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Updated: May 24, 2025
The Honourable Mrs Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Granger, resided, while at Leamington, in lodgings that were fashionable enough and dear enough, but rather limited in point of space and conveniences; so that the Honourable Mrs Skewton, being in bed, had her feet in the window and her head in the fireplace, while the Honourable Mrs Skewton's maid was quartered in a closet within the drawing-room, so extremely small, that, to avoid developing the whole of its accommodations, she was obliged to writhe in and out of the door like a beautiful serpent.
The discrepancy between Mrs Skewton's fresh enthusiasm of words, and forlornly faded manner, was hardly less observable than that between her age, which was about seventy, and her dress, which would have been youthful for twenty-seven. Mrs Skewton was a beauty then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their heads by dozens in her honour.
'I said just now, Madam, returned Mr Dombey, loudly and laboriously, 'that I am coming in a day or two. 'Bless you, Domber! Here the Major, who was come to take leave of the ladies, and who was staring through his apoplectic eyes at Mrs Skewton's face with the disinterested composure of an immortal being, said: 'Begad, Ma'am, you don't ask old Joe to come!
'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.
'Mrs Dombey and myself, he went on to say, 'had some discussion, before Mrs Skewton's death, upon the causes of my dissatisfaction; of which you will have formed a general understanding from having been a witness of what passed between Mrs Dombey and myself on the evening when you were at our at my house. 'When I so much regretted being present, said the smiling Carker.
Edith was toasted again. Mr Dombey was again agreeably embarrassed. And Mr Carker was full of interest and praise. There were no other visitors at Mrs Skewton's. Edith's drawings were strewn about the room, a little more abundantly than usual perhaps; and Withers, the wan page, handed round a little stronger tea. The harp was there; the piano was there; and Edith sang and played.
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.
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.
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.
When most of the Jacobean poets sank into comfortable oblivion, which merely meant being laid with a piece of camphor in cotton-wool to keep fresh for us, Wither had the misfortune to be recollected. He became a byword of contempt, and the Age of Anne persistently called him Withers, a name, I believe, only possessed really by one distinguished person, Cleopatra Skewton's page-boy.
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