Dombey and Son

by Ch. Dickens

Chapter 47

Florence took her seat at the dinner-table, on the day before the second anniversary of her father’s marriage to Edith, 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 an air which seemed to separate her hopelessly from Florence, and from every one, 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Florence saw a beam of kindness in her eyes, when they were turned on her, that made the distance to which she had withdrawn herself, a greater cause of sorrow and regret than ever.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 tomorrow.”

“I do not dine at home,” she answered.

“Not a large party,” pursued Mr. Dombey, with an indifferent assumption of no 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 answered.

“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 individually connected, 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 tomorrow.”

“Tell your sovereign master, sir,” said Edith, “that I will take leave to speak to him on this subject by-and-by 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 indifference to him and his censure, chafed and galled him like a stiffening wound.