Although the enchanted house was no more, and the working world had
broken into it, and was hammering and crashing and tramping up and
down stairs all day long keeping Diogenes in an incessant paroxysm of
barking, from sunrise to sunset--evidently convinced that his enemy
had got the better of him at last, and was then sacking the premises in
triumphant defiance--there was, at first, no other great change in the
method of Florence's life. At night, when the workpeople went away, the
house was dreary and deserted again; and Florence, listening to their
voices echoing through the hall and staircase as they departed, pictured
to herself the cheerful homes to which the were returning, and the
children who were waiting for them, and was glad to think that they were
merry and well pleased to go.

She welcomed back the evening silence as an old friend, but it came now
with an altered face, and looked more kindly on her. Fresh hope was in
it. The beautiful lady who had soothed and carressed her, in the very
room in which her heart had been so wrung, was a spirit of promise
to her. Soft shadows of the bright life dawning, when her father's
affection should be gradually won, and all, or much should be restored,
of what she had lost on the dark day when a mother's love had faded with
a mother's last breath on her cheek, moved about her in the twilight and
were welcome company. Peeping at the rosy children her neighbours, it
was a new and precious sensation to think that they might soon speak
together and know each other; when she would not fear, as of old, to
show herself before them, lest they should be grieved to see her in her
black dress sitting there alone!

In her thoughts of her new mother, and in the love and trust overflowing
her pure heart towards her, Florence loved her own dead mother more
and more. She had no fear of setting up a rival in her breast. The new
flower sprang from the deep-planted and long-cherished root, she knew.
Every gentle word that had fallen from the lips of the beautiful lady,
sounded to Florence like an echo of the voice long hushed and silent.
How could she love that memory less for living tenderness, when it was
her memory of all parental tenderness and love!

Florence was, one day, sitting reading in her room, and thinking of
the lady and her promised visit soon--for her book turned on a kindred
subject--when, raising her eyes, she saw her standing in the doorway.

'Mama!' cried Florence, joyfully meeting her. 'Come again!'

'Not Mama yet,' returned the lady, with a serious smile, as she
encircled Florence's neck with her arm.

'But very soon to be,' cried Florence.

'Very soon now, Florence: very soon.'

Edith bent her head a little, so as to press the blooming cheek of
Florence against her own, and for some few moments remained thus silent.
There was something so very tender in her manner, that Florence was even
more sensible of it than on the first occasion of their meeting.

She led Florence to a chair beside her, and sat down: Florence looking
in her face, quite wondering at its beauty, and willingly leaving her
hand in hers.

'Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here last?'

'Oh yes!' smiled Florence, hastily.

She hesitated and cast down her eyes; for her new Mama was very earnest
in her look, and the look was intently and thoughtfully fixed upon her
face.

'I--I--am used to be alone,' said Florence. 'I don't mind it at all. Di
and I pass whole days together, sometimes.' Florence might have said,
whole weeks and months.

'Is Di your maid, love?'

'My dog, Mama,' said Florence, laughing. 'Susan is my maid.'

'And these are your rooms,' said Edith, looking round. 'I was not shown
these rooms the other day. We must have them improved, Florence. They
shall be made the prettiest in the house.'

'If I might change them, Mama,' returned Florence; 'there is one
upstairs I should like much better.'

'Is this not high enough, dear girl?' asked Edith, smiling.

'The other was my brother's room,' said Florence, 'and I am very fond of
it. I would have spoken to Papa about it when I came home, and found the
workmen here, and everything changing; but--'

Florence dropped her eyes, lest the same look should make her falter
again.

'but I was afraid it might distress him; and as you said you would be
here again soon, Mama, and are the mistress of everything, I determined
to take courage and ask you.'

Edith sat looking at her, with her brilliant eyes intent upon her face,
until Florence raising her own, she, in her turn, withdrew her gaze, and
turned it on the ground. It was then that Florence thought how different
this lady's beauty was, from what she had supposed. She had thought it
of a proud and lofty kind; yet her manner was so subdued and gentle,
that if she had been of Florence's own age and character, it scarcely
could have invited confidence more.

Except when a constrained and singular reserve crept over her; and then
she seemed (but Florence hardly understood this, though she could not
choose but notice it, and think about it) as if she were humbled before
Florence, and ill at ease. When she had said that she was not her Mama
yet, and when Florence had called her the mistress of everything there,
this change in her was quick and startling; and now, while the eyes of
Florence rested on her face, she sat as though she would have shrunk and
hidden from her, rather than as one about to love and cherish her, in
right of such a near connexion.

She gave Florence her ready promise, about her new room, and said she
would give directions about it herself. She then asked some questions
concerning poor Paul; and when they had sat in conversation for some
time, told Florence she had come to take her to her own home.

'We have come to London now, my mother and I,' said Edith, 'and you
shall stay with us until I am married. I wish that we should know and
trust each other, Florence.'

'You are very kind to me,' said Florence, 'dear Mama. How much I thank
you!'

'Let me say now, for it may be the best opportunity,' continued Edith,
looking round to see that they were quite alone, and speaking in a lower
voice, 'that when I am married, and have gone away for some weeks,
I shall be easier at heart if you will come home here. No matter who
invites you to stay elsewhere. Come home here. It is better to be alone
than--what I would say is,' she added, checking herself, 'that I know
well you are best at home, dear Florence.'

'I will come home on the very day, Mama'

'Do so. I rely on that promise. Now, prepare to come with me, dear girl.
You will find me downstairs when you are ready.'

Slowly and thoughtfully did Edith wander alone through the mansion of
which she was so soon to be the lady: and little heed took she of all
the elegance and splendour it began to display. The same indomitable
haughtiness of soul, the same proud scorn expressed in eye and lip, the
same fierce beauty, only tamed by a sense of its own little worth, and
of the little worth of everything around it, went through the grand
saloons and halls, that had got loose among the shady trees, and raged
and rent themselves. The mimic roses on the walls and floors were set
round with sharp thorns, that tore her breast; in every scrap of gold
so dazzling to the eye, she saw some hateful atom of her purchase-money;
the broad high mirrors showed her, at full length, a woman with a noble
quality yet dwelling in her nature, who was too false to her better
self, and too debased and lost, to save herself. She believed that all
this was so plain, more or less, to all eyes, that she had no resource
or power of self-assertion but in pride: and with this pride, which
tortured her own heart night and day, she fought her fate out, braved
it, and defied it.

Was this the woman whom Florence--an innocent girl, strong only in her
earnestness and simple truth--could so impress and quell, that by her
side she was another creature, with her tempest of passion hushed, and
her very pride itself subdued? Was this the woman who now sat beside her
in a carriage, with her arms entwined, and who, while she courted and
entreated her to love and trust her, drew her fair head to nestle on her
breast, and would have laid down life to shield it from wrong or harm?

Oh, Edith! it were well to die, indeed, at such a time! Better and
happier far, perhaps, to die so, Edith, than to live on to the end!

The Honourable Mrs Skewton, who was thinking of anything rather than
of such sentiments--for, like many genteel persons who have existed at
various times, she set her face against death altogether, and objected
to the mention of any such low and levelling upstart--had borrowed a
house in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, from a stately relative (one
of the Feenix brood), who was out of town, and who did not object to
lending it, in the handsomest manner, for nuptial purposes, as the loan
implied his final release and acquittance from all further loans and
gifts to Mrs Skewton and her daughter. It being necessary for the credit
of the family to make a handsome appearance at such a time, Mrs Skewton,
with the assistance of an accommodating tradesman resident in the parish
of Mary-le-bone, who lent out all sorts of articles to the nobility and
gentry, from a service of plate to an army of footmen, clapped into this
house a silver-headed butler (who was charged extra on that account, as
having the appearance of an ancient family retainer), two very tall young
men in livery, and a select staff of kitchen-servants; so that a legend
arose, downstairs, that Withers the page, released at once from his
numerous household duties, and from the propulsion of the wheeled-chair
(inconsistent with the metropolis), had been several times observed
to rub his eyes and pinch his limbs, as if he misdoubted his having
overslept himself at the Leamington milkman's, and being still in a
celestial dream. A variety of requisites in plate and china being also
conveyed to the same establishment from the same convenient source, with
several miscellaneous articles, including a neat chariot and a pair
of bays, Mrs Skewton cushioned herself on the principal sofa, in the
Cleopatra attitude, and held her court in fair state.

'And how,' said Mrs Skewton, on the entrance of her daughter and her
charge, 'is my charming Florence? You must come and kiss me, Florence,
if you please, my love.'

Florence was timidly stooping to pick out a place in the white part of
Mrs Skewton's face, when that lady presented her ear, and relieved her
of her difficulty.

'Edith, my dear,' said Mrs Skewton, 'positively, I--stand a little more
in the light, my sweetest Florence, for a moment.'

Florence blushingly complied.

'You don't remember, dearest Edith,' said her mother, 'what you were
when you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious Florence,
or a few years younger?'

'I have long forgotten, mother.'

'For positively, my dear,' said Mrs Skewton, 'I do think that I see a
decided resemblance to what you were then, in our extremely fascinating
young friend. And it shows,' said Mrs Skewton, in a lower voice, which
conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very unfinished state, 'what
cultivation will do.'

'It does, indeed,' was Edith's stern reply.

Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feeling herself on unsafe
ground, said, as a diversion:

'My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me once more, if you
please, my love.'

Florence complied, of course, and again imprinted her lips on Mrs
Skewton's ear.

'And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet,' said Mrs Skewton,
detaining her hand, 'that your Papa, whom we all perfectly adore and
dote upon, is to be married to my dearest Edith this day week.'

'I knew it would be very soon,' returned Florence, 'but not exactly
when.'

'My darling Edith,' urged her mother, gaily, 'is it possible you have
not told Florence?'

'Why should I tell Florence?' she returned, so suddenly and harshly,
that Florence could scarcely believe it was the same voice.

Mrs Skewton then told Florence, as another and safer diversion, that her
father was coming to dinner, and that he would no doubt be charmingly
surprised to see her; as he had spoken last night of dressing in the
City, and had known nothing of Edith's design, the execution of which,
according to Mrs Skewton's expectation, would throw him into a perfect
ecstasy. Florence was troubled to hear this; and her distress became so
keen, as the dinner-hour approached, that if she had known how to frame
an entreaty to be suffered to return home, without involving her father
in her explanation, she would have hurried back on foot, bareheaded,
breathless, and alone, rather than incur the risk of meeting his
displeasure.

As the time drew nearer, she could hardly breathe. She dared not
approach a window, lest he should see her from the street. She dared not
go upstairs to hide her emotion, lest, in passing out at the door, she
should meet him unexpectedly; besides which dread, she felt as though
she never could come back again if she were summoned to his presence.
In this conflict of fears; she was sitting by Cleopatra's couch,
endeavouring to understand and to reply to the bald discourse of that
lady, when she heard his foot upon the stair.

'I hear him now!' cried Florence, starting. 'He is coming!'

Cleopatra, who in her juvenility was always playfully disposed, and who
in her self-engrossment did not trouble herself about the nature of this
agitation, pushed Florence behind her couch, and dropped a shawl over
her, preparatory to giving Mr Dombey a rapture of surprise. It was so
quickly done, that in a moment Florence heard his awful step in the
room.

He saluted his intended mother-in-law, and his intended bride. The
strange sound of his voice thrilled through the whole frame of his
child.

'My dear Dombey,' said Cleopatra, 'come here and tell me how your pretty
Florence is.'

'Florence is very well,' said Mr Dombey, advancing towards the couch.

'At home?'

'At home,' said Mr Dombey.

'My dear Dombey,' returned Cleopatra, with bewitching vivacity; 'now are
you sure you are not deceiving me? I don't know what my dearest Edith
will say to me when I make such a declaration, but upon my honour I am
afraid you are the falsest of men, my dear Dombey.'

Though he had been; and had been detected on the spot, in the most
enormous falsehood that was ever said or done; he could hardly have been
more disconcerted than he was, when Mrs Skewton plucked the shawl away,
and Florence, pale and trembling, rose before him like a ghost. He had
not yet recovered his presence of mind, when Florence had run up to him,
clasped her hands round his neck, kissed his face, and hurried out of
the room. He looked round as if to refer the matter to somebody else,
but Edith had gone after Florence, instantly.

'Now, confess, my dear Dombey,' said Mrs Skewton, giving him her hand,
'that you never were more surprised and pleased in your life.'

'I never was more surprised,' said Mr Dombey.

'Nor pleased, my dearest Dombey?' returned Mrs Skewton, holding up her
fan.

'I--yes, I am exceedingly glad to meet Florence here,' said Mr Dombey.
He appeared to consider gravely about it for a moment, and then said,
more decidedly, 'Yes, I really am very glad indeed to meet Florence
here.'

'You wonder how she comes here?' said Mrs Skewton, 'don't you?'

'Edith, perhaps--' suggested Mr Dombey.

'Ah! wicked guesser!' replied Cleopatra, shaking her head. 'Ah! cunning,
cunning man! One shouldn't tell these things; your sex, my dear Dombey,
are so vain, and so apt to abuse our weakness; but you know my open
soul--very well; immediately.'

This was addressed to one of the very tall young men who announced
dinner.

'But Edith, my dear Dombey,' she continued in a whisper, 'when she
cannot have you near her--and as I tell her, she cannot expect that
always--will at least have near her something or somebody belonging to
you. Well, how extremely natural that is! And in this spirit, nothing
would keep her from riding off to-day to fetch our darling Florence.
Well, how excessively charming that is!'

As she waited for an answer, Mr Dombey answered, 'Eminently so.'

'Bless you, my dear Dombey, for that proof of heart!' cried Cleopatra,
squeezing his hand. 'But I am growing too serious! Take me downstairs,
like an angel, and let us see what these people intend to give us for
dinner. Bless you, dear Dombey!'

Cleopatra skipping off her couch with tolerable briskness, after
the last benediction, Mr Dombey took her arm in his and led her
ceremoniously downstairs; one of the very tall young men on hire, whose
organ of veneration was imperfectly developed, thrusting his tongue into
his cheek, for the entertainment of the other very tall young man on
hire, as the couple turned into the dining-room.

Florence and Edith were already there, and sitting side by side.
Florence would have risen when her father entered, to resign her chair
to him; but Edith openly put her hand upon her arm, and Mr Dombey took
an opposite place at the round table.

The conversation was almost entirely sustained by Mrs Skewton. Florence
hardly dared to raise her eyes, lest they should reveal the traces of
tears; far less dared to speak; and Edith never uttered one word,
unless in answer to a question. Verily, Cleopatra worked hard, for the
establishment that was so nearly clutched; and verily it should have
been a rich one to reward her!

'And so your preparations are nearly finished at last, my dear Dombey?'
said Cleopatra, when the dessert was put upon the table, and the
silver-headed butler had withdrawn. 'Even the lawyers' preparations!'

'Yes, madam,' replied Mr Dombey; 'the deed of settlement, the
professional gentlemen inform me, is now ready, and as I was mentioning
to you, Edith has only to do us the favour to suggest her own time for
its execution.'

Edith sat like a handsome statue; as cold, as silent, and as still.

'My dearest love,' said Cleopatra, 'do you hear what Mr Dombey says? Ah,
my dear Dombey!' aside to that gentleman, 'how her absence, as the
time approaches, reminds me of the days, when that most agreeable of
creatures, her Papa, was in your situation!'

'I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you please,' said Edith,
scarcely looking over the table at Mr Dombey.

'To-morrow?' suggested Mr Dombey.

'If you please.'

'Or would next day,' said Mr Dombey, 'suit your engagements better?'

'I have no engagements. I am always at your disposal. Let it be when you
like.'

'No engagements, my dear Edith!' remonstrated her mother, 'when you are
in a most terrible state of flurry all day long, and have a thousand and
one appointments with all sorts of trades-people!'

'They are of your making,' returned Edith, turning on her with a slight
contraction of her brow. 'You and Mr Dombey can arrange between you.'

'Very true indeed, my love, and most considerate of you!' said
Cleopatra. 'My darling Florence, you must really come and kiss me once
more, if you please, my dear!'

Singular coincidence, that these gushes of interest in Florence hurried
Cleopatra away from almost every dialogue in which Edith had a share,
however trifling! Florence had certainly never undergone so much
embracing, and perhaps had never been, unconsciously, so useful in her
life.

Mr Dombey was far from quarrelling, in his own breast, with the manner
of his beautiful betrothed. He had that good reason for sympathy
with haughtiness and coldness, which is found in a fellow-feeling. It
flattered him to think how these deferred to him, in Edith's case, and
seemed to have no will apart from his. It flattered him to picture to
himself, this proud and stately woman doing the honours of his house,
and chilling his guests after his own manner. The dignity of Dombey and
Son would be heightened and maintained, indeed, in such hands.

So thought Mr Dombey, when he was left alone at the dining-table, and
mused upon his past and future fortunes: finding no uncongeniality in an
air of scant and gloomy state that pervaded the room, in colour a
dark brown, with black hatchments of pictures blotching the walls, and
twenty-four black chairs, with almost as many nails in them as so many
coffins, waiting like mutes, upon the threshold of the Turkey carpet;
and two exhausted negroes holding up two withered branches of candelabra
on the sideboard, and a musty smell prevailing as if the ashes of ten
thousand dinners were entombed in the sarcophagus below it. The owner of
the house lived much abroad; the air of England seldom agreed long with
a member of the Feenix family; and the room had gradually put itself
into deeper and still deeper mourning for him, until it was become so
funereal as to want nothing but a body in it to be quite complete.

No bad representation of the body, for the nonce, in his unbending form,
if not in his attitude, Mr Dombey looked down into the cold depths of
the dead sea of mahogany on which the fruit dishes and decanters lay
at anchor: as if the subjects of his thoughts were rising towards the
surface one by one, and plunging down again. Edith was there in all her
majesty of brow and figure; and close to her came Florence, with her
timid head turned to him, as it had been, for an instant, when she
left the room; and Edith's eyes upon her, and Edith's hand put out
protectingly. A little figure in a low arm-chair came springing next
into the light, and looked upon him wonderingly, with its bright eyes
and its old-young face, gleaming as in the flickering of an evening
fire. Again came Florence close upon it, and absorbed his whole
attention. Whether as a fore-doomed difficulty and disappointment to
him; whether as a rival who had crossed him in his way, and might again;
whether as his child, of whom, in his successful wooing, he could
stoop to think as claiming, at such a time, to be no more estranged; or
whether as a hint to him that the mere appearance of caring for his
own blood should be maintained in his new relations; he best knew.
Indifferently well, perhaps, at best; for marriage company and marriage
altars, and ambitious scenes--still blotted here and there with
Florence--always Florence--turned up so fast, and so confusedly, that he
rose, and went upstairs to escape them.

It was quite late at night before candles were brought; for at present
they made Mrs Skewton's head ache, she complained; and in the meantime
Florence and Mrs Skewton talked together (Cleopatra being very anxious
to keep her close to herself), or Florence touched the piano softly
for Mrs Skewton's delight; to make no mention of a few occasions in
the course of the evening, when that affectionate lady was impelled to
solicit another kiss, and which always happened after Edith had said
anything. They were not many, however, for Edith sat apart by an open
window during the whole time (in spite of her mother's fears that she
would take cold), and remained there until Mr Dombey took leave. He was
serenely gracious to Florence when he did so; and Florence went to bed
in a room within Edith's, so happy and hopeful, that she thought of
her late self as if it were some other poor deserted girl who was to be
pitied for her sorrow; and in her pity, sobbed herself to sleep.

The week fled fast. There were drives to milliners, dressmakers,
jewellers, lawyers, florists, pastry-cooks; and Florence was always of
the party. Florence was to go to the wedding. Florence was to cast
off her mourning, and to wear a brilliant dress on the occasion. The
milliner's intentions on the subject of this dress--the milliner was
a Frenchwoman, and greatly resembled Mrs Skewton--were so chaste and
elegant, that Mrs Skewton bespoke one like it for herself. The milliner
said it would become her to admiration, and that all the world would
take her for the young lady's sister.

The week fled faster. Edith looked at nothing and cared for nothing. Her
rich dresses came home, and were tried on, and were loudly commended
by Mrs Skewton and the milliners, and were put away without a word from
her. Mrs Skewton made their plans for every day, and executed them.
Sometimes Edith sat in the carriage when they went to make purchases;
sometimes, when it was absolutely necessary, she went into the shops.
But Mrs Skewton conducted the whole business, whatever it happened
to be; and Edith looked on as uninterested and with as much apparent
indifference as if she had no concern in it. Florence might perhaps have
thought she was haughty and listless, but that she was never so to her.
So Florence quenched her wonder in her gratitude whenever it broke out,
and soon subdued it.

The week fled faster. It had nearly winged its flight away. The last
night of the week, the night before the marriage, was come. In the dark
room--for Mrs Skewton's head was no better yet, though she expected to
recover permanently to-morrow--were that lady, Edith, and Mr Dombey.
Edith was at her open window looking out into the street; Mr Dombey
and Cleopatra were talking softly on the sofa. It was growing late; and
Florence, being fatigued, had gone to bed.

'My dear Dombey,' said Cleopatra, 'you will leave me Florence to-morrow,
when you deprive me of my sweetest Edith.'

Mr Dombey said he would, with pleasure.

'To have her about me, here, while you are both at Paris, and to
think at her age, I am assisting in the formation of her mind, my dear
Dombey,' said Cleopatra, 'will be a perfect balm to me in the extremely
shattered state to which I shall be reduced.'

Edith turned her head suddenly. Her listless manner was exchanged, in
a moment, to one of burning interest, and, unseen in the darkness, she
attended closely to their conversation.

Mr Dombey would be delighted to leave Florence in such admirable
guardianship.

'My dear Dombey,' returned Cleopatra, 'a thousand thanks for your good
opinion. I feared you were going, with malice aforethought, as the
dreadful lawyers say--those horrid prosers!--to condemn me to utter
solitude.'

'Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam?' said Mr Dombey.

'Because my charming Florence tells me so positively she must go home
tomorrow, returned Cleopatra, that I began to be afraid, my dearest
Dombey, you were quite a Bashaw.'

'I assure you, madam!' said Mr Dombey, 'I have laid no commands on
Florence; and if I had, there are no commands like your wish.'

'My dear Dombey,' replied Cleopatra, what a courtier you are! Though
I'll not say so, either; for courtiers have no heart, and yours pervades
your farming life and character. And are you really going so early, my
dear Dombey!'

Oh, indeed! it was late, and Mr Dombey feared he must.

'Is this a fact, or is it all a dream!' lisped Cleopatra. 'Can I
believe, my dearest Dombey, that you are coming back tomorrow morning to
deprive me of my sweet companion; my own Edith!'

Mr Dombey, who was accustomed to take things literally, reminded Mrs
Skewton that they were to meet first at the church.

'The pang,' said Mrs Skewton, 'of consigning a child, even to you, my
dear Dombey, is one of the most excruciating imaginable, and combined
with a naturally delicate constitution, and the extreme stupidity of the
pastry-cook who has undertaken the breakfast, is almost too much for my
poor strength. But I shall rally, my dear Dombey, in the morning; do not
fear for me, or be uneasy on my account. Heaven bless you! My dearest
Edith!' she cried archly. 'Somebody is going, pet.'

Edith, who had turned her head again towards the window, and whose
interest in their conversation had ceased, rose up in her place, but
made no advance towards him, and said nothing. Mr Dombey, with a lofty
gallantry adapted to his dignity and the occasion, betook his creaking
boots towards her, put her hand to his lips, said, 'Tomorrow morning
I shall have the happiness of claiming this hand as Mrs Dombey's,' and
bowed himself solemnly out.

Mrs Skewton rang for candles as soon as the house-door had closed upon
him. With the candles appeared her maid, with the juvenile dress that
was to delude the world to-morrow. The dress had savage retribution in
it, as such dresses ever have, and made her infinitely older and more
hideous than her greasy flannel gown. But Mrs Skewton tried it on with
mincing satisfaction; smirked at her cadaverous self in the glass, as
she thought of its killing effect upon the Major; and suffering her maid
to take it off again, and to prepare her for repose, tumbled into ruins
like a house of painted cards.

All this time, Edith remained at the dark window looking out into the
street. When she and her mother were at last left alone, she moved
from it for the first time that evening, and came opposite to her. The
yawning, shaking, peevish figure of the mother, with her eyes raised to
confront the proud erect form of the daughter, whose glance of fire was
bent downward upon her, had a conscious air upon it, that no levity or
temper could conceal.

'I am tired to death,' said she. 'You can't be trusted for a moment. You
are worse than a child. Child! No child would be half so obstinate and
undutiful.'

'Listen to me, mother,' returned Edith, passing these words by with a
scorn that would not descend to trifle with them. 'You must remain alone
here until I return.'

'Must remain alone here, Edith, until you return!' repeated her mother.

'Or in that name upon which I shall call to-morrow to witness what I do,
so falsely: and so shamefully, I swear I will refuse the hand of this
man in the church. If I do not, may I fall dead upon the pavement!'

The mother answered with a look of quick alarm, in no degree diminished
by the look she met.

'It is enough,' said Edith, steadily, 'that we are what we are. I
will have no youth and truth dragged down to my level. I will have no
guileless nature undermined, corrupted, and perverted, to amuse the
leisure of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Florence must go
home.'

'You are an idiot, Edith,' cried her angry mother. 'Do you expect there
can ever be peace for you in that house, till she is married, and away?'

'Ask me, or ask yourself, if I ever expect peace in that house,' said
her daughter, 'and you know the answer.'

'And am I to be told to-night, after all my pains and labour, and when
you are going, through me, to be rendered independent,' her mother
almost shrieked in her passion, while her palsied head shook like a
leaf, 'that there is corruption and contagion in me, and that I am not
fit company for a girl! What are you, pray? What are you?'

'I have put the question to myself,' said Edith, ashy pale, and pointing
to the window, 'more than once when I have been sitting there, and
something in the faded likeness of my sex has wandered past outside; and
God knows I have met with my reply. Oh mother, mother, if you had but
left me to my natural heart when I too was a girl--a younger girl than
Florence--how different I might have been!'

Sensible that any show of anger was useless here, her mother restrained
herself, and fell a whimpering, and bewailed that she had lived too
long, and that her only child had cast her off, and that duty towards
parents was forgotten in these evil days, and that she had heard
unnatural taunts, and cared for life no longer.

'If one is to go on living through continual scenes like this,' she
whined, 'I am sure it would be much better for me to think of some
means of putting an end to my existence. Oh! The idea of your being my
daughter, Edith, and addressing me in such a strain!'

'Between us, mother,' returned Edith, mournfully, 'the time for mutual
reproaches is past.'

'Then why do you revive it?' whimpered her mother. 'You know that you
are lacerating me in the cruellest manner. You know how sensitive I am
to unkindness. At such a moment, too, when I have so much to think of,
and am naturally anxious to appear to the best advantage! I wonder at
you, Edith. To make your mother a fright upon your wedding-day!'

Edith bent the same fixed look upon her, as she sobbed and rubbed her
eyes; and said in the same low steady voice, which had neither risen nor
fallen since she first addressed her, 'I have said that Florence must go
home.'

'Let her go!' cried the afflicted and affrighted parent, hastily. 'I am
sure I am willing she should go. What is the girl to me?'

'She is so much to me, that rather than communicate, or suffer to be
communicated to her, one grain of the evil that is in my breast, mother,
I would renounce you, as I would (if you gave me cause) renounce him in
the church to-morrow,' replied Edith. 'Leave her alone. She shall not,
while I can interpose, be tampered with and tainted by the lessons I
have learned. This is no hard condition on this bitter night.'

'If you had proposed it in a filial manner, Edith,' whined her mother,
'perhaps not; very likely not. But such extremely cutting words--'

'They are past and at an end between us now,' said Edith. 'Take your own
way, mother; share as you please in what you have gained; spend, enjoy,
make much of it; and be as happy as you will. The object of our lives
is won. Henceforth let us wear it silently. My lips are closed upon the
past from this hour. I forgive you your part in to-morrow's wickedness.
May God forgive my own!'

Without a tremor in her voice, or frame, and passing onward with a foot
that set itself upon the neck of every soft emotion, she bade her mother
good-night, and repaired to her own room.

But not to rest; for there was no rest in the tumult of her agitation
when alone to and fro, and to and fro, and to and fro again, five
hundred times, among the splendid preparations for her adornment on the
morrow; with her dark hair shaken down, her dark eyes flashing with
a raging light, her broad white bosom red with the cruel grasp of the
relentless hand with which she spurned it from her, pacing up and down
with an averted head, as if she would avoid the sight of her own fair
person, and divorce herself from its companionship. Thus, in the dead
time of the night before her bridal, Edith Granger wrestled with her
unquiet spirit, tearless, friendless, silent, proud, and uncomplaining.

At length it happened that she touched the open door which led into the
room where Florence lay.

She started, stopped, and looked in.

A light was burning there, and showed her Florence in her bloom of
innocence and beauty, fast asleep. Edith held her breath, and felt
herself drawn on towards her.

Drawn nearer, nearer, nearer yet; at last, drawn so near, that stooping
down, she pressed her lips to the gentle hand that lay outside the bed,
and put it softly to her neck. Its touch was like the prophet's rod of
old upon the rock. Her tears sprung forth beneath it, as she sunk upon
her knees, and laid her aching head and streaming hair upon the pillow
by its side.

Thus Edith Granger passed the night before her bridal. Thus the sun
found her on her bridal morning.

Edith is very kind to Florence and offers to ensure that Florence's rooms are improved. She invites Florence to stay with her and Mrs. Skewton until the date of the wedding, but makes Florence promise to return to the Dombey house once Edith marries and departs for her honeymoon. Edith behaves protectively when her mother expresses an interest in Florence's youth and beauty. When Mr. Dombey comes to their house for dinner, he is surprised to find Florence there. He continues to be cold towards her, and is also unoffended by the reserve with which Edith treats him. The night before the wedding, Mrs. Skewton tells Dombey that she would like Florence to stay with her while Dombey and Edith honeymoon in Paris. Mr. Dombey readily consents to this plan. When Edith and her mother are left alone, Edith tells her that if Mrs. Skewton does not agree to leave Florence alone, she will refuse to go through with the marriage. Mrs. Skewton objects that it is important for Edith's marriage that Florence rapidly marry and leave her father's house, but Edith insists that her mother's miseducation corrupted her and that she will not see the same thing be done to Florence. Edith spends the night in emotional distress, able to fall asleep only when she slips into the room where Florence is peacefully sleeping


Dawn with its passionless blank face, steals shivering to the church
beneath which lies the dust of little Paul and his mother, and looks
in at the windows. It is cold and dark. Night crouches yet, upon the
pavement, and broods, sombre and heavy, in nooks and corners of the
building. The steeple-clock, perched up above the houses, emerging
from beneath another of the countless ripples in the tide of time that
regularly roll and break on the eternal shore, is greyly visible, like a
stone beacon, recording how the sea flows on; but within doors, dawn, at
first, can only peep at night, and see that it is there.

Hovering feebly round the church, and looking in, dawn moans and weeps
for its short reign, and its tears trickle on the window-glass, and
the trees against the church-wall bow their heads, and wring their many
hands in sympathy. Night, growing pale before it, gradually fades out of
the church, but lingers in the vaults below, and sits upon the coffins.
And now comes bright day, burnishing the steeple-clock, and reddening
the spire, and drying up the tears of dawn, and stifling its
complaining; and the dawn, following the night, and chasing it from its
last refuge, shrinks into the vaults itself and hides, with a frightened
face, among the dead, until night returns, refreshed, to drive it out.

And now, the mice, who have been busier with the prayer-books than their
proper owners, and with the hassocks, more worn by their little teeth
than by human knees, hide their bright eyes in their holes, and
gather close together in affright at the resounding clashing of the
church-door. For the beadle, that man of power, comes early this morning
with the sexton; and Mrs Miff, the wheezy little pew-opener--a mighty
dry old lady, sparely dressed, with not an inch of fulness anywhere
about her--is also here, and has been waiting at the church-gate
half-an-hour, as her place is, for the beadle.

A vinegary face has Mrs Miff, and a mortified bonnet, and eke a thirsty
soul for sixpences and shillings. Beckoning to stray people to come into
pews, has given Mrs Miff an air of mystery; and there is reservation in
the eye of Mrs Miff, as always knowing of a softer seat, but having her
suspicions of the fee. There is no such fact as Mr Miff, nor has there
been, these twenty years, and Mrs Miff would rather not allude to him.
He held some bad opinions, it would seem, about free seats; and though
Mrs Miff hopes he may be gone upwards, she couldn't positively undertake
to say so.

Busy is Mrs Miff this morning at the church-door, beating and dusting
the altar-cloth, the carpet, and the cushions; and much has Mrs Miff to
say, about the wedding they are going to have. Mrs Miff is told, that
the new furniture and alterations in the house cost full five thousand
pound if they cost a penny; and Mrs Miff has heard, upon the best
authority, that the lady hasn't got a sixpence wherewithal to bless
herself. Mrs Miff remembers, like wise, as if it had happened yesterday,
the first wife's funeral, and then the christening, and then the other
funeral; and Mrs Miff says, by-the-by she'll soap-and-water that 'ere
tablet presently, against the company arrive. Mr Sownds the Beadle, who
is sitting in the sun upon the church steps all this time (and seldom
does anything else, except, in cold weather, sitting by the fire),
approves of Mrs Miff's discourse, and asks if Mrs Miff has heard it
said, that the lady is uncommon handsome? The information Mrs Miff
has received, being of this nature, Mr Sownds the Beadle, who, though
orthodox and corpulent, is still an admirer of female beauty, observes,
with unction, yes, he hears she is a spanker--an expression that seems
somewhat forcible to Mrs Miff, or would, from any lips but those of Mr
Sownds the Beadle.

In Mr Dombey's house, at this same time, there is great stir and bustle,
more especially among the women: not one of whom has had a wink of sleep
since four o'clock, and all of whom were fully dressed before six.
Mr Towlinson is an object of greater consideration than usual to the
housemaid, and the cook says at breakfast time that one wedding makes
many, which the housemaid can't believe, and don't think true at all.
Mr Towlinson reserves his sentiments on this question; being rendered
something gloomy by the engagement of a foreigner with whiskers (Mr
Towlinson is whiskerless himself), who has been hired to accompany the
happy pair to Paris, and who is busy packing the new chariot. In respect
of this personage, Mr Towlinson admits, presently, that he never knew of
any good that ever come of foreigners; and being charged by the ladies
with prejudice, says, look at Bonaparte who was at the head of 'em, and
see what he was always up to! Which the housemaid says is very true.

The pastry-cook is hard at work in the funereal room in Brook Street,
and the very tall young men are busy looking on. One of the very tall
young men already smells of sherry, and his eyes have a tendency to
become fixed in his head, and to stare at objects without seeing them.
The very tall young man is conscious of this failing in himself; and
informs his comrade that it's his 'exciseman.' The very tall young man
would say excitement, but his speech is hazy.

The men who play the bells have got scent of the marriage; and the
marrow-bones and cleavers too; and a brass band too. The first, are
practising in a back settlement near Battlebridge; the second, put
themselves in communication, through their chief, with Mr Towlinson, to
whom they offer terms to be bought off; and the third, in the person of
an artful trombone, lurks and dodges round the corner, waiting for
some traitor tradesman to reveal the place and hour of breakfast, for a
bribe. Expectation and excitement extend further yet, and take a wider
range. From Balls Pond, Mr Perch brings Mrs Perch to spend the day with
Mr Dombey's servants, and accompany them, surreptitiously, to see the
wedding. In Mr Toots's lodgings, Mr Toots attires himself as if he were
at least the Bridegroom; determined to behold the spectacle in splendour
from a secret corner of the gallery, and thither to convey the Chicken:
for it is Mr Toots's desperate intent to point out Florence to the
Chicken, then and there, and openly to say, 'Now, Chicken, I will not
deceive you any longer; the friend I have sometimes mentioned to you is
myself; Miss Dombey is the object of my passion; what are your opinions,
Chicken, in this state of things, and what, on the spot, do you advise?
The so-much-to-be-astonished Chicken, in the meanwhile, dips his beak
into a tankard of strong beer, in Mr Toots's kitchen, and pecks up two
pounds of beefsteaks. In Princess's Place, Miss Tox is up and doing; for
she too, though in sore distress, is resolved to put a shilling in the
hands of Mrs Miff, and see the ceremony which has a cruel fascination
for her, from some lonely corner. The quarters of the wooden Midshipman
are all alive; for Captain Cuttle, in his ankle-jacks and with a huge
shirt-collar, is seated at his breakfast, listening to Rob the Grinder
as he reads the marriage service to him beforehand, under orders, to the
end that the Captain may perfectly understand the solemnity he is about
to witness: for which purpose, the Captain gravely lays injunctions on
his chaplain, from time to time, to 'put about,' or to 'overhaul that
'ere article again,' or to stick to his own duty, and leave the Amens to
him, the Captain; one of which he repeats, whenever a pause is made by
Rob the Grinder, with sonorous satisfaction.

Besides all this, and much more, twenty nursery-maids in Mr Dombey's
street alone, have promised twenty families of little women, whose
instinctive interest in nuptials dates from their cradles, that they
shall go and see the marriage. Truly, Mr Sownds the Beadle has good
reason to feel himself in office, as he suns his portly figure on the
church steps, waiting for the marriage hour. Truly, Mrs Miff has cause
to pounce on an unlucky dwarf child, with a giant baby, who peeps in at
the porch, and drive her forth with indignation!

Cousin Feenix has come over from abroad, expressly to attend the
marriage. Cousin Feenix was a man about town, forty years ago; but he
is still so juvenile in figure and in manner, and so well got up,
that strangers are amazed when they discover latent wrinkles in his
lordship's face, and crows' feet in his eyes: and first observe him, not
exactly certain when he walks across a room, of going quite straight to
where he wants to go. But Cousin Feenix, getting up at half-past seven
o'clock or so, is quite another thing from Cousin Feenix got up; and
very dim, indeed, he looks, while being shaved at Long's Hotel, in Bond
Street.

Mr Dombey leaves his dressing-room, amidst a general whisking away of
the women on the staircase, who disperse in all directions, with a great
rustling of skirts, except Mrs Perch, who, being (but that she always
is) in an interesting situation, is not nimble, and is obliged to face
him, and is ready to sink with confusion as she curtesys;--may Heaven
avert all evil consequences from the house of Perch! Mr Dombey walks up
to the drawing-room, to bide his time. Gorgeous are Mr Dombey's new blue
coat, fawn-coloured pantaloons, and lilac waistcoat; and a whisper goes
about the house, that Mr Dombey's hair is curled.

A double knock announces the arrival of the Major, who is gorgeous too,
and wears a whole geranium in his button-hole, and has his hair curled
tight and crisp, as well the Native knows.

'Dombey!' says the Major, putting out both hands, 'how are you?'

'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'how are You?'

'By Jove, Sir,' says the Major, 'Joey B. is in such case this morning,
Sir,'--and here he hits himself hard upon the breast--'In such case this
morning, Sir, that, damme, Dombey, he has half a mind to make a double
marriage of it, Sir, and take the mother.'

Mr Dombey smiles; but faintly, even for him; for Mr Dombey feels that
he is going to be related to the mother, and that, under those
circumstances, she is not to be joked about.

'Dombey,' says the Major, seeing this, 'I give you joy. I congratulate
you, Dombey. By the Lord, Sir,' says the Major, 'you are more to be
envied, this day, than any man in England!'

Here again Mr Dombey's assent is qualified; because he is going to
confer a great distinction on a lady; and, no doubt, she is to be envied
most.

'As to Edith Granger, Sir,' pursues the Major, 'there is not a woman
in all Europe but might--and would, Sir, you will allow Bagstock to
add--and would--give her ears, and her earrings, too, to be in Edith
Granger's place.'

'You are good enough to say so, Major,' says Mr Dombey.

'Dombey,' returns the Major, 'you know it. Let us have no false
delicacy. You know it. Do you know it, or do you not, Dombey?' says the
Major, almost in a passion.

'Oh, really, Major--'

'Damme, Sir,' retorts the Major, 'do you know that fact, or do you not?
Dombey! Is old Joe your friend? Are we on that footing of unreserved
intimacy, Dombey, that may justify a man--a blunt old Joseph B.,
Sir--in speaking out; or am I to take open order, Dombey, and to keep my
distance, and to stand on forms?'

'My dear Major Bagstock,' says Mr Dombey, with a gratified air, 'you are
quite warm.'

'By Gad, Sir,' says the Major, 'I am warm. Joseph B. does not deny it,
Dombey. He is warm. This is an occasion, Sir, that calls forth all the
honest sympathies remaining in an old, infernal, battered, used-up,
invalided, J. B. carcase. And I tell you what, Dombey--at such a time
a man must blurt out what he feels, or put a muzzle on; and Joseph
Bagstock tells you to your face, Dombey, as he tells his club behind
your back, that he never will be muzzled when Paul Dombey is in
question. Now, damme, Sir,' concludes the Major, with great firmness,
'what do you make of that?'

'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'I assure you that I am really obliged to you.
I had no idea of checking your too partial friendship.'

'Not too partial, Sir!' exclaims the choleric Major. 'Dombey, I deny
it.'

'Your friendship I will say then,' pursues Mr Dombey, 'on any account.
Nor can I forget, Major, on such an occasion as the present, how much I
am indebted to it.'

'Dombey,' says the Major, with appropriate action, 'that is the hand
of Joseph Bagstock: of plain old Joey B., Sir, if you like that better!
That is the hand, of which His Royal Highness the late Duke of York, did
me the honour to observe, Sir, to His Royal Highness the late Duke of
Kent, that it was the hand of Josh: a rough and tough, and possibly an
up-to-snuff, old vagabond. Dombey, may the present moment be the least
unhappy of our lives. God bless you!'

Now enters Mr Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smiling like a
wedding-guest indeed. He can scarcely let Mr Dombey's hand go, he is so
congratulatory; and he shakes the Major's hand so heartily at the same
time, that his voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it comes
sliding from between his teeth.

'The very day is auspicious,' says Mr Carker. 'The brightest and most
genial weather! I hope I am not a moment late?'

'Punctual to your time, Sir,' says the Major.

'I am rejoiced, I am sure,' says Mr Carker. 'I was afraid I might be a
few seconds after the appointed time, for I was delayed by a
procession of waggons; and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook
Street'--this to Mr Dombey--'to leave a few poor rarities of flowers for
Mrs Dombey. A man in my position, and so distinguished as to be invited
here, is proud to offer some homage in acknowledgment of his vassalage:
and as I have no doubt Mrs Dombey is overwhelmed with what is costly
and magnificent;' with a strange glance at his patron; 'I hope the very
poverty of my offering, may find favour for it.'

'Mrs Dombey, that is to be,' returns Mr Dombey, condescendingly, 'will
be very sensible of your attention, Carker, I am sure.'

'And if she is to be Mrs Dombey this morning, Sir,' says the Major,
putting down his coffee-cup, and looking at his watch, 'it's high time
we were off!'

Forth, in a barouche, ride Mr Dombey, Major Bagstock, and Mr Carker, to
the church. Mr Sownds the Beadle has long risen from the steps, and
is in waiting with his cocked hat in his hand. Mrs Miff curtseys and
proposes chairs in the vestry. Mr Dombey prefers remaining in the
church. As he looks up at the organ, Miss Tox in the gallery shrinks
behind the fat leg of a cherubim on a monument, with cheeks like a young
Wind. Captain Cuttle, on the contrary, stands up and waves his hook, in
token of welcome and encouragement. Mr Toots informs the Chicken, behind
his hand, that the middle gentleman, he in the fawn-coloured pantaloons,
is the father of his love. The Chicken hoarsely whispers Mr Toots that
he's as stiff a cove as ever he see, but that it is within the resources
of Science to double him up, with one blow in the waistcoat.

Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff are eyeing Mr Dombey from a little distance, when
the noise of approaching wheels is heard, and Mr Sownds goes out. Mrs
Miff, meeting Mr Dombey's eye as it is withdrawn from the presumptuous
maniac upstairs, who salutes him with so much urbanity, drops a curtsey,
and informs him that she believes his 'good lady' is come. Then there is
a crowding and a whispering at the door, and the good lady enters, with
a haughty step.

There is no sign upon her face, of last night's suffering; there is no
trace in her manner, of the woman on the bended knees, reposing her wild
head, in beautiful abandonment, upon the pillow of the sleeping girl.
That girl, all gentle and lovely, is at her side--a striking contrast to
her own disdainful and defiant figure, standing there, composed, erect,
inscrutable of will, resplendent and majestic in the zenith of its
charms, yet beating down, and treading on, the admiration that it
challenges.

There is a pause while Mr Sownds the Beadle glides into the vestry for
the clergyman and clerk. At this juncture, Mrs Skewton speaks to Mr
Dombey: more distinctly and emphatically than her custom is, and moving
at the same time, close to Edith.

'My dear Dombey,' said the good Mama, 'I fear I must relinquish darling
Florence after all, and suffer her to go home, as she herself proposed.
After my loss of to-day, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not have
spirits, even for her society.'

'Had she not better stay with you?' returns the Bridegroom.

'I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I shall be better alone.
Besides, my dearest Edith will be her natural and constant guardian when
you return, and I had better not encroach upon her trust, perhaps. She
might be jealous. Eh, dear Edith?'

The affectionate Mama presses her daughter's arm, as she says this;
perhaps entreating her attention earnestly.

'To be serious, my dear Dombey,' she resumes, 'I will relinquish our
dear child, and not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled that,
just now. She fully understands, dear Dombey. Edith, my dear,--she fully
understands.'

Again, the good mother presses her daughter's arm. Mr Dombey offers no
additional remonstrance; for the clergyman and clerk appear; and Mrs
Miff, and Mr Sownds the Beadle, group the party in their proper places
at the altar rails.

The sun is shining down, upon the golden letters of the ten
commandments. Why does the Bride's eye read them, one by one? Which one
of all the ten appears the plainest to her in the glare of light? False
Gods; murder; theft; the honour that she owes her mother;--which is it
that appears to leave the wall, and printing itself in glowing letters,
on her book!

'Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?'

Cousin Feenix does that. He has come from Baden-Baden on purpose.
'Confound it,' Cousin Feenix says--good-natured creature, Cousin
Feenix--'when we do get a rich City fellow into the family, let us show
him some attention; let us do something for him.'

'I give this woman to be married to this man,' saith Cousin Feenix
therefore. Cousin Feenix, meaning to go in a straight line, but turning
off sideways by reason of his wilful legs, gives the wrong woman to be
married to this man, at first--to wit, a brides--maid of some condition,
distantly connected with the family, and ten years Mrs Skewton's junior
--but Mrs Miff, interposing her mortified bonnet, dexterously turns him
back, and runs him, as on castors, full at the 'good lady:' whom Cousin
Feenix giveth to married to this man accordingly.

And will they in the sight of heaven--?

Ay, that they will: Mr Dombey says he will. And what says Edith? She
will.

So, from that day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer,
in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do them
part, they plight their troth to one another, and are married.

In a firm, free hand, the Bride subscribes her name in the register,
when they adjourn to the vestry. 'There ain't a many ladies come here,'
Mrs Miff says with a curtsey--to look at Mrs Miff, at such a season, is
to make her mortified bonnet go down with a dip--'writes their names
like this good lady!' Mr Sownds the Beadle thinks it is a truly spanking
signature, and worthy of the writer--this, however, between himself and
conscience.

Florence signs too, but unapplauded, for her hand shakes. All the party
sign; Cousin Feenix last; who puts his noble name into a wrong place,
and enrols himself as having been born that morning.

The Major now salutes the Bride right gallantly, and carries out that
branch of military tactics in reference to all the ladies:
notwithstanding Mrs Skewton's being extremely hard to kiss, and
squeaking shrilly in the sacred edifice. The example is followed by
Cousin Feenix and even by Mr Dombey. Lastly, Mr Carker, with his white
teeth glistening, approaches Edith, more as if he meant to bite her,
than to taste the sweets that linger on her lips.

There is a glow upon her proud cheek, and a flashing in her eyes, that
may be meant to stay him; but it does not, for he salutes her as the
rest have done, and wishes her all happiness.

'If wishes,' says he in a low voice, 'are not superfluous, applied to
such a union.'

'I thank you, Sir,' she answers, with a curled lip, and a heaving bosom.

But, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she knew that Mr Dombey
would return to offer his alliance, that Carker knows her thoroughly,
and reads her right, and that she is more degraded by his knowledge
of her, than by aught else? Is it for this reason that her haughtiness
shrinks beneath his smile, like snow within the hands that grasps it
firmly, and that her imperious glance droops in meeting his, and seeks
the ground?

'I am proud to see,' said Mr Carker, with a servile stooping of his
neck, which the revelations making by his eyes and teeth proclaim to
be a lie, 'I am proud to see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs
Dombey's hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place in so joyful an
occasion.'

Though she bends her head, in answer, there is something in the
momentary action of her hand, as if she would crush the flowers it
holds, and fling them, with contempt, upon the ground. But, she puts
the hand through the arm of her new husband, who has been standing
near, conversing with the Major, and is proud again, and motionless, and
silent.

The carriages are once more at the church door. Mr Dombey, with his
bride upon his arm, conducts her through the twenty families of little
women who are on the steps, and every one of whom remembers the fashion
and the colour of her every article of dress from that moment, and
reproduces it on her doll, who is for ever being married. Cleopatra and
Cousin Feenix enter the same carriage. The Major hands into a second
carriage, Florence, and the bridesmaid who so narrowly escaped being
given away by mistake, and then enters it himself, and is followed by
Mr Carker. Horses prance and caper; coachmen and footmen shine in
fluttering favours, flowers, and new-made liveries. Away they dash and
rattle through the streets; and as they pass along, a thousand heads
are turned to look at them, and a thousand sober moralists revenge
themselves for not being married too, that morning, by reflecting that
these people little think such happiness can't last.

Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherubim's leg, when all is quiet, and
comes slowly down from the gallery. Miss Tox's eyes are red, and her
pocket-handkerchief is damp. She is wounded, but not exasperated, and
she hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to herself the beauty of
the bride, and her own comparatively feeble and faded attractions;
but the stately image of Mr Dombey in his lilac waistcoat, and his
fawn-coloured pantaloons, is present to her mind, and Miss Tox weeps
afresh, behind her veil, on her way home to Princess's Place. Captain
Cuttle, having joined in all the amens and responses, with a devout
growl, feels much improved by his religious exercises; and in a peaceful
frame of mind pervades the body of the church, glazed hat in hand, and
reads the tablet to the memory of little Paul. The gallant Mr Toots,
attended by the faithful Chicken, leaves the building in torments of
love. The Chicken is as yet unable to elaborate a scheme for winning
Florence, but his first idea has gained possession of him, and he thinks
the doubling up of Mr Dombey would be a move in the right direction. Mr
Dombey's servants come out of their hiding-places, and prepare to rush
to Brook Street, when they are delayed by symptoms of indisposition
on the part of Mrs Perch, who entreats a glass of water, and becomes
alarming; Mrs Perch gets better soon, however, and is borne away; and
Mrs Miff, and Mr Sownds the Beadle, sit upon the steps to count what
they have gained by the affair, and talk it over, while the sexton tolls
a funeral.

Now, the carriages arrive at the Bride's residence, and the players on
the bells begin to jingle, and the band strikes up, and Mr Punch, that
model of connubial bliss, salutes his wife. Now, the people run, and
push, and press round in a gaping throng, while Mr Dombey, leading Mrs
Dombey by the hand, advances solemnly into the Feenix Halls. Now, the
rest of the wedding party alight, and enter after them. And why does Mr
Carker, passing through the people to the hall-door, think of the old
woman who called to him in the Grove that morning? Or why does Florence,
as she passes, think, with a tremble, of her childhood, when she was
lost, and of the visage of Good Mrs Brown?

Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest of days, and more
company, though not much; and now they leave the drawing-room, and range
themselves at table in the dark-brown dining-room, which no confectioner
can brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted negroes with as many
flowers and love-knots as he will.

The pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though, and a rich
breakfast is set forth. Mr and Mrs Chick have joined the party, among
others. Mrs Chick admires that Edith should be, by nature, such a
perfect Dombey; and is affable and confidential to Mrs Skewton, whose
mind is relieved of a great load, and who takes her share of the
champagne. The very tall young man who suffered from excitement early,
is better; but a vague sentiment of repentance has seized upon him, and
he hates the other very tall young man, and wrests dishes from him
by violence, and takes a grim delight in disobliging the company. The
company are cool and calm, and do not outrage the black hatchments of
pictures looking down upon them, by any excess of mirth. Cousin Feenix
and the Major are the gayest there; but Mr Carker has a smile for the
whole table. He has an especial smile for the Bride, who very, very
seldom meets it.

Cousin Feenix rises, when the company have breakfasted, and the servants
have left the room; and wonderfully young he looks, with his white
wristbands almost covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and the
bloom of the champagne in his cheeks.

'Upon my honour,' says Cousin Feenix, 'although it's an unusual sort of
thing in a private gentleman's house, I must beg leave to call upon you
to drink what is usually called a--in fact a toast.'

The Major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr Carker, bending his
head forward over the table in the direction of Cousin Feenix, smiles
and nods a great many times.

'A--in fact it's not a--' Cousin Feenix beginning again, thus, comes to
a dead stop.

'Hear, hear!' says the Major, in a tone of conviction.

Mr Carker softly claps his hands, and bending forward over the table
again, smiles and nods a great many more times than before, as if
he were particularly struck by this last observation, and desired
personally to express his sense of the good it has done.

'It is,' says Cousin Feenix, 'an occasion in fact, when the general
usages of life may be a little departed from, without impropriety; and
although I never was an orator in my life, and when I was in the House
of Commons, and had the honour of seconding the address, was--in fact,
was laid up for a fortnight with the consciousness of failure--'

The Major and Mr Carker are so much delighted by this fragment of
personal history, that Cousin Feenix laughs, and addressing them
individually, goes on to say:

'And in point of fact, when I was devilish ill--still, you know, I
feel that a duty devolves upon me. And when a duty devolves upon an
Englishman, he is bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best
way he can. Well! our family has had the gratification, to-day, of
connecting itself, in the person of my lovely and accomplished relative,
whom I now see--in point of fact, present--'

Here there is general applause.

'Present,' repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a neat point which
will bear repetition,--'with one who--that is to say, with a man, at
whom the finger of scorn can never--in fact, with my honourable friend
Dombey, if he will allow me to call him so.'

Cousin Feenix bows to Mr Dombey; Mr Dombey solemnly returns the bow;
everybody is more or less gratified and affected by this extraordinary,
and perhaps unprecedented, appeal to the feelings.

'I have not,' says Cousin Feenix, 'enjoyed those opportunities which I
could have desired, of cultivating the acquaintance of my friend Dombey,
and studying those qualities which do equal honour to his head, and, in
point of fact, to his heart; for it has been my misfortune to be, as
we used to say in my time in the House of Commons, when it was not
the custom to allude to the Lords, and when the order of parliamentary
proceedings was perhaps better observed than it is now--to be in--in
point of fact,' says Cousin Feenix, cherishing his joke, with great
slyness, and finally bringing it out with a jerk, "'in another place!"'

The Major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with difficulty.

'But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey,' resumes Cousin Feenix in
a graver tone, as if he had suddenly become a sadder and wiser man, 'to
know that he is, in point of fact, what may be emphatically called a--a
merchant--a British merchant--and a--and a man. And although I have
been resident abroad, for some years (it would give me great pleasure
to receive my friend Dombey, and everybody here, at Baden-Baden, and to
have an opportunity of making 'em known to the Grand Duke), still I know
enough, I flatter myself, of my lovely and accomplished relative, to
know that she possesses every requisite to make a man happy, and that
her marriage with my friend Dombey is one of inclination and affection
on both sides.'

Many smiles and nods from Mr Carker.

'Therefore,' says Cousin Feenix, 'I congratulate the family of which I
am a member, on the acquisition of my friend Dombey. I congratulate my
friend Dombey on his union with my lovely and accomplished relative who
possesses every requisite to make a man happy; and I take the liberty
of calling on you all, in point of fact, to congratulate both my
friend Dombey and my lovely and accomplished relative, on the present
occasion.'

The speech of Cousin Feenix is received with great applause, and Mr
Dombey returns thanks on behalf of himself and Mrs Dombey. J. B. shortly
afterwards proposes Mrs Skewton. The breakfast languishes when that is
done, the violated hatchments are avenged, and Edith rises to assume her
travelling dress.

All the servants in the meantime, have been breakfasting below.
Champagne has grown too common among them to be mentioned, and roast
fowls, raised pies, and lobster-salad, have become mere drugs. The
very tall young man has recovered his spirits, and again alludes to the
exciseman. His comrade's eye begins to emulate his own, and he, too,
stares at objects without taking cognizance thereof. There is a
general redness in the faces of the ladies; in the face of Mrs Perch
particularly, who is joyous and beaming, and lifted so far above the
cares of life, that if she were asked just now to direct a wayfarer to
Ball's Pond, where her own cares lodge, she would have some difficulty
in recalling the way. Mr Towlinson has proposed the happy pair; to which
the silver-headed butler has responded neatly, and with emotion; for he
half begins to think he is an old retainer of the family, and that he is
bound to be affected by these changes. The whole party, and especially
the ladies, are very frolicsome. Mr Dombey's cook, who generally takes
the lead in society, has said, it is impossible to settle down after
this, and why not go, in a party, to the play? Everybody (Mrs Perch
included) has agreed to this; even the Native, who is tigerish in his
drink, and who alarms the ladies (Mrs Perch particularly) by the rolling
of his eyes. One of the very tall young men has even proposed a ball
after the play, and it presents itself to no one (Mrs Perch included) in
the light of an impossibility. Words have arisen between the housemaid
and Mr Towlinson; she, on the authority of an old saw, asserting
marriages to be made in Heaven: he, affecting to trace the manufacture
elsewhere; he, supposing that she says so, because she thinks of being
married her own self: she, saying, Lord forbid, at any rate, that she
should ever marry him. To calm these flying taunts, the silver-headed
butler rises to propose the health of Mr Towlinson, whom to know is to
esteem, and to esteem is to wish well settled in life with the object of
his choice, wherever (here the silver-headed butler eyes the housemaid)
she may be. Mr Towlinson returns thanks in a speech replete with
feeling, of which the peroration turns on foreigners, regarding whom
he says they may find favour, sometimes, with weak and inconstant
intellects that can be led away by hair, but all he hopes, is, he may
never hear of no foreigner never boning nothing out of no travelling
chariot. The eye of Mr Towlinson is so severe and so expressive here,
that the housemaid is turning hysterical, when she and all the rest,
roused by the intelligence that the Bride is going away, hurry upstairs
to witness her departure.

The chariot is at the door; the Bride is descending to the hall, where
Mr Dombey waits for her. Florence is ready on the staircase to depart
too; and Miss Nipper, who has held a middle state between the parlour
and the kitchen, is prepared to accompany her. As Edith appears,
Florence hastens towards her, to bid her farewell.

Is Edith cold, that she should tremble! Is there anything unnatural or
unwholesome in the touch of Florence, that the beautiful form recedes
and contracts, as if it could not bear it! Is there so much hurry in
this going away, that Edith, with a wave of her hand, sweeps on, and is
gone!

Mrs Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a mother, sinks on her sofa
in the Cleopatra attitude, when the clatter of the chariot wheels is
lost, and sheds several tears. The Major, coming with the rest of the
company from table, endeavours to comfort her; but she will not be
comforted on any terms, and so the Major takes his leave. Cousin Feenix
takes his leave, and Mr Carker takes his leave. The guests all go away.
Cleopatra, left alone, feels a little giddy from her strong emotion, and
falls asleep.

Giddiness prevails below stairs too. The very tall young man whose
excitement came on so soon, appears to have his head glued to the table
in the pantry, and cannot be detached from it. A violent revulsion has
taken place in the spirits of Mrs Perch, who is low on account of Mr
Perch, and tells cook that she fears he is not so much attached to his
home, as he used to be, when they were only nine in family. Mr Towlinson
has a singing in his ears and a large wheel going round and round inside
his head. The housemaid wishes it wasn't wicked to wish that one was
dead.

There is a general delusion likewise, in these lower regions, on the
subject of time; everybody conceiving that it ought to be, at the
earliest, ten o'clock at night, whereas it is not yet three in the
afternoon. A shadowy idea of wickedness committed, haunts every
individual in the party; and each one secretly thinks the other a
companion in guilt, whom it would be agreeable to avoid. No man or woman
has the hardihood to hint at the projected visit to the play. Anyone
reviving the notion of the ball, would be scouted as a malignant idiot.

Mrs Skewton sleeps upstairs, two hours afterwards, and naps are not
yet over in the kitchen. The hatchments in the dining-room look down
on crumbs, dirty plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed ice, stale
discoloured heel-taps, scraps of lobster, drumsticks of fowls, and
pensive jellies, gradually resolving themselves into a lukewarm gummy
soup. The marriage is, by this time, almost as denuded of its show and
garnish as the breakfast. Mr Dombey's servants moralise so much about
it, and are so repentant over their early tea, at home, that by eight
o'clock or so, they settle down into confirmed seriousness; and Mr
Perch, arriving at that time from the City, fresh and jocular, with
a white waistcoat and a comic song, ready to spend the evening, and
prepared for any amount of dissipation, is amazed to find himself coldly
received, and Mrs Perch but poorly, and to have the pleasing duty of
escorting that lady home by the next omnibus.

Night closes in. Florence, having rambled through the handsome house,
from room to room, seeks her own chamber, where the care of Edith has
surrounded her with luxuries and comforts; and divesting herself of her
handsome dress, puts on her old simple mourning for dear Paul, and sits
down to read, with Diogenes winking and blinking on the ground beside
her. But Florence cannot read tonight. The house seems strange and new,
and there are loud echoes in it. There is a shadow on her heart: she
knows not why or what: but it is heavy. Florence shuts her book, and
gruff Diogenes, who takes that for a signal, puts his paws upon her lap,
and rubs his ears against her caressing hands. But Florence cannot see
him plainly, in a little time, for there is a mist between her eyes
and him, and her dead brother and dead mother shine in it like angels.
Walter, too, poor wandering shipwrecked boy, oh, where is he?

The Major don't know; that's for certain; and don't care. The Major,
having choked and slumbered, all the afternoon, has taken a late dinner
at his club, and now sits over his pint of wine, driving a modest young
man, with a fresh-coloured face, at the next table (who would give a
handsome sum to be able to rise and go away, but cannot do it) to the
verge of madness, by anecdotes of Bagstock, Sir, at Dombey's wedding,
and Old Joe's devilish gentle manly friend, Lord Feenix. While Cousin
Feenix, who ought to be at Long's, and in bed, finds himself, instead,
at a gaming-table, where his wilful legs have taken him, perhaps, in his
own despite.

Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to roof, and holds
dominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping through
the windows: and, giving place to day, sees night withdraw into the
vaults, and follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead. The
timid mice again cower close together, when the great door clashes,
and Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff treading the circle of their daily lives,
unbroken as a marriage ring, come in. Again, the cocked hat and the
mortified bonnet stand in the background at the marriage hour; and
again this man taketh this woman, and this woman taketh this man, on the
solemn terms:

'To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for
richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,
until death do them part.'

The very words that Mr Carker rides into town repeating, with his mouth
stretched to the utmost, as he picks his dainty way.

The preparations for the elaborate wedding create a bustle and excitement for the various minor characters whose lives are tied to the Dombeys. Major Bagstock and Carker both offer Mr. Dombey their congratulations. Mrs. Skewton tells Dombey that she now thinks it better that Florence not stay with her after the wedding. Mr. Dombey and Edith are married amidst much celebration, despite Edith's continued unease with Carker. The wedding causes dissipation amongst the unsupervised servants and the day ends on a hollow note as everyone departs

This section revolves around Dombey's engagement and marriage and the impact it has on a far-flung cast of characters. The idea of the Dombey household as the nucleus of action that spreads far beyond it is perhaps most evident in the chapter describing the events of the wedding, which reverberates through a number of social rankings. Dombey's actions and choices carry significance for many people around him because of his economic impact and his status as a public figure. This should place him in a position of responsibility, although it rarely seems to impact his choices. At the same time, these scenes make it clear that there is a gossipy, voyeuristic interest in the lives of the Dombey family. They occupy a kind of celebrity position and this exerts a kind of pressure, especially since celebrity does not always ensure popularity. Illustrated most extremely by Carker, but also displayed by other characters like the Dombey servants, there is often a tinge of resentment, and a sense that a downfall would be welcomed by those envious of his power and privilege. The cynicism around what should be a joyous event is developed most strongly by the insight the reader is given into Mrs. Skewton and Edith's feelings about the marriage. Mrs. Skewton acts as a kind of parallel to Dombey in that her parenting is preoccupied with how she can gain from her daughter's beauty and desirability. She believes Edith should welcome the chance to marry Dombey, whether or not she feels affection for him. Edith occupies a much more ambivalent position in that she expresses disgust and self-loathing with the feeling that she is selling herself. However, she also seems resigned to this fate. She does not believe that there is any possibility of happiness left for her, and seems to think that her mother's education has corrupted her perspective so much that she can indeed only aspire to money-driven marriages, even if she resists at the same time. In this way, Edith's perspective shows the damaging effects of bad parenting, perhaps prefiguring what could have become of Paul had he not died with his childhood innocence intact. By having been taught that money is the most important thing, and that her beauty is a tool for achieving it, Edith has been irreparably damaged. At the same time, Florence's innocence, innate goodness, and willingness to love, pierce through even Edith's cynicism. She quickly warms to her stepdaughter and feels ferociously protective of her, especially when it becomes clear that Florence's beauty has caught Mrs. Skewton's attention. Edith knows that her mother will try to warp Florence's perspective, values, and sense of modesty, and is determined to prevent her own unhappy fate from being passed onto the next generation. In this way, Edith does function as a kind of surrogate parent to Florence. At the same time, however, her sense of shame is so deep that Edith fears a kind of moral contamination and tries to draw boundaries between herself and Florence. This reflects the way in which, although she has not yet committed any sexual transgression, Edith thinks of herself already as a kind of fallen woman, and her marriage to Dombey is revealed as a form of legalized and socially sanctioned prostitution. The reaction of characters to Dombey's marriage functions as a kind of test for their true feelings and intentions. Florence is immediately hopeful and optimistic: she is eager to forge a relationship with her stepmother and wonders if this is the occasion that will finally allow her to bond with her father. Miss Tox is deeply hurt by the news-so hurt that her long hidden emotions come to the surface, and Mrs. Chick finally realizes her friend's long-standing affection for her brother. While Mrs. Chick has been unimpressed with the news of the wedding, resenting the idea that anyone would be good enough for her brother, but she is so outraged by what she considers a betrayal from her friend that she ends the relationship. This signals the Dombey family pride, as well as the perception that those outside the family circle are inherently inferior, and should be viewed as threats.