the key gone.'

Her father seized a candle that was flaming on the ground -
someone had put it down there, and forgotten it - and came running
upstairs with such fury, that Florence, in her fear, had hardly time
to fly before him. She heard him striking in the door, as she ran on,
with her hands widely spread, and her hair streaming, and her face
like a distracted person's, back to her own room.

When the door yielded, and he rushed in, what did he see there?
No one knew. But thrown down in a costly mass upon the ground, was
every ornament she had had, since she had been his wife; every dress
she had worn; and everything she had possessed. This was the room in
which he had seen, in yonder mirror, the proud face discard him. This
was the room in which he had wondered, idly, how these things would
look when he should see them next!

Heaping them back into the drawers, and locking them up in a
rage of haste, he saw some papers on the table. The deed of
settlement he had executed on their marriage, and a letter. He read
that she was gone. He read that he was dishonoured. He read that she
had fled, upon her shameful wedding-day, with the man whom he had
chosen for her humiliation; and he tore out of the room, and out of
the house, with a frantic idea of finding her yet, at the place to
which she had been taken, and beating all trace of beauty out of the
triumphant face with his bare hand.

Florence, not knowing what she did, put on a shawl and bonnet,
in a dream of running through the streets until she found Edith, and
then clasping her in her arms, to save and bring her back. But when
she hurried out upon the staircase, and saw the frightened servants
going up and down with lights, and whispering together, and falling
away from her father as he passed down, she awoke to a sense of her
own powerlessness; and hiding in one of the great rooms that had been
made gorgeous for this, felt as if her heart would burst with
grief.

Compassion for her father was the first distinct emotion that
made head against the flood of sorrow which overwhelmed her. Her
constant nature turned to him in his distress, as fervently and
faithfully, as if, in his prosperity, he had been the embodiment of
that idea which had gradually become so faint and dim. Although she
did not know, otherwise than through the suggestions of a shapeless
fear, the full extent of his calamity, he stood before her, wronged
and deserted; and again her yearning love impelled her to his
side.

He was not long away; for Florence was yet weeping in the great
room and nourishing these thoughts, when she heard him come back. He
ordered the servants to set about their ordinary occupations, and
went into his own apartment, where he trod so heavily that she could
hear him walking up and down from end to end.

Yielding at once to the impulse of her affection, timid at all
other times, but bold in its truth to him in his adversity, and
undaunted by past repulse, Florence, dressed as she was, hurried
downstairs. As she set her light foot in the hall, he came out of his
room. She hastened towards him unchecked, with her arms stretched
out, and crying 'Oh dear, dear Papa!' as if she would have clasped
him round the neck.

And so she would have done. But in his frenzy, he lifted up his
cruel arm, and struck her, crosswise, with that heaviness, that she
tottered on the marble floor; and as he dealt the blow, he told her
what Edith was, and bade her follow her, since they had always been
in league.

She did not sink down at his feet; she did not shut out the
sight of him with her trembling hands; she did not weep; she did not
utter one word of reproach. But she looked at him, and a cry of
desolation issued from her heart. For as she looked, she saw him
murdering that fond idea to which she had held in spite of him. She
saw his cruelty, neglect, and hatred dominant above it, and stamping
it down. She saw she had no father upon earth, and ran out, orphaned,
from his house.

Ran out of his house. A moment, and her hand was on the lock,
the cry was on her lips, his face was there, made paler by the yellow
candles hastily put down and guttering away, and by the daylight
coming in above the door. Another moment, and the close darkness of
the shut-up house (forgotten to be opened, though it was long since
day) yielded to the unexpected glare and freedom of the morning; and
Florence, with her head bent down to hide her agony of tears, was in
the streets.