CHAPTER II. — A Just Retribution.
One evening, about the middle of June, 18—, a gentleman called to see me, accompanied by a lady closely veiled. He said he wished me to procure suitable lodging for her, and to attend her on her accouchement, which was now close at hand, stating that no money would be spared to furnish everything necessary either to her comfort or convenience. As I did not know of any lodging suitable to a person of her station, I was puzzled how to act; I did not want to lose a patient, and yet could not, even if so disposed, make room for her in my own house. I knew that my next door neighbor (an elderly French-Canadian lady) was accustomed to take in lodgers; so, leaving the lady and gentleman for a while in my parlor, I went to see if I could make arrangements for the reception of the former. Madame Charbonneau, my neighbor, had all her rooms occupied, but said she was willing for a consideration to give up her drawing-rooms for a time to the fair patient. This was eminently satisfactory to me, as, in the event of an emergency, I would be close at hand; I accordingly arranged for Mrs. Trotter’s accommodation, and on reporting to Mr. Dombey, the gentleman aforementioned, he seemed to be perfectly satisfied. From, what I afterwards learned, I am able to inform the reader that Mr. Dombey was junior partner in the house of Dombey & Son, dry goods merchants, in this city, his father, Jacob Dombey, sen., being considered one of the wealthiest importers in Canada. In his youth Jacob Dombey, jun., had been pampered and petted beyond measure, his every whim being carried out even at great expense; arrived at the age of twenty-one he became enamored of a young lady whose father kept a small toy-shop on Notre Dame street, and nothing would content him but a marriage with the “Goddess,” as his innamorata was called. At first he was quite proud of his pretty wife, and was to be seen daily in Sherbrooke street, driving her behind a splendid span of spirited bay horses, but after a few months he grew tired of this routine, and with his bosom friend, Richard Fairfax, might be seen, nightly at the theatres and other places of amusement, while his poor wife sat in patient loneliness awaiting his return.
Mrs. Trotter was the daughter of a Civic Official of high standing, and had married at a very early age a retired English Officer, who, being well advanced in years, left her at the age of twenty-four a widow with four children. Trotter was possessed of little besides his pension, which died with him; so Mrs. T. was obliged to eke out a miserable subsistence on the receipts from a little city property left her by her father. Soon after her husband’s demise Mrs. Trotter removed to Lachine (a small village on the river side about nine miles above Montreal), in order to live more economically, and soon became acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Dombey, who had taken up their abode there for the summer season. Mrs. Dombey took quite a fancy to the fascinating widow, and they soon became inseparable.
Every evening on the promenade might be seen Mrs. Trotter leaning on the arm of Mr. Dombey, his wife following accompanied by his friend Fairfax; or they were together on the river boating, or enjoying a picnic on “Dixie” Island. Occasionally, when the weather was unfavorable to out-door amusements, they would engage in a rubber of whist, generally ending the evening with a little music. Dombey did not know one tune from another, but his wife praised Mrs. Trotter’s singing so highly that he soon imagined that in that art, as in others, she was nearly, if not altogether, perfect. When it became time for Mrs. Trotter to go home, Jacob used to escort her to her cottage on the river bank, about a mile distant from his own residence, and after a few weeks there sprang up an intimacy between them which culminated in the incidents which gave rise to my narrative.
On the day following that on which I had engaged her apartments Mrs. Trotter took up her abode at Madame Charbonneau’s, and about six weeks afterwards her baby, a beautiful girl, was born; she sent a message to Mr. Dombey’s office, and in the afternoon he called to see her. He was greatly pleased with the baby, and took it up fondly in his arms, and on leaving placed a roll of bank bills in my hand, telling me to get everything necessary for either the mother or her child, also to get the latter whatever clothing it might require. After that he called almost daily, and when Mrs. Trotter was sufficiently recovered to return to her home, he pressed me so strongly to keep the baby till it was a little older, and not to leave it to the tender mercies of an ignorant nurse, that I consented to keep it till it was two years old, and then to obtain for it, if possible, adoption by some respectable married persons.
Margery, the baby aforementioned, turned out one of the most beautiful children I had ever seen. Her father and mother visited her frequently during the time she was at my house, and on my giving her for adoption to Mr. Walker (a respectable Vermont farmer without any children of his own) they were both deeply affected. Dombey was anxious that Mrs. Trotter should take it to her own home, but, as “Mrs. Grundy” had already been discussing her movements, she dare not, without fear of ruining her children, take the baby under the roof. As there was no help for it the baby was allowed to go to Vermont, and grew up a beautiful girl, passionately devoted to the only parents she had ever known; Mrs. Walker dying during the child’s infancy, Mr. Walker had her educated as well as his means would permit, and they passed their time in the most perfect harmony and sweet content. After the war, however, Walker found himself almost without a penny in the world, and, thinking to better his fortunes removed to New York, where he managed to make a poor living as a subordinate in the Custom House. Margery regretted this change of circumstances very much, but, being thoroughly devoted to her father, she did not repine, but did all in her power to make his home as happy as could be under such conditions. She missed her accustomed amusements very much, and although in New York she saw many things and found many opportunities which would have been altogether unknown to her in the country, yet she was a long time in becoming reconciled to the close and stifling atmosphere of a great metropolitan city.
One night her father promised her a great treat, they were to go to X——‘s theatre to see Mademoiselle B—— in Romeo and Juliet. Margery sat with strained eyes gazing wistfully at the play, laughing and weeping by turns as the great master’s power was exerted on the audience by the artists engaged, and at the close she heaved a deep sigh, consequent upon having held her breath so long, and without thought exclaimed aloud:—“Oh, what would I not give to be able to act like that.” The manager who was close by, and who had been watching the attentive beauty for some time, overheard the remark, and intercepting the pair on their way out of the theatre said:—“I noticed that you were favorably impressed with the piece; would you like an introduction to Miss B——, the principal actress?” Margery was overcome with delight, and besought her father so earnestly to allow her to go into the green room that he accompanied her thither, and they obtained an introduction to the famous artiste. Miss B—— was quite taken with the innocent enthusiasm of the girl, and invited her to come to her benefit on the following evening, when she was to appear as Parthenia in “Ingomar;” Margery, having obtained her father’s permission, readily consented, and all the way home was full of praises for Juliet, Romeo, the manager, and all concerned. On the following evening the manager drew her father aside and whispered in his ear:—“You have a fortune in that girl of yours.” Walker, misunderstanding the purport of his words, replied:—“Yes, she is a good and affectionate child, as much so as if I were her natural parent.” “You do not understand me,” said the other; “I mean she has immense emotional power, which, if artistically cultivated, would, coupled with her personal appearance, make both her fortune and yours.”
“Do you think so?” replied Walker; “well, if we had only the means I would certainly have her trained, for, since she has seen Mademoiselle B—— act, her great ambition seems to be to occupy a similar position.” After further conversation it was agreed to place Margery under the care of Mrs. L——, with a view of becoming a professional actress; for, although Walker did not at all care for the stage or its concomitants, still he did not wish to throw any obstacles in the way of his adopted child’s prosperity. Margery, therefore, was allowed to pursue the bent of her inclinations, and such an apt pupil was she that in a little over eighteen months her debut was announced in the papers, and a crowded house showered floral and other trophies on the beautiful debutante. Offers of engagements from different cities came flowing in, and before long Miss Margery Montague was announced to appear in Montreal. Her fame had preceded her thither, and Fairfax was instructed to secure a box for the Dombey family. Dombey himself (who had followed the career of his child) tried hard to excuse himself from going, but his wife was not satisfied to leave him at home; he sat in the back of the box, and as the applause grew louder and louder, he showered costly bouquets, and other offerings on the stage, his breast meanwhile being torn by conflicting passions. How proud he would have been to clasp her to his heart and call her his own; but he had willfully put her away from him, and now, even could he receive her into his family, would her adopted father be willing to give her up again. With flushed face and beating heart he sought the manager, and begged to be allowed to see the fair artiste, a favor which was granted; and, as he stood before his child, and poured forth the usual stereotyped compliments and congratulations, he bit his lips as he thought that he dared not press her to his heart, but was forced to speak to her in terms of cold politeness.
On their return from the Theatre Mrs. Dombey announced her intention of calling on the talented actress, and the following day she went, accompanied by her daughters, to the St. Lawrence Hall, at that time the most fashionable hotel in the city, where she was cordially received; and the young actress made such a favorable impression on the ladies that they invited her to dine at their house on the following day, an invitation which was readily accepted.
Dombey was greatly moved when he heard that Miss Montague had accepted an invitation to dinner, but there was no help for it, and, as though to make matters worse invitations were sent to a few intimate friends, including Mrs. Trotter. Here, then, was a painful position for the two guilty ones: they were forced to sit and see the child whom they had cast off fêted and honored by the woman both of them had injured. It seemed as if a wet blanket were placed over the whole assembly: Dombey sat moodily biting his finger-nails, and as Mrs. Trotter would not sing and Mrs. Dombey could not, matters went very slowly indeed.
When the time came for separating, Mrs. Dombey motioned to Jacob to see Miss Montague to her hotel, but he being deep in a fit of abstraction, his eldest son Charles stepped forward, and before his father could prevent him, was equipped in greatcoat and overshoes, ready for a moonlight stroll. During the evening he had noticed that Charles was rather attentive to the fair actress, and the thought that an intimacy between them was possible drove him to the verge of distraction, Mrs. Dombey noticed his strange behavior, and asked him the cause, on which he muttered something about “Auction lunch—infernal champagne,” and some other incoherent exclamations, altogether unintelligible to his unsuspicious wife. When he and his paramour got outside they walked along in gloomy silence for several minutes—at last he addressed her: “Is it not strange that this child, whom I had thought far removed from me and mine, should be brought even into my own house, and eat at my table?”
“Oh, it is fearful; only think what would be the consequence if an intimacy should spring up between her and Charles!”
“Yes, I must send him away at once.”
Mrs. Trotter reminded him that this step was unnecessary, as Miss Montague left the next day for Chicago to fulfil a professional engagement. He heaved a sigh of relief, and then, with a passionate tug at Mrs. Trotter’s door bell, turned to go away.
“Will you not come in a while, Jack?” she said.
“No, he replied, Clara (Mrs. Dombey) would suspect something. She looked at me very strangely this evening.”
“But you will come to-morrow,” rejoined the temptress.
“Yes, I will look in on my way up from the office,” he said. “Good night.”
“Good night, Jack,” said she.
As he got to his own door he found Charles leaning pensively against the balustrade, gazing wistfully at the heavens.
“Well, Charlie, have you forgotten your latch-key?”
“N—no Sir,” stammered Charles, “but it is so confoundedly hot inside that I did not care to go in.”
Dombey reflected that as the thermometer registered only about ten degrees Fahrenheit he had but to open his window to attain as low a temperature as was consistent with comfort; however, he said nothing, and they both walked upstairs.
“Good night, Charlie.”
“Good night, Father.”
And they entered their respective chambers.
I have heard it said that if two men are placed in one bed, one in love and the other with a toothache, that the man with the toothache will fall asleep first. Here, however, were two men; one, past the prime of life, afflicted with the most bitter remorse; the other, young and susceptible, with all the fever of a youthful passion springing up within his breast. Dombey could not sleep, the thought that what at first was barely possible was now become highly probable goaded him almost to madness. He rose and dressed himself, going quietly out of the front door into Sherbrooke street. Along the street he went at a fearful pace, till, almost faint from want of breath, he turned down the hill towards the city, habit bringing him along the route he was accustomed to take to his office. As he turned the corner of St. James street, he saw (for there were few persons abroad) a young man walking moodily up and down on the side opposite the St. Lawrence Hall; he turned as if he had seen an apparition, and ran rather than walked in the direction of his own home.
Next day Miss Montague departed for the West, Mrs. and Miss Dombey accompanied by Charles went to see her off at the Depot, and with many assurances of a future meeting, should she ever return to Montreal, they separated as the train moved slowly past the platform. As the drawing-room car was just clearing the station, Miss Montague held a piece of paper out of the window, which Charles caught eagerly and placed in his pocket-book. His mother and sister chaffing him on receiving tender messages from the fair artiste, he laughingly produced it.
It was nothing more nor less than a page of an old timetable, and both Mrs. and Miss Dombey laughed at the strange souvenir Miss Montague had left behind her. When they got home, however, Charles carefully opened the paper and observed that opposite each of the cities on her route Miss Montague had placed a figure in pencil thus:—Chicago, 4; Detroit, 2; Toledo, 2; Toronto, 3; New York; 6, Boston, 6. This, though unintelligible to his mother and sister, informed Charles that Miss Montague would go first to Chicago and remain four days, and afterwards to the other cities mentioned, and that he might write or meet her there as opportunity afforded.
That day matters resumed their normal condition in the Dombey family; Jacob breathed freely now that his child had returned to the country of her adoption, and his wife and family were happy because of his improved spirits and appearance. Charles had apparently settled down to business as usual, and Mesdames Trotter and Dombey drove out together as of old. In a few weeks, however, Charles asked his father permission to go for his holidays; a friend having invited him to spend a few weeks at Nahant an island near Boston. There being nothing to keep him in Montreal he had no difficulty in procuring consent, and he departed, taking fishing tackle enough to have supplied the whole Atlantic coast for a season. When his father learned the real object of his visit to Boston, he raved like a madman; he came to see me, and told me the whole story, most of which I had learnt before from other sources and he persuaded me to go to Boston and to take on my self the painful duty of informing Miss Montague who and what she really was, and why it was impossible that she could ever marry Charles Dombey. The poor girl was almost heart-broken, for she had learnt to love her stepbrother dearly, and now she would have to be separated from him entirely. It was not for herself, however, that she mourned the most, it was for him, when he should learn of the wide gulf which separated them from each other. He never did learn it, however; Miss Montague consented (for his sake) to accept an engagement in England, and to trust in years to soften the blow which had smitten her so severely. She wrote to Charles, telling him that, for reasons unexplained, she never could be his wife, although she loved him dearly, and that as there was no use striving against fate, she had bowed to the inevitable, and taken a foreign engagement. At first Charles was desperately cut up, but time, that physician par excellence, healed his wounds, and he is now married to a respectable lady of this city; deservedly successful in his business, and with a stainless reputation. Jacob Dombey staggered along under his load for years, but, unable to contain himself, he one day confessed the affair to his wife, who, instead of denouncing him as the wretch he was, pitied and sympathized with; aye, and not only that, she received his mistress into her house as before, rather than make public his heartless conduct. Truly such an angel never received such heartless treatment, or was so little appreciated. It broke her heart however, and over her grave Dombey resolved to cast Mrs. Trotter off forever, and send her away from the city. He accordingly arranged with her to take an annual allowance and go to New York with her family, vowing that he could no longer endure her presence, which was grown distasteful to him.
This did not at all suit Mrs. Trotter, who had now hoped to become the legal mistress of the Dombey mansion. But all her tears were of no avail, the bitter pangs of remorse were tearing Dombey’s bosom, and he would hear of nothing but, her immediate departure for the United States. He determined that however he might have blighted the life of the wife whose excellent qualities he had only now begun to appreciate, nothing should stand in the way of her children’s advancement; and the voice of a scandal having already been heard concerning Mrs. Trotter, he felt that her immediate departure was a necessity. She argued and entreated, but it was of no avail, and she accordingly made the best of her case and got from him a liberal allowance. Hers was not of a nature to reform, however; she went from bad to worse, and finally took to smoking opium as a means to relieve her gnawing conscience, ending her days prematurely.
Dombey survived her but a short time. He tried hard to make amends for the past by increased attention to the children of his late wife, but he never fully recovered himself, and finally succumbed to a wasting fever, superinduced by late hours and immoderate drinking. To his last hour his conscience smote him at the triple wrong he had inflicted on his children, his natural daughter, and his confiding wife.