said Mr. Carker. "But I entreat that lady, on my own behalf to be just to a very humble claimant for justice at her hands—a mere dependant of Mr. Dombey’s—which is a position of humility; and to reflect upon my perfect helplessness last night, and the impossibility of my avoiding the share that was forced upon me in a very painful occasion."
"My dearest Edith," hinted Cleopatra in a low voice, as she held her eye-glass aside, "really very charming of Mr. What’s-his-name. And full of heart!"
"For I do," said Mr. Carker, appealing to Mrs. Skewton with a look of grateful deference,—"I do venture to call it a painful occasion, though merely because it was so to me, who had the misfortune to be present. So slight a difference, as between the principals—between those who love each other with disinterested devotion, and would make any sacrifice of self in such a cause—is nothing. As Mrs. Skewton herself expressed, with so much truth and feeling last night, it is nothing."
Edith could not look at him, but she said after a few moments.
"And your business, Sir—"
"Edith, my pet," said Mrs. Skewton, "all this time Mr. Carker is standing! My dear Mr. Carker, take a seat, I beg."
He offered no reply to the mother, but fixed his eyes on the proud daughter, as though he would only be bidden by her, and was resolved to be bidden by her. Edith, in spite of herself sat down, and slightly motioned with her hand to him to be seated too. No action could be colder, haughtier, more insolent in its air of supremacy and disrespect, but she had struggled against even that concession ineffectually, and it was wrested from her. That was enough! Mr. Carker sat down.
"May I be allowed, Madam," said Carker, turning his white teeth on Mrs. Skewton like a light—"a lady of your excellent sense and quick feeling will give me credit, for good reason, I am sure—to address what I have to say, to Mrs. Dombey, and to leave her to impart it to you who are her best and dearest friend—next to Mr. Dombey?"
Mrs. Skewton would have retired, but Edith stopped her. Edith would have stopped him too, and indignantly ordered him to speak openly or not at all, but that he said, in a low voice—"Miss Florence—the young lady who has just left the room—"
Edith suffered him to proceed. She looked at him now. As he bent forward, to be nearer, with the utmost show of delicacy and respect, and with his teeth persuasively arrayed, in a self-depreciating smile, she felt as if she could have struck him dead.
"Miss Florence’s position," he began, "has been an unfortunate one. I have a difficulty in alluding to it to you, whose attachment to her father is naturally watchful and jealous of every word that applies to him." Always distinct and soft in speech, no language could describe the extent of his distinctness and softness, when he said these words, or came to any others of a similar import. "But, as one who is devoted to Mr. Dombey in his different way, and whose life is passed in admiration of Mr. Dombey’s character, may I say, without offence to your tenderness as a wife, that Miss Florence has unhappily been neglected—by her father. May I say by her father?"
Edith replied, "I know it."
