"DOMBEY AND SON\n\nBy Charles Dickens\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n    1. Dombey and Son\n    2. In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that\n       will sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families\n    3. In which Mr Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the\n       Head of the Home-Department\n    4. In which some more First Appearances are made on the\n       Stage of these Adventures\n    5. Paul's Progress and Christening\n    6. Paul's Second Deprivation\n    7. A Bird's-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox's Dwelling-place; also\n       of the State of Miss Tox's Affections\n    8. Paul's further Progress, Growth, and Character\n    9. In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble\n   10. Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman's Disaster\n   11. Paul's Introduction to a New Scene\n   12. Paul's Education\n   13. Shipping Intelligence and Office Business\n   14. Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home\n       for the holidays\n   15. Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit\n       for Walter Gay\n   16. What the Waves were always saying\n   17. Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young people\n   18. Father and Daughter\n   19. Walter goes away\n   20. Mr Dombey goes upon a journey\n   21. New Faces\n   22. A Trifle of Management by Mr Carker the Manager\n   23. Florence solitary, and the Midshipman mysterious\n   24. The Study of a Loving Heart\n   25. Strange News of Uncle Sol\n   26. Shadows of the Past and Future\n   27. Deeper shadows\n   28. Alterations\n   29. The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick\n   30. The Interval before the Marriage\n   31. The Wedding\n   32. The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces\n   33. Contrasts\n   34. Another Mother and Daughter\n   35. The Happy Pair\n   36. Housewarming\n   37. More Warnings than One\n   38. Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance\n   39. Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, Mariner\n   40. Domestic Relations\n   41. New Voices in the Waves\n   42. Confidential and Accidental\n   43. The Watches of the Night\n   44. A Separation\n   45. The Trusty Agent\n   46. Recognizant and Reflective\n   47. The Thunderbolt\n   48. The Flight of Florence\n   49. The Midshipman makes a Discovery\n   50. Mr Toots's Complaint\n   51. Mr Dombey and the World\n   52. Secret Intelligence\n   53. More Intelligence\n   54. The Fugitives\n   55. Rob the Grinder loses his Place\n   56. Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted\n   57. Another Wedding\n   58. After a Lapse\n   59. Retribution\n   60. Chiefly Matrimonial\n   61. Relenting\n   62. Final\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1. Dombey and Son\n\n\nDombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair\nby the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead,\ncarefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and\nclose to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin,\nand it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new.\n\nDombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight-and-forty\nminutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome\nwell-made man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing.\nSon was very bald, and very red, and though (of course) an undeniably\nfine infant, somewhat crushed and spotty in his general effect, as yet.\nOn the brow of Dombey, Time and his brother Care had set some marks, as\non a tree that was to come down in good time--remorseless twins they are\nfor striding through their human forests, notching as they go--while the\ncountenance of Son was crossed with a thousand little creases, which the\nsame deceitful Time would take delight in smoothing out and wearing away\nwith the flat part of his scythe, as a preparation of the surface for\nhis deeper operations.\n\nDombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the\nheavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat,\nwhereof the buttons sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the\ndistant fire. Son, with his little fists curled up and clenched, seemed,\nin his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for having come upon him\nso unexpectedly.\n\n'The House will once again, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, 'be not only in\nname but in fact Dombey and Son;' and he added, in a tone of luxurious\nsatisfaction, with his eyes half-closed as if he were reading the name\nin a device of flowers, and inhaling their fragrance at the same time;\n'Dom-bey and Son!'\n\nThe words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term of\nendearment to Mrs Dombey's name (though not without some hesitation,\nas being a man but little used to that form of address): and said, 'Mrs\nDombey, my--my dear.'\n\nA transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady's face as\nshe raised her eyes towards him.\n\n'He will be christened Paul, my--Mrs Dombey--of course.'\n\nShe feebly echoed, 'Of course,' or rather expressed it by the motion of\nher lips, and closed her eyes again.\n\n'His father's name, Mrs Dombey, and his grandfather's! I wish his\ngrandfather were alive this day! There is some inconvenience in the\nnecessity of writing Junior,' said Mr Dombey, making a fictitious\nautograph on his knee; 'but it is merely of a private and personal\ncomplexion. It doesn't enter into the correspondence of the House.\nIts signature remains the same.' And again he said 'Dombey and Son,' in\nexactly the same tone as before.\n\nThose three words conveyed the one idea of Mr Dombey's life. The earth\nwas made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and moon were made\nto give them light. Rivers and seas were formed to float their ships;\nrainbows gave them promise of fair weather; winds blew for or against\ntheir enterprises; stars and planets circled in their orbits, to\npreserve inviolate a system of which they were the centre. Common\nabbreviations took new meanings in his eyes, and had sole reference\nto them. A. D. had no concern with Anno Domini, but stood for anno\nDombei--and Son.\n\nHe had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life and\ndeath, from Son to Dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been the\nsole representative of the Firm. Of those years he had been married,\nten--married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give him; whose\nhappiness was in the past, and who was content to bind her broken spirit\nto the dutiful and meek endurance of the present. Such idle talk was\nlittle likely to reach the ears of Mr Dombey, whom it nearly concerned;\nand probably no one in the world would have received it with such utter\nincredulity as he, if it had reached him. Dombey and Son had often dealt\nin hides, but never in hearts. They left that fancy ware to boys and\ngirls, and boarding-schools and books. Mr Dombey would have reasoned:\nThat a matrimonial alliance with himself must, in the nature of things,\nbe gratifying and honourable to any woman of common sense. That the\nhope of giving birth to a new partner in such a House, could not fail\nto awaken a glorious and stirring ambition in the breast of the least\nambitious of her sex. That Mrs Dombey had entered on that social\ncontract of matrimony: almost necessarily part of a genteel and wealthy\nstation, even without reference to the perpetuation of family Firms:\nwith her eyes fully open to these advantages. That Mrs Dombey had had\ndaily practical knowledge of his position in society. That Mrs Dombey\nhad always sat at the head of his table, and done the honours of his\nhouse in a remarkably lady-like and becoming manner. That Mrs Dombey\nmust have been happy. That she couldn't help it.\n\nOr, at all events, with one drawback. Yes. That he would have allowed.\nWith only one; but that one certainly involving much. With the drawback\nof hope deferred. That hope deferred, which, (as the Scripture very\ncorrectly tells us, Mr Dombey would have added in a patronising way;\nfor his highest distinct idea even of Scripture, if examined, would\nhave been found to be; that as forming part of a general whole, of which\nDombey and Son formed another part, it was therefore to be commended\nand upheld) maketh the heart sick. They had been married ten years, and\nuntil this present day on which Mr Dombey sat jingling and jingling his\nheavy gold watch-chain in the great arm-chair by the side of the bed,\nhad had no issue.\n\n--To speak of; none worth mentioning. There had been a girl some six\nyears before, and the child, who had stolen into the chamber unobserved,\nwas now crouching timidly, in a corner whence she could see her mother's\nface. But what was a girl to Dombey and Son! In the capital of the\nHouse's name and dignity, such a child was merely a piece of base coin\nthat couldn't be invested--a bad Boy--nothing more.\n\nMr Dombey's cup of satisfaction was so full at this moment, however,\nthat he felt he could afford a drop or two of its contents, even to\nsprinkle on the dust in the by-path of his little daughter.\n\nSo he said, 'Florence, you may go and look at your pretty brother, if\nyou like, I daresay. Don't touch him!'\n\nThe child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff white cravat, which,\nwith a pair of creaking boots and a very loud ticking watch, embodied\nher idea of a father; but her eyes returned to her mother's face\nimmediately, and she neither moved nor answered.\n\n'Her insensibility is as proof against a brother as against every thing\nelse,' said Mr Dombey to himself He seemed so confirmed in a previous\nopinion by the discovery, as to be quite glad of it.'\n\nNext moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen the child; and the\nchild had run towards her; and, standing on tiptoe, the better to hide\nher face in her embrace, had clung about her with a desperate affection\nvery much at variance with her years.\n\n'Oh Lord bless me!' said Mr Dombey, rising testily. 'A very ill-advised\nand feverish proceeding this, I am sure. Please to ring there for Miss\nFlorence's nurse. Really the person should be more care-'\n\n'Wait! I--had better ask Doctor Peps if he'll have the goodness to step\nupstairs again perhaps. I'll go down. I'll go down. I needn't beg you,'\nhe added, pausing for a moment at the settee before the fire, 'to take\nparticular care of this young gentleman, Mrs ----'\n\n'Blockitt, Sir?' suggested the nurse, a simpering piece of faded\ngentility, who did not presume to state her name as a fact, but merely\noffered it as a mild suggestion.\n\n'Of this young gentleman, Mrs Blockitt.'\n\n'No, Sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence was born--'\n\n'Ay, ay, ay,' said Mr Dombey, bending over the basket bedstead, and\nslightly bending his brows at the same time. 'Miss Florence was all very\nwell, but this is another matter. This young gentleman has to accomplish\na destiny. A destiny, little fellow!' As he thus apostrophised the\ninfant he raised one of his hands to his lips, and kissed it; then,\nseeming to fear that the action involved some compromise of his dignity,\nwent, awkwardly enough, away.\n\nDoctor Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians, and a man of immense\nreputation for assisting at the increase of great families, was\nwalking up and down the drawing-room with his hands behind him, to the\nunspeakable admiration of the family Surgeon, who had regularly puffed\nthe case for the last six weeks, among all his patients, friends, and\nacquaintances, as one to which he was in hourly expectation day and\nnight of being summoned, in conjunction with Doctor Parker Pep.\n\n'Well, Sir,' said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep, sonorous voice,\nmuffled for the occasion, like the knocker; 'do you find that your dear\nlady is at all roused by your visit?'\n\n'Stimulated as it were?' said the family practitioner faintly: bowing at\nthe same time to the Doctor, as much as to say, 'Excuse my putting in a\nword, but this is a valuable connexion.'\n\nMr Dombey was quite discomfited by the question. He had thought so\nlittle of the patient, that he was not in a condition to answer it. He\nsaid that it would be a satisfaction to him, if Doctor Parker Peps would\nwalk upstairs again.\n\n'Good! We must not disguise from you, Sir,' said Doctor Parker Peps,\n'that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess--I beg your\npardon; I confound names; I should say, in your amiable lady. That there\nis a certain degree of languor, and a general absence of elasticity,\nwhich we would rather--not--'\n\n'See,' interposed the family practitioner with another inclination of\nthe head.\n\n'Quite so,' said Doctor Parker Peps, 'which we would rather not see. It\nwould appear that the system of Lady Cankaby--excuse me: I should say of\nMrs Dombey: I confuse the names of cases--'\n\n'So very numerous,' murmured the family practitioner--'can't be expected\nI'm sure--quite wonderful if otherwise--Doctor Parker Peps's West-End\npractice--'\n\n'Thank you,' said the Doctor, 'quite so. It would appear, I was\nobserving, that the system of our patient has sustained a shock, from\nwhich it can only hope to rally by a great and strong--'\n\n'And vigorous,' murmured the family practitioner.\n\n'Quite so,' assented the Doctor--'and vigorous effort. Mr Pilkins here,\nwho from his position of medical adviser in this family--no one better\nqualified to fill that position, I am sure.'\n\n'Oh!' murmured the family practitioner. '\"Praise from Sir Hubert\nStanley!\"'\n\n'You are good enough,' returned Doctor Parker Peps, 'to say so. Mr\nPilkins who, from his position, is best acquainted with the patient's\nconstitution in its normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us in\nforming our opinions in these occasions), is of opinion, with me, that\nNature must be called upon to make a vigorous effort in this instance;\nand that if our interesting friend the Countess of Dombey--I beg your\npardon; Mrs Dombey--should not be--'\n\n'Able,' said the family practitioner.\n\n'To make,' said Doctor Parker Peps.\n\n'That effort,' said the family practitioner.\n\n'Successfully,' said they both together.\n\n'Then,' added Doctor Parker Peps, alone and very gravely, 'a crisis might\narise, which we should both sincerely deplore.'\n\nWith that, they stood for a few seconds looking at the ground. Then,\non the motion--made in dumb show--of Doctor Parker Peps, they went\nupstairs; the family practitioner opening the room door for that\ndistinguished professional, and following him out, with most obsequious\npoliteness.\n\nTo record of Mr Dombey that he was not in his way affected by this\nintelligence, would be to do him an injustice. He was not a man of whom\nit could properly be said that he was ever startled, or shocked; but\nhe certainly had a sense within him, that if his wife should sicken and\ndecay, he would be very sorry, and that he would find a something gone\nfrom among his plate and furniture, and other household possessions,\nwhich was well worth the having, and could not be lost without sincere\nregret. Though it would be a cool, business-like, gentlemanly,\nself-possessed regret, no doubt.\n\nHis meditations on the subject were soon interrupted, first by the\nrustling of garments on the staircase, and then by the sudden whisking\ninto the room of a lady rather past the middle age than otherwise but\ndressed in a very juvenile manner, particularly as to the tightness of\nher bodice, who, running up to him with a kind of screw in her face and\ncarriage, expressive of suppressed emotion, flung her arms around his\nneck, and said, in a choking voice,\n\n'My dear Paul! He's quite a Dombey!'\n\n'Well, well!' returned her brother--for Mr Dombey was her brother--'I\nthink he is like the family. Don't agitate yourself, Louisa.'\n\n'It's very foolish of me,' said Louisa, sitting down, and taking out her\npocket-handkerchief, 'but he's--he's such a perfect Dombey!'\n\nMr Dombey coughed.\n\n'It's so extraordinary,' said Louisa; smiling through her tears,\nwhich indeed were not overpowering, 'as to be perfectly ridiculous. So\ncompletely our family. I never saw anything like it in my life!'\n\n'But what is this about Fanny, herself?' said Mr Dombey. 'How is Fanny?'\n\n'My dear Paul,' returned Louisa, 'it's nothing whatever. Take my word,\nit's nothing whatever. There is exhaustion, certainly, but nothing like\nwhat I underwent myself, either with George or Frederick. An effort\nis necessary. That's all. If dear Fanny were a Dombey!--But I daresay\nshe'll make it; I have no doubt she'll make it. Knowing it to be\nrequired of her, as a duty, of course she'll make it. My dear Paul, it's\nvery weak and silly of me, I know, to be so trembly and shaky from head\nto foot; but I am so very queer that I must ask you for a glass of wine\nand a morsel of that cake.'\n\nMr Dombey promptly supplied her with these refreshments from a tray on\nthe table.\n\n'I shall not drink my love to you, Paul,' said Louisa: 'I shall drink to\nthe little Dombey. Good gracious me!--it's the most astonishing thing I\never knew in all my days, he's such a perfect Dombey.'\n\nQuenching this expression of opinion in a short hysterical laugh which\nterminated in tears, Louisa cast up her eyes, and emptied her glass.\n\n'I know it's very weak and silly of me,' she repeated, 'to be so trembly\nand shaky from head to foot, and to allow my feelings so completely\nto get the better of me, but I cannot help it. I thought I should have\nfallen out of the staircase window as I came down from seeing dear\nFanny, and that tiddy ickle sing.' These last words originated in a\nsudden vivid reminiscence of the baby.\n\nThey were succeeded by a gentle tap at the door.\n\n'Mrs Chick,' said a very bland female voice outside, 'how are you now,\nmy dear friend?'\n\n'My dear Paul,' said Louisa in a low voice, as she rose from her seat,\n'it's Miss Tox. The kindest creature! I never could have got here\nwithout her! Miss Tox, my brother Mr Dombey. Paul, my dear, my very\nparticular friend Miss Tox.'\n\nThe lady thus specially presented, was a long lean figure, wearing such\na faded air that she seemed not to have been made in what linen-drapers\ncall 'fast colours' originally, and to have, by little and little,\nwashed out. But for this she might have been described as the very pink\nof general propitiation and politeness. From a long habit of listening\nadmiringly to everything that was said in her presence, and looking at\nthe speakers as if she were mentally engaged in taking off impressions\nof their images upon her soul, never to part with the same but with\nlife, her head had quite settled on one side. Her hands had contracted\na spasmodic habit of raising themselves of their own accord as in\ninvoluntary admiration. Her eyes were liable to a similar affection. She\nhad the softest voice that ever was heard; and her nose, stupendously\naquiline, had a little knob in the very centre or key-stone of the\nbridge, whence it tended downwards towards her face, as in an invincible\ndetermination never to turn up at anything.\n\nMiss Tox's dress, though perfectly genteel and good, had a certain\ncharacter of angularity and scantiness. She was accustomed to wear\nodd weedy little flowers in her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were\nsometimes perceived in her hair; and it was observed by the curious,\nof all her collars, frills, tuckers, wristbands, and other gossamer\narticles--indeed of everything she wore which had two ends to it\nintended to unite--that the two ends were never on good terms, and\nwouldn't quite meet without a struggle. She had furry articles for\nwinter wear, as tippets, boas, and muffs, which stood up on end in\nrampant manner, and were not at all sleek. She was much given to the\ncarrying about of small bags with snaps to them, that went off like\nlittle pistols when they were shut up; and when full-dressed, she wore\nround her neck the barrenest of lockets, representing a fishy old eye,\nwith no approach to speculation in it. These and other appearances of a\nsimilar nature, had served to propagate the opinion, that Miss Tox was\na lady of what is called a limited independence, which she turned to\nthe best account. Possibly her mincing gait encouraged the belief,\nand suggested that her clipping a step of ordinary compass into two or\nthree, originated in her habit of making the most of everything.\n\n'I am sure,' said Miss Tox, with a prodigious curtsey, 'that to have\nthe honour of being presented to Mr Dombey is a distinction which I have\nlong sought, but very little expected at the present moment. My dear Mrs\nChick--may I say Louisa!'\n\nMrs Chick took Miss Tox's hand in hers, rested the foot of her\nwine-glass upon it, repressed a tear, and said in a low voice, 'God\nbless you!'\n\n'My dear Louisa then,' said Miss Tox, 'my sweet friend, how are you\nnow?'\n\n'Better,' Mrs Chick returned. 'Take some wine. You have been almost as\nanxious as I have been, and must want it, I am sure.'\n\nMr Dombey of course officiated, and also refilled his sister's glass,\nwhich she (looking another way, and unconscious of his intention)\nheld straight and steady the while, and then regarded with great\nastonishment, saying, 'My dear Paul, what have you been doing!'\n\n'Miss Tox, Paul,' pursued Mrs Chick, still retaining her hand, 'knowing\nhow much I have been interested in the anticipation of the event of\nto-day, and how trembly and shaky I have been from head to foot in\nexpectation of it, has been working at a little gift for Fanny, which I\npromised to present. Miss Tox is ingenuity itself.'\n\n'My dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox. 'Don't say so.'\n\n'It is only a pincushion for the toilette table, Paul,' resumed his\nsister; 'one of those trifles which are insignificant to your sex in\ngeneral, as it's very natural they should be--we have no business to\nexpect they should be otherwise--but to which we attach some interest.'\n\n'Miss Tox is very good,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'And I do say, and will say, and must say,' pursued his sister, pressing\nthe foot of the wine-glass on Miss Tox's hand, at each of the three\nclauses, 'that Miss Tox has very prettily adapted the sentiment to the\noccasion. I call \"Welcome little Dombey\" Poetry, myself!'\n\n'Is that the device?' inquired her brother.\n\n'That is the device,' returned Louisa.\n\n'But do me the justice to remember, my dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox in\na tone of low and earnest entreaty, 'that nothing but the--I have some\ndifficulty in expressing myself--the dubiousness of the result would\nhave induced me to take so great a liberty: \"Welcome, Master Dombey,\"\nwould have been much more congenial to my feelings, as I am sure you\nknow. But the uncertainty attendant on angelic strangers, will, I hope,\nexcuse what must otherwise appear an unwarrantable familiarity.' Miss\nTox made a graceful bend as she spoke, in favour of Mr Dombey, which\nthat gentleman graciously acknowledged. Even the sort of recognition of\nDombey and Son, conveyed in the foregoing conversation, was so palatable\nto him, that his sister, Mrs Chick--though he affected to consider her\na weak good-natured person--had perhaps more influence over him than\nanybody else.\n\n'My dear Paul,' that lady broke out afresh, after silently contemplating\nhis features for a few moments, 'I don't know whether to laugh or cry\nwhen I look at you, I declare, you do so remind me of that dear baby\nupstairs.'\n\n'Well!' said Mrs Chick, with a sweet smile, 'after this, I forgive Fanny\neverything!'\n\nIt was a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs Chick felt that it\ndid her good. Not that she had anything particular to forgive in her\nsister-in-law, nor indeed anything at all, except her having married her\nbrother--in itself a species of audacity--and her having, in the course\nof events, given birth to a girl instead of a boy: which, as Mrs Chick\nhad frequently observed, was not quite what she had expected of her, and\nwas not a pleasant return for all the attention and distinction she had\nmet with.\n\nMr Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room at this moment, the two\nladies were left alone together. Miss Tox immediately became spasmodic.\n\n'I knew you would admire my brother. I told you so beforehand, my dear,'\nsaid Louisa. Miss Tox's hands and eyes expressed how much. 'And as to\nhis property, my dear!'\n\n'Ah!' said Miss Tox, with deep feeling.\n\n'Im-mense!'\n\n'But his deportment, my dear Louisa!' said Miss Tox. 'His presence! His\ndignity! No portrait that I have ever seen of anyone has been half\nso replete with those qualities. Something so stately, you know: so\nuncompromising: so very wide across the chest: so upright! A pecuniary\nDuke of York, my love, and nothing short of it!' said Miss Tox. 'That's\nwhat I should designate him.'\n\n'Why, my dear Paul!' exclaimed his sister, as he returned, 'you look\nquite pale! There's nothing the matter?'\n\n'I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that Fanny--'\n\n'Now, my dear Paul,' returned his sister rising, 'don't believe it. Do\nnot allow yourself to receive a turn unnecessarily. Remember of what\nimportance you are to society, and do not allow yourself to be worried\nby what is so very inconsiderately told you by people who ought to know\nbetter. Really I'm surprised at them.'\n\n'I hope I know, Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, stiffly, 'how to bear myself\nbefore the world.'\n\n'Nobody better, my dear Paul. Nobody half so well. They would be\nignorant and base indeed who doubted it.'\n\n'Ignorant and base indeed!' echoed Miss Tox softly.\n\n'But,' pursued Louisa, 'if you have any reliance on my experience, Paul,\nyou may rest assured that there is nothing wanting but an effort on\nFanny's part. And that effort,' she continued, taking off her bonnet,\nand adjusting her cap and gloves, in a business-like manner, 'she must\nbe encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to make. Now, my dear\nPaul, come upstairs with me.'\n\nMr Dombey, who, besides being generally influenced by his sister for the\nreason already mentioned, had really faith in her as an experienced\nand bustling matron, acquiesced; and followed her, at once, to the sick\nchamber.\n\nThe lady lay upon her bed as he had left her, clasping her little\ndaughter to her breast. The child clung close about her, with the same\nintensity as before, and never raised her head, or moved her soft cheek\nfrom her mother's face, or looked on those who stood around, or spoke,\nor moved, or shed a tear.\n\n'Restless without the little girl,' the Doctor whispered Mr Dombey. 'We\nfound it best to have her in again.'\n\n'Can nothing be done?' asked Mr Dombey.\n\nThe Doctor shook his head. 'We can do no more.'\n\nThe windows stood open, and the twilight was gathering without.\n\nThe scent of the restoratives that had been tried was pungent in\nthe room, but had no fragrance in the dull and languid air the lady\nbreathed.\n\nThere was such a solemn stillness round the bed; and the two medical\nattendants seemed to look on the impassive form with so much compassion\nand so little hope, that Mrs Chick was for the moment diverted from her\npurpose. But presently summoning courage, and what she called presence\nof mind, she sat down by the bedside, and said in the low precise tone\nof one who endeavours to awaken a sleeper:\n\n'Fanny! Fanny!'\n\nThere was no sound in answer but the loud ticking of Mr Dombey's watch\nand Doctor Parker Peps's watch, which seemed in the silence to be\nrunning a race.\n\n'Fanny, my dear,' said Mrs Chick, with assumed lightness, 'here's Mr\nDombey come to see you. Won't you speak to him? They want to lay your\nlittle boy--the baby, Fanny, you know; you have hardly seen him yet, I\nthink--in bed; but they can't till you rouse yourself a little. Don't\nyou think it's time you roused yourself a little? Eh?'\n\nShe bent her ear to the bed, and listened: at the same time looking\nround at the bystanders, and holding up her finger.\n\n'Eh?' she repeated, 'what was it you said, Fanny? I didn't hear you.'\n\nNo word or sound in answer. Mr Dombey's watch and Dr Parker Peps's watch\nseemed to be racing faster.\n\n'Now, really, Fanny my dear,' said the sister-in-law, altering her\nposition, and speaking less confidently, and more earnestly, in spite\nof herself, 'I shall have to be quite cross with you, if you don't rouse\nyourself. It's necessary for you to make an effort, and perhaps a very\ngreat and painful effort which you are not disposed to make; but this is\na world of effort you know, Fanny, and we must never yield, when so much\ndepends upon us. Come! Try! I must really scold you if you don't!'\n\nThe race in the ensuing pause was fierce and furious. The watches seemed\nto jostle, and to trip each other up.\n\n'Fanny!' said Louisa, glancing round, with a gathering alarm. 'Only look\nat me. Only open your eyes to show me that you hear and understand me;\nwill you? Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done!'\n\nThe two medical attendants exchanged a look across the bed; and the\nPhysician, stooping down, whispered in the child's ear. Not having\nunderstood the purport of his whisper, the little creature turned her\nperfectly colourless face and deep dark eyes towards him; but without\nloosening her hold in the least.\n\nThe whisper was repeated.\n\n'Mama!' said the child.\n\nThe little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened some show of\nconsciousness, even at that ebb. For a moment, the closed eye lids\ntrembled, and the nostril quivered, and the faintest shadow of a smile\nwas seen.\n\n'Mama!' cried the child sobbing aloud. 'Oh dear Mama! oh dear Mama!'\n\nThe Doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of the child, aside\nfrom the face and mouth of the mother. Alas how calm they lay there; how\nlittle breath there was to stir them!\n\nThus, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother\ndrifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the\nworld.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2. In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that will\nsometimes arise in the best-regulated Families.\n\n\n'I shall never cease to congratulate myself,' said Mrs Chick,' on having\nsaid, when I little thought what was in store for us,--really as if I\nwas inspired by something,--that I forgave poor dear Fanny everything.\nWhatever happens, that must always be a comfort to me!'\n\nMrs Chick made this impressive observation in the drawing-room, after\nhaving descended thither from the inspection of the mantua-makers\nupstairs, who were busy on the family mourning. She delivered it for the\nbehoof of Mr Chick, who was a stout bald gentleman, with a very large\nface, and his hands continually in his pockets, and who had a tendency\nin his nature to whistle and hum tunes, which, sensible of the indecorum\nof such sounds in a house of grief, he was at some pains to repress at\npresent.\n\n'Don't you over-exert yourself, Loo,' said Mr Chick, 'or you'll be laid\nup with spasms, I see. Right tol loor rul! Bless my soul, I forgot!\nWe're here one day and gone the next!'\n\nMrs Chick contented herself with a glance of reproof, and then proceeded\nwith the thread of her discourse.\n\n'I am sure,' she said, 'I hope this heart-rending occurrence will be a\nwarning to all of us, to accustom ourselves to rouse ourselves, and to\nmake efforts in time where they're required of us. There's a moral in\neverything, if we would only avail ourselves of it. It will be our own\nfaults if we lose sight of this one.'\n\nMr Chick invaded the grave silence which ensued on this remark with\nthe singularly inappropriate air of 'A cobbler there was;' and checking\nhimself, in some confusion, observed, that it was undoubtedly our own\nfaults if we didn't improve such melancholy occasions as the present.\n\n'Which might be better improved, I should think, Mr C.,' retorted his\nhelpmate, after a short pause, 'than by the introduction, either of\nthe college hornpipe, or the equally unmeaning and unfeeling remark of\nrump-te-iddity, bow-wow-wow!'--which Mr Chick had indeed indulged in,\nunder his breath, and which Mrs Chick repeated in a tone of withering\nscorn.\n\n'Merely habit, my dear,' pleaded Mr Chick.\n\n'Nonsense! Habit!' returned his wife. 'If you're a rational being, don't\nmake such ridiculous excuses. Habit! If I was to get a habit (as you\ncall it) of walking on the ceiling, like the flies, I should hear enough\nof it, I daresay.'\n\nIt appeared so probable that such a habit might be attended with\nsome degree of notoriety, that Mr Chick didn't venture to dispute the\nposition.\n\n'Bow-wow-wow!' repeated Mrs Chick with an emphasis of blighting\ncontempt on the last syllable. 'More like a professional singer with the\nhydrophobia, than a man in your station of life!'\n\n'How's the Baby, Loo?' asked Mr Chick: to change the subject.\n\n'What Baby do you mean?' answered Mrs Chick.\n\n'The poor bereaved little baby,' said Mr Chick. 'I don't know of any\nother, my dear.'\n\n'You don't know of any other,' retorted Mrs Chick. 'More shame for you, I\nwas going to say.'\n\nMr Chick looked astonished.\n\n'I am sure the morning I have had, with that dining-room downstairs, one\nmass of babies, no one in their senses would believe.'\n\n'One mass of babies!' repeated Mr Chick, staring with an alarmed\nexpression about him.\n\n'It would have occurred to most men,' said Mrs Chick, 'that poor dear\nFanny being no more,--those words of mine will always be a balm and\ncomfort to me,' here she dried her eyes; 'it becomes necessary to\nprovide a Nurse.'\n\n'Oh! Ah!' said Mr Chick. 'Toor-ru!--such is life, I mean. I hope you are\nsuited, my dear.'\n\n'Indeed I am not,' said Mrs Chick; 'nor likely to be, so far as I can\nsee, and in the meantime the poor child seems likely to be starved to\ndeath. Paul is so very particular--naturally so, of course, having set\nhis whole heart on this one boy--and there are so many objections to\neverybody that offers, that I don't see, myself, the least chance of an\narrangement. Meanwhile, of course, the child is--'\n\n'Going to the Devil,' said Mr Chick, thoughtfully, 'to be sure.'\n\nAdmonished, however, that he had committed himself, by the indignation\nexpressed in Mrs Chick's countenance at the idea of a Dombey going\nthere; and thinking to atone for his misconduct by a bright suggestion,\nhe added:\n\n'Couldn't something temporary be done with a teapot?'\n\nIf he had meant to bring the subject prematurely to a close, he could\nnot have done it more effectually. After looking at him for some moments\nin silent resignation, Mrs Chick said she trusted he hadn't said it in\naggravation, because that would do very little honour to his heart. She\ntrusted he hadn't said it seriously, because that would do very little\nhonour to his head. As in any case, he couldn't, however sanguine his\ndisposition, hope to offer a remark that would be a greater outrage on\nhuman nature in general, we would beg to leave the discussion at that\npoint.\n\nMrs Chick then walked majestically to the window and peeped through\nthe blind, attracted by the sound of wheels. Mr Chick, finding that his\ndestiny was, for the time, against him, said no more, and walked off.\nBut it was not always thus with Mr Chick. He was often in the\nascendant himself, and at those times punished Louisa roundly. In\ntheir matrimonial bickerings they were, upon the whole, a well-matched,\nfairly-balanced, give-and-take couple. It would have been, generally\nspeaking, very difficult to have betted on the winner. Often when Mr\nChick seemed beaten, he would suddenly make a start, turn the tables,\nclatter them about the ears of Mrs Chick, and carry all before him.\nBeing liable himself to similar unlooked for checks from Mrs Chick,\ntheir little contests usually possessed a character of uncertainty that\nwas very animating.\n\nMiss Tox had arrived on the wheels just now alluded to, and came running\ninto the room in a breathless condition.\n\n'My dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox, 'is the vacancy still unsupplied?'\n\n'You good soul, yes,' said Mrs Chick.\n\n'Then, my dear Louisa,' returned Miss Tox, 'I hope and believe--but in\none moment, my dear, I'll introduce the party.'\n\nRunning downstairs again as fast as she had run up, Miss Tox got the\nparty out of the hackney-coach, and soon returned with it under convoy.\n\nIt then appeared that she had used the word, not in its legal or\nbusiness acceptation, when it merely expresses an individual, but as\na noun of multitude, or signifying many: for Miss Tox escorted a plump\nrosy-cheeked wholesome apple-faced young woman, with an infant in her\narms; a younger woman not so plump, but apple-faced also, who led\na plump and apple-faced child in each hand; another plump and also\napple-faced boy who walked by himself; and finally, a plump and\napple-faced man, who carried in his arms another plump and apple-faced\nboy, whom he stood down on the floor, and admonished, in a husky\nwhisper, to 'kitch hold of his brother Johnny.'\n\n'My dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox, 'knowing your great anxiety, and\nwishing to relieve it, I posted off myself to the Queen Charlotte's\nRoyal Married Females,' which you had forgot, and put the question, Was\nthere anybody there that they thought would suit? No, they said there\nwas not. When they gave me that answer, I do assure you, my dear, I was\nalmost driven to despair on your account. But it did so happen, that one\nof the Royal Married Females, hearing the inquiry, reminded the matron\nof another who had gone to her own home, and who, she said, would in\nall likelihood be most satisfactory. The moment I heard this, and had\nit corroborated by the matron--excellent references and unimpeachable\ncharacter--I got the address, my dear, and posted off again.'\n\n'Like the dear good Tox, you are!' said Louisa.\n\n'Not at all,' returned Miss Tox. 'Don't say so. Arriving at the house\n(the cleanest place, my dear! You might eat your dinner off the floor),\nI found the whole family sitting at table; and feeling that no account\nof them could be half so comfortable to you and Mr Dombey as the sight\nof them all together, I brought them all away. This gentleman,' said\nMiss Tox, pointing out the apple-faced man, 'is the father. Will you\nhave the goodness to come a little forward, Sir?'\n\nThe apple-faced man having sheepishly complied with this request, stood\nchuckling and grinning in a front row.\n\n'This is his wife, of course,' said Miss Tox, singling out the young\nwoman with the baby. 'How do you do, Polly?'\n\n'I'm pretty well, I thank you, Ma'am,' said Polly.\n\nBy way of bringing her out dexterously, Miss Tox had made the inquiry\nas in condescension to an old acquaintance whom she hadn't seen for a\nfortnight or so.\n\n'I'm glad to hear it,' said Miss Tox. 'The other young woman is her\nunmarried sister who lives with them, and would take care of her\nchildren. Her name's Jemima. How do you do, Jemima?'\n\n'I'm pretty well, I thank you, Ma'am,' returned Jemima.\n\n'I'm very glad indeed to hear it,' said Miss Tox. 'I hope you'll keep\nso. Five children. Youngest six weeks. The fine little boy with the\nblister on his nose is the eldest. The blister, I believe,' said\nMiss Tox, looking round upon the family, 'is not constitutional, but\naccidental?'\n\nThe apple-faced man was understood to growl, 'Flat iron.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Miss Tox, 'did you--'\n\n'Flat iron,' he repeated.\n\n'Oh yes,' said Miss Tox. 'Yes! quite true. I forgot. The little\ncreature, in his mother's absence, smelt a warm flat iron. You're quite\nright, Sir. You were going to have the goodness to inform me, when we\narrived at the door that you were by trade a--'\n\n'Stoker,' said the man.\n\n'A choker!' said Miss Tox, quite aghast.\n\n'Stoker,' said the man. 'Steam ingine.'\n\n'Oh-h! Yes!' returned Miss Tox, looking thoughtfully at him, and seeming\nstill to have but a very imperfect understanding of his meaning.\n\n'And how do you like it, Sir?'\n\n'Which, Mum?' said the man.\n\n'That,' replied Miss Tox. 'Your trade.'\n\n'Oh! Pretty well, Mum. The ashes sometimes gets in here;' touching his\nchest: 'and makes a man speak gruff, as at the present time. But it is\nashes, Mum, not crustiness.'\n\nMiss Tox seemed to be so little enlightened by this reply, as to find\na difficulty in pursuing the subject. But Mrs Chick relieved her, by\nentering into a close private examination of Polly, her children, her\nmarriage certificate, testimonials, and so forth. Polly coming out\nunscathed from this ordeal, Mrs Chick withdrew with her report to her\nbrother's room, and as an emphatic comment on it, and corroboration of\nit, carried the two rosiest little Toodles with her. Toodle being the\nfamily name of the apple-faced family.\n\nMr Dombey had remained in his own apartment since the death of his wife,\nabsorbed in visions of the youth, education, and destination of his baby\nson. Something lay at the bottom of his cool heart, colder and heavier\nthan its ordinary load; but it was more a sense of the child's loss than\nhis own, awakening within him an almost angry sorrow. That the life\nand progress on which he built such hopes, should be endangered in the\noutset by so mean a want; that Dombey and Son should be tottering for\na nurse, was a sore humiliation. And yet in his pride and jealousy, he\nviewed with so much bitterness the thought of being dependent for the\nvery first step towards the accomplishment of his soul's desire, on a\nhired serving-woman who would be to the child, for the time, all that\neven his alliance could have made his own wife, that in every new\nrejection of a candidate he felt a secret pleasure. The time had now\ncome, however, when he could no longer be divided between these two sets\nof feelings. The less so, as there seemed to be no flaw in the title of\nPolly Toodle after his sister had set it forth, with many commendations\non the indefatigable friendship of Miss Tox.\n\n'These children look healthy,' said Mr Dombey. 'But my God, to think of\ntheir some day claiming a sort of relationship to Paul!'\n\n'But what relationship is there!' Louisa began--\n\n'Is there!' echoed Mr Dombey, who had not intended his sister to\nparticipate in the thought he had unconsciously expressed. 'Is there,\ndid you say, Louisa!'\n\n'Can there be, I mean--'\n\n'Why none,' said Mr Dombey, sternly. 'The whole world knows that, I\npresume. Grief has not made me idiotic, Louisa. Take them away, Louisa!\nLet me see this woman and her husband.'\n\nMrs Chick bore off the tender pair of Toodles, and presently returned\nwith that tougher couple whose presence her brother had commanded.\n\n'My good woman,' said Mr Dombey, turning round in his easy chair, as\none piece, and not as a man with limbs and joints, 'I understand you are\npoor, and wish to earn money by nursing the little boy, my son, who has\nbeen so prematurely deprived of what can never be replaced. I have no\nobjection to your adding to the comforts of your family by that means.\nSo far as I can tell, you seem to be a deserving object. But I must\nimpose one or two conditions on you, before you enter my house in that\ncapacity. While you are here, I must stipulate that you are always known\nas--say as Richards--an ordinary name, and convenient. Have you any\nobjection to be known as Richards? You had better consult your husband.'\n\n'Well?' said Mr Dombey, after a pretty long pause. 'What does your\nhusband say to your being called Richards?'\n\nAs the husband did nothing but chuckle and grin, and continually draw\nhis right hand across his mouth, moistening the palm, Mrs Toodle, after\nnudging him twice or thrice in vain, dropped a curtsey and replied 'that\nperhaps if she was to be called out of her name, it would be considered\nin the wages.'\n\n'Oh, of course,' said Mr Dombey. 'I desire to make it a question of\nwages, altogether. Now, Richards, if you nurse my bereaved child, I\nwish you to remember this always. You will receive a liberal stipend in\nreturn for the discharge of certain duties, in the performance of which,\nI wish you to see as little of your family as possible. When those\nduties cease to be required and rendered, and the stipend ceases to be\npaid, there is an end of all relations between us. Do you understand\nme?'\n\nMrs Toodle seemed doubtful about it; and as to Toodle himself, he had\nevidently no doubt whatever, that he was all abroad.\n\n'You have children of your own,' said Mr Dombey. 'It is not at all in\nthis bargain that you need become attached to my child, or that my child\nneed become attached to you. I don't expect or desire anything of the\nkind. Quite the reverse. When you go away from here, you will have\nconcluded what is a mere matter of bargain and sale, hiring and letting:\nand will stay away. The child will cease to remember you; and you will\ncease, if you please, to remember the child.'\n\nMrs Toodle, with a little more colour in her cheeks than she had had\nbefore, said 'she hoped she knew her place.'\n\n'I hope you do, Richards,' said Mr Dombey. 'I have no doubt you know\nit very well. Indeed it is so plain and obvious that it could hardly be\notherwise. Louisa, my dear, arrange with Richards about money, and let\nher have it when and how she pleases. Mr what's-your name, a word with\nyou, if you please!'\n\nThus arrested on the threshold as he was following his wife out of the\nroom, Toodle returned and confronted Mr Dombey alone. He was a strong,\nloose, round-shouldered, shuffling, shaggy fellow, on whom his clothes\nsat negligently: with a good deal of hair and whisker, deepened in its\nnatural tint, perhaps by smoke and coal-dust: hard knotty hands: and a\nsquare forehead, as coarse in grain as the bark of an oak. A\nthorough contrast in all respects, to Mr Dombey, who was one of those\nclose-shaved close-cut moneyed gentlemen who are glossy and crisp like\nnew bank-notes, and who seem to be artificially braced and tightened as\nby the stimulating action of golden showerbaths.\n\n'You have a son, I believe?' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Four on 'em, Sir. Four hims and a her. All alive!'\n\n'Why, it's as much as you can afford to keep them!' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'I couldn't hardly afford but one thing in the world less, Sir.'\n\n'What is that?'\n\n'To lose 'em, Sir.'\n\n'Can you read?' asked Mr Dombey.\n\n'Why, not partick'ler, Sir.'\n\n'Write?'\n\n'With chalk, Sir?'\n\n'With anything?'\n\n'I could make shift to chalk a little bit, I think, if I was put to it,'\nsaid Toodle after some reflection.\n\n'And yet,' said Mr Dombey, 'you are two or three and thirty, I suppose?'\n\n'Thereabouts, I suppose, Sir,' answered Toodle, after more reflection\n\n'Then why don't you learn?' asked Mr Dombey.\n\n'So I'm a going to, Sir. One of my little boys is a going to learn me,\nwhen he's old enough, and been to school himself.'\n\n'Well,' said Mr Dombey, after looking at him attentively, and with no\ngreat favour, as he stood gazing round the room (principally round the\nceiling) and still drawing his hand across and across his mouth. 'You\nheard what I said to your wife just now?'\n\n'Polly heerd it,' said Toodle, jerking his hat over his shoulder in the\ndirection of the door, with an air of perfect confidence in his better\nhalf. 'It's all right.'\n\n'But I ask you if you heard it. You did, I suppose, and understood it?'\npursued Mr Dombey.\n\n'I heerd it,' said Toodle, 'but I don't know as I understood it rightly\nSir, 'account of being no scholar, and the words being--ask your\npardon--rayther high. But Polly heerd it. It's all right.'\n\n'As you appear to leave everything to her,' said Mr Dombey, frustrated\nin his intention of impressing his views still more distinctly on the\nhusband, as the stronger character, 'I suppose it is of no use my saying\nanything to you.'\n\n'Not a bit,' said Toodle. 'Polly heerd it. She's awake, Sir.'\n\n'I won't detain you any longer then,' returned Mr Dombey, disappointed.\n'Where have you worked all your life?'\n\n'Mostly underground, Sir, 'till I got married. I come to the level then.\nI'm a going on one of these here railroads when they comes into full\nplay.'\n\nAs he added in one of his hoarse whispers, 'We means to bring up little\nBiler to that line,' Mr Dombey inquired haughtily who little Biler was.\n\n'The eldest on 'em, Sir,' said Toodle, with a smile. 'It ain't a common\nname. Sermuchser that when he was took to church the gen'lm'n said, it\nwam't a chris'en one, and he couldn't give it. But we always calls him\nBiler just the same. For we don't mean no harm. Not we.'\n\n'Do you mean to say, Man,' inquired Mr Dombey; looking at him with\nmarked displeasure, 'that you have called a child after a boiler?'\n\n'No, no, Sir,' returned Toodle, with a tender consideration for his\nmistake. 'I should hope not! No, Sir. Arter a BILER Sir. The Steamingine\nwas a'most as good as a godfather to him, and so we called him Biler,\ndon't you see!'\n\nAs the last straw breaks the laden camel's back, this piece of\ninformation crushed the sinking spirits of Mr Dombey. He motioned his\nchild's foster-father to the door, who departed by no means unwillingly:\nand then turning the key, paced up and down the room in solitary\nwretchedness.\n\nIt would be harsh, and perhaps not altogether true, to say of him that\nhe felt these rubs and gratings against his pride more keenly than he\nhad felt his wife's death: but certainly they impressed that event upon\nhim with new force, and communicated to it added weight and bitterness.\nIt was a rude shock to his sense of property in his child, that these\npeople--the mere dust of the earth, as he thought them--should be\nnecessary to him; and it was natural that in proportion as he felt\ndisturbed by it, he should deplore the occurrence which had made them\nso. For all his starched, impenetrable dignity and composure, he wiped\nblinding tears from his eyes as he paced up and down his room; and often\nsaid, with an emotion of which he would not, for the world, have had a\nwitness, 'Poor little fellow!'\n\nIt may have been characteristic of Mr Dombey's pride, that he pitied\nhimself through the child. Not poor me. Not poor widower, confiding by\nconstraint in the wife of an ignorant Hind who has been working 'mostly\nunderground' all his life, and yet at whose door Death had never\nknocked, and at whose poor table four sons daily sit--but poor little\nfellow!\n\nThose words being on his lips, it occurred to him--and it is an instance\nof the strong attraction with which his hopes and fears and all his\nthoughts were tending to one centre--that a great temptation was being\nplaced in this woman's way. Her infant was a boy too. Now, would it be\npossible for her to change them?\n\nThough he was soon satisfied that he had dismissed the idea as romantic\nand unlikely--though possible, there was no denying--he could not help\npursuing it so far as to entertain within himself a picture of what his\ncondition would be, if he should discover such an imposture when he was\ngrown old. Whether a man so situated would be able to pluck away the\nresult of so many years of usage, confidence, and belief, from the\nimpostor, and endow a stranger with it?\n\nBut it was idle speculating thus. It couldn't happen. In a moment\nafterwards he determined that it could, but that such women were\nconstantly observed, and had no opportunity given them for the\naccomplishment of such a design, even when they were so wicked as to\nentertain it. In another moment, he was remembering how few such cases\nseemed to have ever happened. In another moment he was wondering whether\nthey ever happened and were not found out.\n\nAs his unusual emotion subsided, these misgivings gradually melted away,\nthough so much of their shadow remained behind, that he was constant in\nhis resolution to look closely after Richards himself, without appearing\nto do so. Being now in an easier frame of mind, he regarded the woman's\nstation as rather an advantageous circumstance than otherwise, by\nplacing, in itself, a broad distance between her and the child, and\nrendering their separation easy and natural. Thence he passed to the\ncontemplation of the future glories of Dombey and Son, and dismissed the\nmemory of his wife, for the time being, with a tributary sigh or two.\n\nMeanwhile terms were ratified and agreed upon between Mrs Chick and\nRichards, with the assistance of Miss Tox; and Richards being with much\nceremony invested with the Dombey baby, as if it were an Order, resigned\nher own, with many tears and kisses, to Jemima. Glasses of wine were\nthen produced, to sustain the drooping spirits of the family; and Miss\nTox, busying herself in dispensing 'tastes' to the younger branches,\nbred them up to their father's business with such surprising expedition,\nthat she made chokers of four of them in a quarter of a minute.\n\n'You'll take a glass yourself, Sir, won't you?' said Miss Tox, as Toodle\nappeared.\n\n'Thankee, Mum,' said Toodle, 'since you are suppressing.'\n\n'And you're very glad to leave your dear good wife in such a comfortable\nhome, ain't you, Sir?' said Miss Tox, nodding and winking at him\nstealthily.\n\n'No, Mum,' said Toodle. 'Here's wishing of her back agin.'\n\nPolly cried more than ever at this. So Mrs Chick, who had her matronly\napprehensions that this indulgence in grief might be prejudicial to the\nlittle Dombey ('acid, indeed,' she whispered Miss Tox), hastened to the\nrescue.\n\n'Your little child will thrive charmingly with your sister Jemima,\nRichards,' said Mrs Chick; 'and you have only to make an effort--this is\na world of effort, you know, Richards--to be very happy indeed. You have\nbeen already measured for your mourning, haven't you, Richards?'\n\n'Ye--es, Ma'am,' sobbed Polly.\n\n'And it'll fit beautifully. I know,' said Mrs Chick, 'for the same young\nperson has made me many dresses. The very best materials, too!'\n\n'Lor, you'll be so smart,' said Miss Tox, 'that your husband won't know\nyou; will you, Sir?'\n\n'I should know her,' said Toodle, gruffly, 'anyhows and anywheres.'\n\nToodle was evidently not to be bought over.\n\n'As to living, Richards, you know,' pursued Mrs Chick, 'why, the very\nbest of everything will be at your disposal. You will order your little\ndinner every day; and anything you take a fancy to, I'm sure will be as\nreadily provided as if you were a Lady.'\n\n'Yes to be sure!' said Miss Tox, keeping up the ball with great\nsympathy. 'And as to porter!--quite unlimited, will it not, Louisa?'\n\n'Oh, certainly!' returned Mrs Chick in the same tone. 'With a little\nabstinence, you know, my dear, in point of vegetables.'\n\n'And pickles, perhaps,' suggested Miss Tox.\n\n'With such exceptions,' said Louisa, 'she'll consult her choice\nentirely, and be under no restraint at all, my love.'\n\n'And then, of course, you know,' said Miss Tox, 'however fond she is of\nher own dear little child--and I'm sure, Louisa, you don't blame her for\nbeing fond of it?'\n\n'Oh no!' cried Mrs Chick, benignantly.\n\n'Still,' resumed Miss Tox, 'she naturally must be interested in her\nyoung charge, and must consider it a privilege to see a little cherub\nconnected with the superior classes, gradually unfolding itself from day\nto day at one common fountain--is it not so, Louisa?'\n\n'Most undoubtedly!' said Mrs Chick. 'You see, my love, she's already\nquite contented and comfortable, and means to say goodbye to her sister\nJemima and her little pets, and her good honest husband, with a light\nheart and a smile; don't she, my dear?'\n\n'Oh yes!' cried Miss Tox. 'To be sure she does!'\n\nNotwithstanding which, however, poor Polly embraced them all round in\ngreat distress, and coming to her spouse at last, could not make up her\nmind to part from him, until he gently disengaged himself, at the close\nof the following allegorical piece of consolation:\n\n'Polly, old 'ooman, whatever you do, my darling, hold up your head\nand fight low. That's the only rule as I know on, that'll carry anyone\nthrough life. You always have held up your head and fought low, Polly.\nDo it now, or Bricks is no longer so. God bless you, Polly! Me and\nJ'mima will do your duty by you; and with relating to your'n, hold up\nyour head and fight low, Polly, and you can't go wrong!'\n\nFortified by this golden secret, Folly finally ran away to avoid any\nmore particular leave-taking between herself and the children. But the\nstratagem hardly succeeded as well as it deserved; for the smallest boy\nbut one divining her intent, immediately began swarming upstairs after\nher--if that word of doubtful etymology be admissible--on his arms and\nlegs; while the eldest (known in the family by the name of Biler, in\nremembrance of the steam engine) beat a demoniacal tattoo with his\nboots, expressive of grief; in which he was joined by the rest of the\nfamily.\n\nA quantity of oranges and halfpence thrust indiscriminately on each\nyoung Toodle, checked the first violence of their regret, and the\nfamily were speedily transported to their own home, by means of the\nhackney-coach kept in waiting for that purpose. The children, under the\nguardianship of Jemima, blocked up the window, and dropped out oranges\nand halfpence all the way along. Mr Toodle himself preferred to ride\nbehind among the spikes, as being the mode of conveyance to which he was\nbest accustomed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3. In which Mr Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the\nHead of the Home-Department\n\n\nThe funeral of the deceased lady having been 'performed' to the entire\nsatisfaction of the undertaker, as well as of the neighbourhood at\nlarge, which is generally disposed to be captious on such a point,\nand is prone to take offence at any omissions or short-comings in the\nceremonies, the various members of Mr Dombey's household subsided into\ntheir several places in the domestic system. That small world, like the\ngreat one out of doors, had the capacity of easily forgetting its\ndead; and when the cook had said she was a quiet-tempered lady, and the\nhouse-keeper had said it was the common lot, and the butler had said\nwho'd have thought it, and the housemaid had said she couldn't hardly\nbelieve it, and the footman had said it seemed exactly like a dream,\nthey had quite worn the subject out, and began to think their mourning\nwas wearing rusty too.\n\nOn Richards, who was established upstairs in a state of honourable\ncaptivity, the dawn of her new life seemed to break cold and grey.\nMr Dombey's house was a large one, on the shady side of a tall, dark,\ndreadfully genteel street in the region between Portland Place and\nBryanstone Square. It was a corner house, with great wide areas\ncontaining cellars frowned upon by barred windows, and leered at by\ncrooked-eyed doors leading to dustbins. It was a house of dismal state,\nwith a circular back to it, containing a whole suite of drawing-rooms\nlooking upon a gravelled yard, where two gaunt trees, with blackened\ntrunks and branches, rattled rather than rustled, their leaves were so\nsmoked-dried. The summer sun was never on the street, but in the morning\nabout breakfast-time, when it came with the water-carts and the old\nclothes men, and the people with geraniums, and the umbrella-mender, and\nthe man who trilled the little bell of the Dutch clock as he went along.\nIt was soon gone again to return no more that day; and the bands of\nmusic and the straggling Punch's shows going after it, left it a prey\nto the most dismal of organs, and white mice; with now and then a\nporcupine, to vary the entertainments; until the butlers whose families\nwere dining out, began to stand at the house-doors in the twilight, and\nthe lamp-lighter made his nightly failure in attempting to brighten up\nthe street with gas.\n\nIt was as blank a house inside as outside. When the funeral was over,\nMr Dombey ordered the furniture to be covered up--perhaps to preserve it\nfor the son with whom his plans were all associated--and the rooms to be\nungarnished, saving such as he retained for himself on the ground floor.\nAccordingly, mysterious shapes were made of tables and chairs,\nheaped together in the middle of rooms, and covered over with great\nwinding-sheets. Bell-handles, window-blinds, and looking-glasses, being\npapered up in journals, daily and weekly, obtruded fragmentary accounts\nof deaths and dreadful murders. Every chandelier or lustre, muffled in\nholland, looked like a monstrous tear depending from the ceiling's eye.\nOdours, as from vaults and damp places, came out of the chimneys. The\ndead and buried lady was awful in a picture-frame of ghastly bandages.\nEvery gust of wind that rose, brought eddying round the corner from\nthe neighbouring mews, some fragments of the straw that had been strewn\nbefore the house when she was ill, mildewed remains of which were still\ncleaving to the neighbourhood: and these, being always drawn by\nsome invisible attraction to the threshold of the dirty house to let\nimmediately opposite, addressed a dismal eloquence to Mr Dombey's\nwindows.\n\nThe apartments which Mr Dombey reserved for his own inhabiting, were\nattainable from the hall, and consisted of a sitting-room; a library,\nwhich was in fact a dressing-room, so that the smell of hot-pressed\npaper, vellum, morocco, and Russia leather, contended in it with the\nsmell of divers pairs of boots; and a kind of conservatory or little\nglass breakfast-room beyond, commanding a prospect of the trees before\nmentioned, and, generally speaking, of a few prowling cats. These three\nrooms opened upon one another. In the morning, when Mr Dombey was at his\nbreakfast in one or other of the two first-mentioned of them, as well\nas in the afternoon when he came home to dinner, a bell was rung for\nRichards to repair to this glass chamber, and there walk to and fro with\nher young charge. From the glimpses she caught of Mr Dombey at these\ntimes, sitting in the dark distance, looking out towards the infant from\namong the dark heavy furniture--the house had been inhabited for years\nby his father, and in many of its appointments was old-fashioned and\ngrim--she began to entertain ideas of him in his solitary state, as if\nhe were a lone prisoner in a cell, or a strange apparition that was not\nto be accosted or understood. Mr Dombey came to be, in the course of a\nfew days, invested in his own person, to her simple thinking, with all\nthe mystery and gloom of his house. As she walked up and down the glass\nroom, or sat hushing the baby there--which she very often did for hours\ntogether, when the dusk was closing in, too--she would sometimes try to\npierce the gloom beyond, and make out how he was looking and what he\nwas doing. Sensible that she was plainly to be seen by him, however, she\nnever dared to pry in that direction but very furtively and for a moment\nat a time. Consequently she made out nothing, and Mr Dombey in his den\nremained a very shade.\n\nLittle Paul Dombey's foster-mother had led this life herself, and had\ncarried little Paul through it for some weeks; and had returned upstairs\none day from a melancholy saunter through the dreary rooms of state (she\nnever went out without Mrs Chick, who called on fine mornings, usually\naccompanied by Miss Tox, to take her and Baby for an airing--or in other\nwords, to march them gravely up and down the pavement, like a walking\nfuneral); when, as she was sitting in her own room, the door was slowly\nand quietly opened, and a dark-eyed little girl looked in.\n\n'It's Miss Florence come home from her aunt's, no doubt,' thought\nRichards, who had never seen the child before. 'Hope I see you well,\nMiss.'\n\n'Is that my brother?' asked the child, pointing to the Baby.\n\n'Yes, my pretty,' answered Richards. 'Come and kiss him.'\n\nBut the child, instead of advancing, looked her earnestly in the face,\nand said:\n\n'What have you done with my Mama?'\n\n'Lord bless the little creeter!' cried Richards, 'what a sad question! I\ndone? Nothing, Miss.'\n\n'What have they done with my Mama?' inquired the child, with exactly the\nsame look and manner.\n\n'I never saw such a melting thing in all my life!' said Richards, who\nnaturally substituted for this child one of her own, inquiring for\nherself in like circumstances. 'Come nearer here, my dear Miss! Don't be\nafraid of me.'\n\n'I am not afraid of you,' said the child, drawing nearer. 'But I want to\nknow what they have done with my Mama.'\n\nHer heart swelled so as she stood before the woman, looking into her\neyes, that she was fain to press her little hand upon her breast and\nhold it there. Yet there was a purpose in the child that prevented both\nher slender figure and her searching gaze from faltering.\n\n'My darling,' said Richards, 'you wear that pretty black frock in\nremembrance of your Mama.'\n\n'I can remember my Mama,' returned the child, with tears springing to\nher eyes, 'in any frock.'\n\n'But people put on black, to remember people when they're gone.'\n\n'Where gone?' asked the child.\n\n'Come and sit down by me,' said Richards, 'and I'll tell you a story.'\n\nWith a quick perception that it was intended to relate to what she had\nasked, little Florence laid aside the bonnet she had held in her hand\nuntil now, and sat down on a stool at the Nurse's feet, looking up into\nher face.\n\n'Once upon a time,' said Richards, 'there was a lady--a very good lady,\nand her little daughter dearly loved her.'\n\n'A very good lady and her little daughter dearly loved her,' repeated\nthe child.\n\n'Who, when God thought it right that it should be so, was taken ill and\ndied.'\n\nThe child shuddered.\n\n'Died, never to be seen again by anyone on earth, and was buried in the\nground where the trees grow.'\n\n'The cold ground?' said the child, shuddering again.\n\n'No! The warm ground,' returned Polly, seizing her advantage, 'where the\nugly little seeds turn into beautiful flowers, and into grass, and corn,\nand I don't know what all besides. Where good people turn into bright\nangels, and fly away to Heaven!'\n\nThe child, who had dropped her head, raised it again, and sat looking at\nher intently.\n\n'So; let me see,' said Polly, not a little flurried between this earnest\nscrutiny, her desire to comfort the child, her sudden success, and her\nvery slight confidence in her own powers. 'So, when this lady died,\nwherever they took her, or wherever they put her, she went to GOD! and\nshe prayed to Him, this lady did,' said Polly, affecting herself beyond\nmeasure; being heartily in earnest, 'to teach her little daughter to\nbe sure of that in her heart: and to know that she was happy there and\nloved her still: and to hope and try--Oh, all her life--to meet her\nthere one day, never, never, never to part any more.'\n\n'It was my Mama!' exclaimed the child, springing up, and clasping her\nround the neck.\n\n'And the child's heart,' said Polly, drawing her to her breast: 'the\nlittle daughter's heart was so full of the truth of this, that even when\nshe heard it from a strange nurse that couldn't tell it right, but was a\npoor mother herself and that was all, she found a comfort in it--didn't\nfeel so lonely--sobbed and cried upon her bosom--took kindly to the baby\nlying in her lap--and--there, there, there!' said Polly, smoothing the\nchild's curls and dropping tears upon them. 'There, poor dear!'\n\n'Oh well, Miss Floy! And won't your Pa be angry neither!' cried a quick\nvoice at the door, proceeding from a short, brown, womanly girl of\nfourteen, with a little snub nose, and black eyes like jet beads. 'When\nit was 'tickerlerly given out that you wasn't to go and worrit the wet\nnurse.'\n\n'She don't worry me,' was the surprised rejoinder of Polly. 'I am very\nfond of children.'\n\n'Oh! but begging your pardon, Mrs Richards, that don't matter, you\nknow,' returned the black-eyed girl, who was so desperately sharp and\nbiting that she seemed to make one's eyes water. 'I may be very fond of\npennywinkles, Mrs Richards, but it don't follow that I'm to have 'em for\ntea.'\n\n'Well, it don't matter,' said Polly.\n\n'Oh, thank'ee, Mrs Richards, don't it!' returned the sharp girl.\n'Remembering, however, if you'll be so good, that Miss Floy's under my\ncharge, and Master Paul's under your'n.'\n\n'But still we needn't quarrel,' said Polly.\n\n'Oh no, Mrs Richards,' rejoined Spitfire. 'Not at all, I don't wish it,\nwe needn't stand upon that footing, Miss Floy being a permanency, Master\nPaul a temporary.' Spitfire made use of none but comma pauses; shooting\nout whatever she had to say in one sentence, and in one breath, if\npossible.\n\n'Miss Florence has just come home, hasn't she?' asked Polly.\n\n'Yes, Mrs Richards, just come, and here, Miss Floy, before you've been\nin the house a quarter of an hour, you go a smearing your wet face\nagainst the expensive mourning that Mrs Richards is a wearing for your\nMa!' With this remonstrance, young Spitfire, whose real name was Susan\nNipper, detached the child from her new friend by a wrench--as if she\nwere a tooth. But she seemed to do it, more in the excessively sharp\nexercise of her official functions, than with any deliberate unkindness.\n\n'She'll be quite happy, now she has come home again,' said Polly,\nnodding to her with an encouraging smile upon her wholesome face, 'and\nwill be so pleased to see her dear Papa to-night.'\n\n'Lork, Mrs Richards!' cried Miss Nipper, taking up her words with a\njerk. 'Don't. See her dear Papa indeed! I should like to see her do it!'\n\n'Won't she then?' asked Polly.\n\n'Lork, Mrs Richards, no, her Pa's a deal too wrapped up in somebody\nelse, and before there was a somebody else to be wrapped up in she never\nwas a favourite, girls are thrown away in this house, Mrs Richards, I\nassure you.'\n\nThe child looked quickly from one nurse to the other, as if she\nunderstood and felt what was said.\n\n'You surprise me!' cried Folly. 'Hasn't Mr Dombey seen her since--'\n\n'No,' interrupted Susan Nipper. 'Not once since, and he hadn't hardly\nset his eyes upon her before that for months and months, and I don't\nthink he'd have known her for his own child if he had met her in the\nstreets, or would know her for his own child if he was to meet her in\nthe streets to-morrow, Mrs Richards, as to me,' said Spitfire, with a\ngiggle, 'I doubt if he's aweer of my existence.'\n\n'Pretty dear!' said Richards; meaning, not Miss Nipper, but the little\nFlorence.\n\n'Oh! there's a Tartar within a hundred miles of where we're now in\nconversation, I can tell you, Mrs Richards, present company always\nexcepted too,' said Susan Nipper; 'wish you good morning, Mrs Richards,\nnow Miss Floy, you come along with me, and don't go hanging back like a\nnaughty wicked child that judgments is no example to, don't!'\n\nIn spite of being thus adjured, and in spite also of some hauling on\nthe part of Susan Nipper, tending towards the dislocation of her\nright shoulder, little Florence broke away, and kissed her new friend,\naffectionately.\n\n'Oh dear! after it was given out so 'tickerlerly, that Mrs Richards\nwasn't to be made free with!' exclaimed Susan. 'Very well, Miss Floy!'\n\n'God bless the sweet thing!' said Richards, 'Good-bye, dear!'\n\n'Good-bye!' returned the child. 'God bless you! I shall come to see you\nagain soon, and you'll come to see me? Susan will let us. Won't you,\nSusan?'\n\nSpitfire seemed to be in the main a good-natured little body, although\na disciple of that school of trainers of the young idea which holds that\nchildhood, like money, must be shaken and rattled and jostled about\na good deal to keep it bright. For, being thus appealed to with some\nendearing gestures and caresses, she folded her small arms and shook her\nhead, and conveyed a relenting expression into her very-wide-open black\neyes.\n\n'It ain't right of you to ask it, Miss Floy, for you know I can't refuse\nyou, but Mrs Richards and me will see what can be done, if Mrs Richards\nlikes, I may wish, you see, to take a voyage to Chaney, Mrs Richards,\nbut I mayn't know how to leave the London Docks.'\n\nRichards assented to the proposition.\n\n'This house ain't so exactly ringing with merry-making,' said Miss\nNipper, 'that one need be lonelier than one must be. Your Toxes and\nyour Chickses may draw out my two front double teeth, Mrs Richards, but\nthat's no reason why I need offer 'em the whole set.'\n\nThis proposition was also assented to by Richards, as an obvious one.\n\n'So I'm agreeable, I'm sure,' said Susan Nipper, 'to live friendly, Mrs\nRichards, while Master Paul continues a permanency, if the means can be\nplanned out without going openly against orders, but goodness gracious\nMiss Floy, you haven't got your things off yet, you naughty child, you\nhaven't, come along!'\n\nWith these words, Susan Nipper, in a transport of coercion, made a\ncharge at her young ward, and swept her out of the room.\n\nThe child, in her grief and neglect, was so gentle, so quiet, and\nuncomplaining; was possessed of so much affection that no one seemed to\ncare to have, and so much sorrowful intelligence that no one seemed to\nmind or think about the wounding of, that Polly's heart was sore when\nshe was left alone again. In the simple passage that had taken place\nbetween herself and the motherless little girl, her own motherly heart\nhad been touched no less than the child's; and she felt, as the child\ndid, that there was something of confidence and interest between them\nfrom that moment.\n\nNotwithstanding Mr Toodle's great reliance on Polly, she was perhaps in\npoint of artificial accomplishments very little his superior. She had\nbeen good-humouredly working and drudging for her life all her life,\nand was a sober steady-going person, with matter-of-fact ideas about the\nbutcher and baker, and the division of pence into farthings. But she\nwas a good plain sample of a nature that is ever, in the mass, better,\ntruer, higher, nobler, quicker to feel, and much more constant to\nretain, all tenderness and pity, self-denial and devotion, than the\nnature of men. And, perhaps, unlearned as she was, she could have\nbrought a dawning knowledge home to Mr Dombey at that early day, which\nwould not then have struck him in the end like lightning.\n\nBut this is from the purpose. Polly only thought, at that time, of\nimproving on her successful propitiation of Miss Nipper, and devising\nsome means of having little Florence aide her, lawfully, and without\nrebellion. An opening happened to present itself that very night.\n\nShe had been rung down into the glass room as usual, and had walked\nabout and about it a long time, with the baby in her arms, when, to her\ngreat surprise and dismay, Mr Dombey--whom she had seen at first leaning\non his elbow at the table, and afterwards walking up and down the middle\nroom, drawing, each time, a little nearer, she thought, to the open\nfolding doors--came out, suddenly, and stopped before her.\n\n'Good evening, Richards.'\n\nJust the same austere, stiff gentleman, as he had appeared to her on\nthat first day. Such a hard-looking gentleman, that she involuntarily\ndropped her eyes and her curtsey at the same time.\n\n'How is Master Paul, Richards?'\n\n'Quite thriving, Sir, and well.'\n\n'He looks so,' said Mr Dombey, glancing with great interest at the tiny\nface she uncovered for his observation, and yet affecting to be half\ncareless of it. 'They give you everything you want, I hope?'\n\n'Oh yes, thank you, Sir.'\n\nShe suddenly appended such an obvious hesitation to this reply, however,\nthat Mr Dombey, who had turned away; stopped, and turned round again,\ninquiringly.\n\n'If you please, Sir, the child is very much disposed to take notice of\nthings,' said Richards, with another curtsey, 'and--upstairs is a little\ndull for him, perhaps, Sir.'\n\n'I begged them to take you out for airings, constantly,' said Mr Dombey.\n'Very well! You shall go out oftener. You're quite right to mention it.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' faltered Polly, 'but we go out quite plenty\nSir, thank you.'\n\n'What would you have then?' asked Mr Dombey.\n\n'Indeed Sir, I don't exactly know,' said Polly, 'unless--'\n\n'Yes?'\n\n'I believe nothing is so good for making children lively and cheerful,\nSir, as seeing other children playing about 'em,' observed Polly, taking\ncourage.\n\n'I think I mentioned to you, Richards, when you came here,' said Mr\nDombey, with a frown, 'that I wished you to see as little of your family\nas possible.'\n\n'Oh dear yes, Sir, I wasn't so much as thinking of that.'\n\n'I am glad of it,' said Mr Dombey hastily. 'You can continue your walk\nif you please.'\n\nWith that, he disappeared into his inner room; and Polly had the\nsatisfaction of feeling that he had thoroughly misunderstood her object,\nand that she had fallen into disgrace without the least advancement of\nher purpose.\n\nNext night, she found him walking about the conservatory when she came\ndown. As she stopped at the door, checked by this unusual sight, and\nuncertain whether to advance or retreat, he called her in. His mind was\ntoo much set on Dombey and Son, it soon appeared, to admit of his having\nforgotten her suggestion.\n\n'If you really think that sort of society is good for the child,' he\nsaid sharply, as if there had been no interval since she proposed it,\n'where's Miss Florence?'\n\n'Nothing could be better than Miss Florence, Sir,' said Polly eagerly,\n'but I understood from her maid that they were not to--'\n\nMr Dombey rang the bell, and walked till it was answered.\n\n'Tell them always to let Miss Florence be with Richards when she\nchooses, and go out with her, and so forth. Tell them to let the\nchildren be together, when Richards wishes it.'\n\nThe iron was now hot, and Richards striking on it boldly--it was a\ngood cause and she bold in it, though instinctively afraid of Mr\nDombey--requested that Miss Florence might be sent down then and there,\nto make friends with her little brother.\n\nShe feigned to be dandling the child as the servant retired on this\nerrand, but she thought that she saw Mr Dombey's colour changed; that\nthe expression of his face quite altered; that he turned, hurriedly, as\nif to gainsay what he had said, or she had said, or both, and was only\ndeterred by very shame.\n\nAnd she was right. The last time he had seen his slighted child, there\nhad been that in the sad embrace between her and her dying mother, which\nwas at once a revelation and a reproach to him. Let him be absorbed\nas he would in the Son on whom he built such high hopes, he could not\nforget that closing scene. He could not forget that he had had no part\nin it. That, at the bottom of its clear depths of tenderness and truth\nlay those two figures clasped in each other's arms, while he stood on\nthe bank above them, looking down a mere spectator--not a sharer with\nthem--quite shut out.\n\nUnable to exclude these things from his remembrance, or to keep his\nmind free from such imperfect shapes of the meaning with which they were\nfraught, as were able to make themselves visible to him through the\nmist of his pride, his previous feeling of indifference towards little\nFlorence changed into an uneasiness of an extraordinary kind. Young as\nshe was, and possessing in any eyes but his (and perhaps in his too)\neven more than the usual amount of childish simplicity and confidence,\nhe almost felt as if she watched and distrusted him. As if she held the\nclue to something secret in his breast, of the nature of which he\nwas hardly informed himself. As if she had an innate knowledge of one\njarring and discordant string within him, and her very breath could\nsound it.\n\nHis feeling about the child had been negative from her birth. He had\nnever conceived an aversion to her: it had not been worth his while or\nin his humour. She had never been a positively disagreeable object to\nhim. But now he was ill at ease about her. She troubled his peace. He\nwould have preferred to put her idea aside altogether, if he had known\nhow. Perhaps--who shall decide on such mysteries!--he was afraid that he\nmight come to hate her.\n\nWhen little Florence timidly presented herself, Mr Dombey stopped in his\npacing up and down and looked towards her. Had he looked with greater\ninterest and with a father's eye, he might have read in her keen glance\nthe impulses and fears that made her waver; the passionate desire to run\nclinging to him, crying, as she hid her face in his embrace, 'Oh father,\ntry to love me! there's no one else!' the dread of a repulse; the fear\nof being too bold, and of offending him; the pitiable need in which she\nstood of some assurance and encouragement; and how her overcharged young\nheart was wandering to find some natural resting-place, for its sorrow\nand affection.\n\nBut he saw nothing of this. He saw her pause irresolutely at the door\nand look towards him; and he saw no more.\n\n'Come in,' he said, 'come in: what is the child afraid of?'\n\nShe came in; and after glancing round her for a moment with an uncertain\nair, stood pressing her small hands hard together, close within the\ndoor.\n\n'Come here, Florence,' said her father, coldly. 'Do you know who I am?'\n\n'Yes, Papa.'\n\n'Have you nothing to say to me?'\n\nThe tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his face,\nwere frozen by the expression it wore. She looked down again, and put\nout her trembling hand.\n\nMr Dombey took it loosely in his own, and stood looking down upon her\nfor a moment, as if he knew as little as the child, what to say or do.\n\n'There! Be a good girl,' he said, patting her on the head, and regarding\nher as it were by stealth with a disturbed and doubtful look. 'Go to\nRichards! Go!'\n\nHis little daughter hesitated for another instant as though she would\nhave clung about him still, or had some lingering hope that he might\nraise her in his arms and kiss her. She looked up in his face once more.\nHe thought how like her expression was then, to what it had been when\nshe looked round at the Doctor--that night--and instinctively dropped\nher hand and turned away.\n\nIt was not difficult to perceive that Florence was at a great\ndisadvantage in her father's presence. It was not only a constraint upon\nthe child's mind, but even upon the natural grace and freedom of her\nactions. As she sported and played about her baby brother that night,\nher manner was seldom so winning and so pretty as it naturally was,\nand sometimes when in his pacing to and fro, he came near her (she had,\nperhaps, for the moment, forgotten him) it changed upon the instant and\nbecame forced and embarrassed.\n\nStill, Polly persevered with all the better heart for seeing this; and,\njudging of Mr Dombey by herself, had great confidence in the mute appeal\nof poor little Florence's mourning dress. 'It's hard indeed,' thought\nPolly, 'if he takes only to one little motherless child, when he has\nanother, and that a girl, before his eyes.'\n\nSo, Polly kept her before his eyes, as long as she could, and managed\nso well with little Paul, as to make it very plain that he was all the\nlivelier for his sister's company. When it was time to withdraw\nupstairs again, she would have sent Florence into the inner room to say\ngood-night to her father, but the child was timid and drew back; and\nwhen she urged her again, said, spreading her hands before her eyes, as\nif to shut out her own unworthiness, 'Oh no, no! He don't want me. He\ndon't want me!'\n\nThe little altercation between them had attracted the notice of Mr\nDombey, who inquired from the table where he was sitting at his wine,\nwhat the matter was.\n\n'Miss Florence was afraid of interrupting, Sir, if she came in to say\ngood-night,' said Richards.\n\n'It doesn't matter,' returned Mr Dombey. 'You can let her come and go\nwithout regarding me.'\n\nThe child shrunk as she listened--and was gone, before her humble friend\nlooked round again.\n\nHowever, Polly triumphed not a little in the success of her\nwell-intentioned scheme, and in the address with which she had brought\nit to bear: whereof she made a full disclosure to Spitfire when she was\nonce more safely entrenched upstairs. Miss Nipper received that proof\nof her confidence, as well as the prospect of their free association\nfor the future, rather coldly, and was anything but enthusiastic in her\ndemonstrations of joy.\n\n'I thought you would have been pleased,' said Polly.\n\n'Oh yes, Mrs Richards, I'm very well pleased, thank you,' returned\nSusan, who had suddenly become so very upright that she seemed to have\nput an additional bone in her stays.\n\n'You don't show it,' said Polly.\n\n'Oh! Being only a permanency I couldn't be expected to show it like a\ntemporary,' said Susan Nipper. 'Temporaries carries it all before 'em\nhere, I find, but though there's a excellent party-wall between this\nhouse and the next, I mayn't exactly like to go to it, Mrs Richards,\nnotwithstanding!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4. In which some more First Appearances are made on the Stage of\nthese Adventures\n\n\nThough the offices of Dombey and Son were within the liberties of the\nCity of London, and within hearing of Bow Bells, when their clashing\nvoices were not drowned by the uproar in the streets, yet were there\nhints of adventurous and romantic story to be observed in some of the\nadjacent objects. Gog and Magog held their state within ten minutes'\nwalk; the Royal Exchange was close at hand; the Bank of England, with\nits vaults of gold and silver 'down among the dead men' underground, was\ntheir magnificent neighbour. Just round the corner stood the rich East\nIndia House, teeming with suggestions of precious stuffs and stones,\ntigers, elephants, howdahs, hookahs, umbrellas, palm trees, palanquins,\nand gorgeous princes of a brown complexion sitting on carpets, with\ntheir slippers very much turned up at the toes. Anywhere in the\nimmediate vicinity there might be seen pictures of ships speeding away\nfull sail to all parts of the world; outfitting warehouses ready to pack\noff anybody anywhere, fully equipped in half an hour; and little timber\nmidshipmen in obsolete naval uniforms, eternally employed outside the\nshop doors of nautical Instrument-makers in taking observations of the\nhackney carriages.\n\nSole master and proprietor of one of these effigies--of that which might\nbe called, familiarly, the woodenest--of that which thrust itself\nout above the pavement, right leg foremost, with a suavity the least\nendurable, and had the shoe buckles and flapped waistcoat the least\nreconcileable to human reason, and bore at its right eye the most\noffensively disproportionate piece of machinery--sole master and\nproprietor of that Midshipman, and proud of him too, an elderly\ngentleman in a Welsh wig had paid house-rent, taxes, rates, and dues,\nfor more years than many a full-grown midshipman of flesh and blood has\nnumbered in his life; and midshipmen who have attained a pretty green\nold age, have not been wanting in the English Navy.\n\nThe stock-in-trade of this old gentleman comprised chronometers,\nbarometers, telescopes, compasses, charts, maps, sextants, quadrants,\nand specimens of every kind of instrument used in the working of a\nship's course, or the keeping of a ship's reckoning, or the prosecuting\nof a ship's discoveries. Objects in brass and glass were in his drawers\nand on his shelves, which none but the initiated could have found the\ntop of, or guessed the use of, or having once examined, could have ever\ngot back again into their mahogany nests without assistance. Everything\nwas jammed into the tightest cases, fitted into the narrowest corners,\nfenced up behind the most impertinent cushions, and screwed into the\nacutest angles, to prevent its philosophical composure from being\ndisturbed by the rolling of the sea. Such extraordinary precautions were\ntaken in every instance to save room, and keep the thing compact; and\nso much practical navigation was fitted, and cushioned, and screwed into\nevery box (whether the box was a mere slab, as some were, or something\nbetween a cocked hat and a star-fish, as others were, and those quite\nmild and modest boxes as compared with others); that the shop itself,\npartaking of the general infection, seemed almost to become a snug,\nsea-going, ship-shape concern, wanting only good sea-room, in the event\nof an unexpected launch, to work its way securely to any desert island\nin the world.\n\nMany minor incidents in the household life of the Ships'\nInstrument-maker who was proud of his little Midshipman, assisted and\nbore out this fancy. His acquaintance lying chiefly among ship-chandlers\nand so forth, he had always plenty of the veritable ships' biscuit on\nhis table. It was familiar with dried meats and tongues, possessing an\nextraordinary flavour of rope yarn. Pickles were produced upon it, in\ngreat wholesale jars, with 'dealer in all kinds of Ships' Provisions' on\nthe label; spirits were set forth in case bottles with no throats. Old\nprints of ships with alphabetical references to their various mysteries,\nhung in frames upon the walls; the Tartar Frigate under weigh, was\non the plates; outlandish shells, seaweeds, and mosses, decorated the\nchimney-piece; the little wainscotted back parlour was lighted by a\nsky-light, like a cabin.\n\nHere he lived too, in skipper-like state, all alone with his nephew\nWalter: a boy of fourteen who looked quite enough like a midshipman,\nto carry out the prevailing idea. But there it ended, for Solomon Gills\nhimself (more generally called old Sol) was far from having a maritime\nappearance. To say nothing of his Welsh wig, which was as plain and\nstubborn a Welsh wig as ever was worn, and in which he looked like\nanything but a Rover, he was a slow, quiet-spoken, thoughtful old\nfellow, with eyes as red as if they had been small suns looking at\nyou through a fog; and a newly-awakened manner, such as he might have\nacquired by having stared for three or four days successively through\nevery optical instrument in his shop, and suddenly came back to the\nworld again, to find it green. The only change ever known in his outward\nman, was from a complete suit of coffee-colour cut very square, and\nornamented with glaring buttons, to the same suit of coffee-colour minus\nthe inexpressibles, which were then of a pale nankeen. He wore a very\nprecise shirt-frill, and carried a pair of first-rate spectacles on his\nforehead, and a tremendous chronometer in his fob, rather than doubt\nwhich precious possession, he would have believed in a conspiracy\nagainst it on part of all the clocks and watches in the City, and even\nof the very Sun itself. Such as he was, such he had been in the shop\nand parlour behind the little Midshipman, for years upon years; going\nregularly aloft to bed every night in a howling garret remote from the\nlodgers, where, when gentlemen of England who lived below at ease had\nlittle or no idea of the state of the weather, it often blew great guns.\n\nIt is half-past five o'clock, and an autumn afternoon, when the reader\nand Solomon Gills become acquainted. Solomon Gills is in the act of\nseeing what time it is by the unimpeachable chronometer. The usual daily\nclearance has been making in the City for an hour or more; and the human\ntide is still rolling westward. 'The streets have thinned,' as Mr\nGills says, 'very much.' It threatens to be wet to-night. All the\nweatherglasses in the shop are in low spirits, and the rain already\nshines upon the cocked hat of the wooden Midshipman.\n\n'Where's Walter, I wonder!' said Solomon Gills, after he had carefully\nput up the chronometer again. 'Here's dinner been ready, half an hour,\nand no Walter!'\n\nTurning round upon his stool behind the counter, Mr Gills looked out\namong the instruments in the window, to see if his nephew might be\ncrossing the road. No. He was not among the bobbing umbrellas, and he\ncertainly was not the newspaper boy in the oilskin cap who was slowly\nworking his way along the piece of brass outside, writing his name over\nMr Gills's name with his forefinger.\n\n'If I didn't know he was too fond of me to make a run of it, and go\nand enter himself aboard ship against my wishes, I should begin to be\nfidgetty,' said Mr Gills, tapping two or three weather-glasses with\nhis knuckles. 'I really should. All in the Downs, eh! Lots of moisture!\nWell! it's wanted.'\n\n'I believe,' said Mr Gills, blowing the dust off the glass top of a\ncompass-case, 'that you don't point more direct and due to the back\nparlour than the boy's inclination does after all. And the parlour\ncouldn't bear straighter either. Due north. Not the twentieth part of a\npoint either way.'\n\n'Halloa, Uncle Sol!'\n\n'Halloa, my boy!' cried the Instrument-maker, turning briskly round.\n'What! you are here, are you?'\n\nA cheerful looking, merry boy, fresh with running home in the rain;\nfair-faced, bright-eyed, and curly-haired.\n\n'Well, Uncle, how have you got on without me all day? Is dinner ready?\nI'm so hungry.'\n\n'As to getting on,' said Solomon good-naturedly, 'it would be odd if I\ncouldn't get on without a young dog like you a great deal better than\nwith you. As to dinner being ready, it's been ready this half hour and\nwaiting for you. As to being hungry, I am!'\n\n'Come along then, Uncle!' cried the boy. 'Hurrah for the admiral!'\n\n'Confound the admiral!' returned Solomon Gills. 'You mean the Lord\nMayor.'\n\n'No I don't!' cried the boy. 'Hurrah for the admiral! Hurrah for the\nadmiral! For-ward!'\n\nAt this word of command, the Welsh wig and its wearer were borne without\nresistance into the back parlour, as at the head of a boarding party of\nfive hundred men; and Uncle Sol and his nephew were speedily engaged on\na fried sole with a prospect of steak to follow.\n\n'The Lord Mayor, Wally,' said Solomon, 'for ever! No more admirals. The\nLord Mayor's your admiral.'\n\n'Oh, is he though!' said the boy, shaking his head. 'Why, the Sword\nBearer's better than him. He draws his sword sometimes.'\n\n'And a pretty figure he cuts with it for his pains,' returned the Uncle.\n'Listen to me, Wally, listen to me. Look on the mantelshelf.'\n\n'Why who has cocked my silver mug up there, on a nail?' exclaimed the\nboy.\n\n'I have,' said his Uncle. 'No more mugs now. We must begin to drink out\nof glasses to-day, Walter. We are men of business. We belong to the\nCity. We started in life this morning.'\n\n'Well, Uncle,' said the boy, 'I'll drink out of anything you like, so\nlong as I can drink to you. Here's to you, Uncle Sol, and Hurrah for\nthe--'\n\n'Lord Mayor,' interrupted the old man.\n\n'For the Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, Common Council, and Livery,' said the\nboy. 'Long life to 'em!'\n\nThe uncle nodded his head with great satisfaction. 'And now,' he said,\n'let's hear something about the Firm.'\n\n'Oh! there's not much to be told about the Firm, Uncle,' said the boy,\nplying his knife and fork. 'It's a precious dark set of offices, and in\nthe room where I sit, there's a high fender, and an iron safe, and some\ncards about ships that are going to sail, and an almanack, and some\ndesks and stools, and an inkbottle, and some books, and some boxes, and\na lot of cobwebs, and in one of 'em, just over my head, a shrivelled-up\nblue-bottle that looks as if it had hung there ever so long.'\n\n'Nothing else?' said the Uncle.\n\n'No, nothing else, except an old birdcage (I wonder how that ever came\nthere!) and a coal-scuttle.'\n\n'No bankers' books, or cheque books, or bills, or such tokens of wealth\nrolling in from day to day?' said old Sol, looking wistfully at his\nnephew out of the fog that always seemed to hang about him, and laying\nan unctuous emphasis upon the words.\n\n'Oh yes, plenty of that I suppose,' returned his nephew carelessly;\n'but all that sort of thing's in Mr Carker's room, or Mr Morfin's, or Mr\nDombey's.'\n\n'Has Mr Dombey been there to-day?' inquired the Uncle.\n\n'Oh yes! In and out all day.'\n\n'He didn't take any notice of you, I suppose?'.\n\n'Yes he did. He walked up to my seat,--I wish he wasn't so solemn and\nstiff, Uncle,--and said, \"Oh! you are the son of Mr Gills the Ships'\nInstrument-maker.\" \"Nephew, Sir,\" I said. \"I said nephew, boy,\" said he.\nBut I could take my oath he said son, Uncle.'\n\n'You're mistaken I daresay. It's no matter.'\n\n'No, it's no matter, but he needn't have been so sharp, I thought. There\nwas no harm in it though he did say son. Then he told me that you had\nspoken to him about me, and that he had found me employment in the House\naccordingly, and that I was expected to be attentive and punctual, and\nthen he went away. I thought he didn't seem to like me much.'\n\n'You mean, I suppose,' observed the Instrument-maker, 'that you didn't\nseem to like him much?'\n\n'Well, Uncle,' returned the boy, laughing. 'Perhaps so; I never thought\nof that.'\n\nSolomon looked a little graver as he finished his dinner, and glanced\nfrom time to time at the boy's bright face. When dinner was done, and\nthe cloth was cleared away (the entertainment had been brought from a\nneighbouring eating-house), he lighted a candle, and went down\nbelow into a little cellar, while his nephew, standing on the mouldy\nstaircase, dutifully held the light. After a moment's groping here and\nthere, he presently returned with a very ancient-looking bottle, covered\nwith dust and dirt.\n\n'Why, Uncle Sol!' said the boy, 'what are you about? that's the\nwonderful Madeira!--there's only one more bottle!'\n\nUncle Sol nodded his head, implying that he knew very well what he was\nabout; and having drawn the cork in solemn silence, filled two glasses\nand set the bottle and a third clean glass on the table.\n\n'You shall drink the other bottle, Wally,' he said, 'when you come to\ngood fortune; when you are a thriving, respected, happy man; when the\nstart in life you have made to-day shall have brought you, as I pray\nHeaven it may!--to a smooth part of the course you have to run, my\nchild. My love to you!'\n\nSome of the fog that hung about old Sol seemed to have got into his\nthroat; for he spoke huskily. His hand shook too, as he clinked his\nglass against his nephew's. But having once got the wine to his lips, he\ntossed it off like a man, and smacked them afterwards.\n\n'Dear Uncle,' said the boy, affecting to make light of it, while the\ntears stood in his eyes, 'for the honour you have done me, et cetera,\net cetera. I shall now beg to propose Mr Solomon Gills with three times\nthree and one cheer more. Hurrah! and you'll return thanks, Uncle, when\nwe drink the last bottle together; won't you?'\n\nThey clinked their glasses again; and Walter, who was hoarding his wine,\ntook a sip of it, and held the glass up to his eye with as critical an\nair as he could possibly assume.\n\nHis Uncle sat looking at him for some time in silence. When their eyes\nat last met, he began at once to pursue the theme that had occupied his\nthoughts, aloud, as if he had been speaking all the time.\n\n'You see, Walter,' he said, 'in truth this business is merely a habit\nwith me. I am so accustomed to the habit that I could hardly live if\nI relinquished it: but there's nothing doing, nothing doing. When that\nuniform was worn,' pointing out towards the little Midshipman, 'then\nindeed, fortunes were to be made, and were made. But competition,\ncompetition--new invention, new invention--alteration, alteration--the\nworld's gone past me. I hardly know where I am myself, much less where\nmy customers are.'\n\n'Never mind 'em, Uncle!'\n\n'Since you came home from weekly boarding-school at Peckham, for\ninstance--and that's ten days,' said Solomon, 'I don't remember more\nthan one person that has come into the shop.'\n\n'Two, Uncle, don't you recollect? There was the man who came to ask for\nchange for a sovereign--'\n\n'That's the one,' said Solomon.\n\n'Why Uncle! don't you call the woman anybody, who came to ask the way to\nMile-End Turnpike?'\n\n'Oh! it's true,' said Solomon, 'I forgot her. Two persons.'\n\n'To be sure, they didn't buy anything,' cried the boy.\n\n'No. They didn't buy anything,' said Solomon, quietly.\n\n'Nor want anything,' cried the boy.\n\n'No. If they had, they'd gone to another shop,' said Solomon, in the\nsame tone.\n\n'But there were two of 'em, Uncle,' cried the boy, as if that were a\ngreat triumph. 'You said only one.'\n\n'Well, Wally,' resumed the old man, after a short pause: 'not being like\nthe Savages who came on Robinson Crusoe's Island, we can't live on a man\nwho asks for change for a sovereign, and a woman who inquires the way\nto Mile-End Turnpike. As I said just now, the world has gone past me.\nI don't blame it; but I no longer understand it. Tradesmen are not the\nsame as they used to be, apprentices are not the same, business is not\nthe same, business commodities are not the same. Seven-eighths of my\nstock is old-fashioned. I am an old-fashioned man in an old-fashioned\nshop, in a street that is not the same as I remember it. I have fallen\nbehind the time, and am too old to catch it again. Even the noise it\nmakes a long way ahead, confuses me.'\n\nWalter was going to speak, but his Uncle held up his hand.\n\n'Therefore, Wally--therefore it is that I am anxious you should be early\nin the busy world, and on the world's track. I am only the ghost of this\nbusiness--its substance vanished long ago; and when I die, its ghost\nwill be laid. As it is clearly no inheritance for you then, I have\nthought it best to use for your advantage, almost the only fragment of\nthe old connexion that stands by me, through long habit. Some people\nsuppose me to be wealthy. I wish for your sake they were right. But\nwhatever I leave behind me, or whatever I can give you, you in such a\nHouse as Dombey's are in the road to use well and make the most of. Be\ndiligent, try to like it, my dear boy, work for a steady independence,\nand be happy!'\n\n'I'll do everything I can, Uncle, to deserve your affection. Indeed I\nwill,' said the boy, earnestly.\n\n'I know it,' said Solomon. 'I am sure of it,' and he applied himself\nto a second glass of the old Madeira, with increased relish. 'As to the\nSea,' he pursued, 'that's well enough in fiction, Wally, but it won't do\nin fact: it won't do at all. It's natural enough that you should think\nabout it, associating it with all these familiar things; but it won't\ndo, it won't do.'\n\nSolomon Gills rubbed his hands with an air of stealthy enjoyment, as he\ntalked of the sea, though; and looked on the seafaring objects about him\nwith inexpressible complacency.\n\n'Think of this wine for instance,' said old Sol, 'which has been to the\nEast Indies and back, I'm not able to say how often, and has been once\nround the world. Think of the pitch-dark nights, the roaring winds, and\nrolling seas:'\n\n'The thunder, lightning, rain, hail, storm of all kinds,' said the boy.\n\n'To be sure,' said Solomon,--'that this wine has passed through. Think\nwhat a straining and creaking of timbers and masts: what a whistling and\nhowling of the gale through ropes and rigging:'\n\n'What a clambering aloft of men, vying with each other who shall lie\nout first upon the yards to furl the icy sails, while the ship rolls and\npitches, like mad!' cried his nephew.\n\n'Exactly so,' said Solomon: 'has gone on, over the old cask that held\nthis wine. Why, when the Charming Sally went down in the--'\n\n'In the Baltic Sea, in the dead of night; five-and-twenty minutes past\ntwelve when the captain's watch stopped in his pocket; he lying\ndead against the main-mast--on the fourteenth of February, seventeen\nforty-nine!' cried Walter, with great animation.\n\n'Ay, to be sure!' cried old Sol, 'quite right! Then, there were five\nhundred casks of such wine aboard; and all hands (except the first mate,\nfirst lieutenant, two seamen, and a lady, in a leaky boat) going to work\nto stave the casks, got drunk and died drunk, singing \"Rule Britannia\",\nwhen she settled and went down, and ending with one awful scream in\nchorus.'\n\n'But when the George the Second drove ashore, Uncle, on the coast of\nCornwall, in a dismal gale, two hours before daybreak, on the fourth\nof March, 'seventy-one, she had near two hundred horses aboard; and the\nhorses breaking loose down below, early in the gale, and tearing to and\nfro, and trampling each other to death, made such noises, and set up\nsuch human cries, that the crew believing the ship to be full of devils,\nsome of the best men, losing heart and head, went overboard in despair,\nand only two were left alive, at last, to tell the tale.'\n\n'And when,' said old Sol, 'when the Polyphemus--'\n\n'Private West India Trader, burden three hundred and fifty tons,\nCaptain, John Brown of Deptford. Owners, Wiggs and Co.,' cried Walter.\n\n'The same,' said Sol; 'when she took fire, four days' sail with a fair\nwind out of Jamaica Harbour, in the night--'\n\n'There were two brothers on board,' interposed his nephew, speaking very\nfast and loud, 'and there not being room for both of them in the only\nboat that wasn't swamped, neither of them would consent to go, until\nthe elder took the younger by the waist, and flung him in. And then\nthe younger, rising in the boat, cried out, \"Dear Edward, think of your\npromised wife at home. I'm only a boy. No one waits at home for me. Leap\ndown into my place!\" and flung himself in the sea!'\n\nThe kindling eye and heightened colour of the boy, who had risen from\nhis seat in the earnestness of what he said and felt, seemed to remind\nold Sol of something he had forgotten, or that his encircling mist had\nhitherto shut out. Instead of proceeding with any more anecdotes, as he\nhad evidently intended but a moment before, he gave a short dry cough,\nand said, 'Well! suppose we change the subject.'\n\nThe truth was, that the simple-minded Uncle in his secret attraction\ntowards the marvellous and adventurous--of which he was, in some sort,\na distant relation, by his trade--had greatly encouraged the same\nattraction in the nephew; and that everything that had ever been put\nbefore the boy to deter him from a life of adventure, had had the usual\nunaccountable effect of sharpening his taste for it. This is invariable.\nIt would seem as if there never was a book written, or a story told,\nexpressly with the object of keeping boys on shore, which did not lure\nand charm them to the ocean, as a matter of course.\n\nBut an addition to the little party now made its appearance, in the\nshape of a gentleman in a wide suit of blue, with a hook instead of a\nhand attached to his right wrist; very bushy black eyebrows; and a thick\nstick in his left hand, covered all over (like his nose) with knobs.\nHe wore a loose black silk handkerchief round his neck, and such a very\nlarge coarse shirt collar, that it looked like a small sail. He was\nevidently the person for whom the spare wine-glass was intended, and\nevidently knew it; for having taken off his rough outer coat, and hung\nup, on a particular peg behind the door, such a hard glazed hat as a\nsympathetic person's head might ache at the sight of, and which left a\nred rim round his own forehead as if he had been wearing a tight basin,\nhe brought a chair to where the clean glass was, and sat himself down\nbehind it. He was usually addressed as Captain, this visitor; and had\nbeen a pilot, or a skipper, or a privateersman, or all three perhaps;\nand was a very salt-looking man indeed.\n\nHis face, remarkable for a brown solidity, brightened as he shook hands\nwith Uncle and nephew; but he seemed to be of a laconic disposition, and\nmerely said:\n\n'How goes it?'\n\n'All well,' said Mr Gills, pushing the bottle towards him.\n\nHe took it up, and having surveyed and smelt it, said with extraordinary\nexpression:\n\n'The?'\n\n'The,' returned the Instrument-maker.\n\nUpon that he whistled as he filled his glass, and seemed to think they\nwere making holiday indeed.\n\n'Wal'r!' he said, arranging his hair (which was thin) with his hook, and\nthen pointing it at the Instrument-maker, 'Look at him! Love! Honour!\nAnd Obey! Overhaul your catechism till you find that passage, and when\nfound turn the leaf down. Success, my boy!'\n\nHe was so perfectly satisfied both with his quotation and his reference\nto it, that he could not help repeating the words again in a low voice,\nand saying he had forgotten 'em these forty year.\n\n'But I never wanted two or three words in my life that I didn't know\nwhere to lay my hand upon 'em, Gills,' he observed. 'It comes of not\nwasting language as some do.'\n\nThe reflection perhaps reminded him that he had better, like young\nNorval's father, \"increase his store.\" At any rate he became silent, and\nremained so, until old Sol went out into the shop to light it up, when\nhe turned to Walter, and said, without any introductory remark:--\n\n'I suppose he could make a clock if he tried?'\n\n'I shouldn't wonder, Captain Cuttle,' returned the boy.\n\n'And it would go!' said Captain Cuttle, making a species of serpent in\nthe air with his hook. 'Lord, how that clock would go!'\n\nFor a moment or two he seemed quite lost in contemplating the pace of\nthis ideal timepiece, and sat looking at the boy as if his face were the\ndial.\n\n'But he's chock-full of science,' he observed, waving his hook towards\nthe stock-in-trade. 'Look'ye here! Here's a collection of 'em. Earth,\nair, or water. It's all one. Only say where you'll have it. Up in a\nballoon?  There you are. Down in a bell? There you are. D'ye want to put\nthe North Star in a pair of scales and weigh it? He'll do it for you.'\n\nIt may be gathered from these remarks that Captain Cuttle's reverence\nfor the stock of instruments was profound, and that his philosophy knew\nlittle or no distinction between trading in it and inventing it.\n\n'Ah!' he said, with a sigh, 'it's a fine thing to understand 'em. And\nyet it's a fine thing not to understand 'em. I hardly know which\nis best. It's so comfortable to sit here and feel that you might be\nweighed, measured, magnified, electrified, polarized, played the very\ndevil with: and never know how.'\n\nNothing short of the wonderful Madeira, combined with the occasion\n(which rendered it desirable to improve and expand Walter's mind), could\nhave ever loosened his tongue to the extent of giving utterance to this\nprodigious oration. He seemed quite amazed himself at the manner in\nwhich it opened up to view the sources of the taciturn delight he had\nhad in eating Sunday dinners in that parlour for ten years. Becoming a\nsadder and a wiser man, he mused and held his peace.\n\n'Come!' cried the subject of this admiration, returning. 'Before you\nhave your glass of grog, Ned, we must finish the bottle.'\n\n'Stand by!' said Ned, filling his glass. 'Give the boy some more.'\n\n'No more, thank'e, Uncle!'\n\n'Yes, yes,' said Sol, 'a little more. We'll finish the bottle, to the\nHouse, Ned--Walter's House. Why it may be his House one of these\ndays, in part. Who knows? Sir Richard Whittington married his master's\ndaughter.'\n\n'\"Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old you\nwill never depart from it,\"' interposed the Captain. 'Wal'r! Overhaul\nthe book, my lad.'\n\n'And although Mr Dombey hasn't a daughter,' Sol began.\n\n'Yes, yes, he has, Uncle,' said the boy, reddening and laughing.\n\n'Has he?' cried the old man. 'Indeed I think he has too.'\n\n'Oh! I know he has,' said the boy. 'Some of 'em were talking about it in\nthe office today. And they do say, Uncle and Captain Cuttle,' lowering\nhis voice, 'that he's taken a dislike to her, and that she's left,\nunnoticed, among the servants, and that his mind's so set all the while\nupon having his son in the House, that although he's only a baby now,\nhe is going to have balances struck oftener than formerly, and the\nbooks kept closer than they used to be, and has even been seen (when\nhe thought he wasn't) walking in the Docks, looking at his ships and\nproperty and all that, as if he was exulting like, over what he and\nhis son will possess together. That's what they say. Of course, I don't\nknow.'\n\n'He knows all about her already, you see,' said the instrument-maker.\n\n'Nonsense, Uncle,' cried the boy, still reddening and laughing,\nboy-like. 'How can I help hearing what they tell me?'\n\n'The son's a little in our way at present, I'm afraid, Ned,' said the\nold man, humouring the joke.\n\n'Very much,' said the Captain.\n\n'Nevertheless, we'll drink him,' pursued Sol. 'So, here's to Dombey and\nSon.'\n\n'Oh, very well, Uncle,' said the boy, merrily. 'Since you have\nintroduced the mention of her, and have connected me with her and have\nsaid that I know all about her, I shall make bold to amend the toast. So\nhere's to Dombey--and Son--and Daughter!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5. Paul's Progress and Christening\n\n\nLittle Paul, suffering no contamination from the blood of the Toodles,\ngrew stouter and stronger every day. Every day, too, he was more\nand more ardently cherished by Miss Tox, whose devotion was so far\nappreciated by Mr Dombey that he began to regard her as a woman of\ngreat natural good sense, whose feelings did her credit and deserved\nencouragement. He was so lavish of this condescension, that he not only\nbowed to her, in a particular manner, on several occasions, but even\nentrusted such stately recognitions of her to his sister as 'pray tell\nyour friend, Louisa, that she is very good,' or 'mention to Miss\nTox, Louisa, that I am obliged to her;' specialities which made a deep\nimpression on the lady thus distinguished.\n\nWhether Miss Tox conceived that having been selected by the Fates\nto welcome the little Dombey before he was born, in Kirby, Beard and\nKirby's Best Mixed Pins, it therefore naturally devolved upon her to\ngreet him with all other forms of welcome in all other early stages\nof his existence--or whether her overflowing goodness induced her to\nvolunteer into the domestic militia as a substitute in some sort for his\ndeceased Mama--or whether she was conscious of any other motives--are\nquestions which in this stage of the Firm's history herself only could\nhave solved. Nor have they much bearing on the fact (of which there\nis no doubt), that Miss Tox's constancy and zeal were a heavy\ndiscouragement to Richards, who lost flesh hourly under her patronage,\nand was in some danger of being superintended to death.\n\nMiss Tox was often in the habit of assuring Mrs Chick, that nothing\ncould exceed her interest in all connected with the development of\nthat sweet child; and an observer of Miss Tox's proceedings might have\ninferred so much without declaratory confirmation. She would\npreside over the innocent repasts of the young heir, with ineffable\nsatisfaction, almost with an air of joint proprietorship with Richards\nin the entertainment. At the little ceremonies of the bath and toilette,\nshe assisted with enthusiasm. The administration of infantine doses of\nphysic awakened all the active sympathy of her character; and being on\none occasion secreted in a cupboard (whither she had fled in modesty),\nwhen Mr Dombey was introduced into the nursery by his sister, to behold\nhis son, in the course of preparation for bed, taking a short walk\nuphill over Richards's gown, in a short and airy linen jacket, Miss\nTox was so transported beyond the ignorant present as to be unable to\nrefrain from crying out, 'Is he not beautiful Mr Dombey! Is he not\na Cupid, Sir!' and then almost sinking behind the closet door with\nconfusion and blushes.\n\n'Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, one day, to his sister, 'I really think I must\npresent your friend with some little token, on the occasion of Paul's\nchristening. She has exerted herself so warmly in the child's behalf\nfrom the first, and seems to understand her position so thoroughly (a\nvery rare merit in this world, I am sorry to say), that it would really\nbe agreeable to me to notice her.'\n\nLet it be no detraction from the merits of Miss Tox, to hint that in Mr\nDombey's eyes, as in some others that occasionally see the light, they\nonly achieved that mighty piece of knowledge, the understanding of their\nown position, who showed a fitting reverence for his. It was not so much\ntheir merit that they knew themselves, as that they knew him, and bowed\nlow before him.\n\n'My dear Paul,' returned his sister, 'you do Miss Tox but justice, as a\nman of your penetration was sure, I knew, to do. I believe if there\nare three words in the English language for which she has a respect\namounting almost to veneration, those words are, Dombey and Son.'\n\n'Well,' said Mr Dombey, 'I believe it. It does Miss Tox credit.'\n\n'And as to anything in the shape of a token, my dear Paul,' pursued\nhis sister, 'all I can say is that anything you give Miss Tox will be\nhoarded and prized, I am sure, like a relic. But there is a way, my dear\nPaul, of showing your sense of Miss Tox's friendliness in a still more\nflattering and acceptable manner, if you should be so inclined.'\n\n'How is that?' asked Mr Dombey.\n\n'Godfathers, of course,' continued Mrs Chick, 'are important in point of\nconnexion and influence.'\n\n'I don't know why they should be, to my son,' said Mr Dombey, coldly.\n\n'Very true, my dear Paul,' retorted Mrs Chick, with an extraordinary\nshow of animation, to cover the suddenness of her conversion; 'and\nspoken like yourself. I might have expected nothing else from you. I\nmight have known that such would have been your opinion. Perhaps;' here\nMrs Chick faltered again, as not quite comfortably feeling her way;\n'perhaps that is a reason why you might have the less objection to\nallowing Miss Tox to be godmother to the dear thing, if it were only as\ndeputy and proxy for someone else. That it would be received as a great\nhonour and distinction, Paul, I need not say.'\n\n'Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, after a short pause, 'it is not to be\nsupposed--'\n\n'Certainly not,' cried Mrs Chick, hastening to anticipate a refusal, 'I\nnever thought it was.'\n\nMr Dombey looked at her impatiently.\n\n'Don't flurry me, my dear Paul,' said his sister; 'for that destroys\nme. I am far from strong. I have not been quite myself, since poor dear\nFanny departed.'\n\nMr Dombey glanced at the pocket-handkerchief which his sister applied to\nher eyes, and resumed:\n\n'It is not be supposed, I say--'\n\n'And I say,' murmured Mrs Chick, 'that I never thought it was.'\n\n'Good Heaven, Louisa!' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'No, my dear Paul,' she remonstrated with tearful dignity, 'I must\nreally be allowed to speak. I am not so clever, or so reasoning, or so\neloquent, or so anything, as you are. I know that very well. So much the\nworse for me. But if they were the last words I had to utter--and\nlast words should be very solemn to you and me, Paul, after poor dear\nFanny--I would still say I never thought it was. And what is more,'\nadded Mrs Chick with increased dignity, as if she had withheld her\ncrushing argument until now, 'I never did think it was.'\n\nMr Dombey walked to the window and back again.\n\n'It is not to be supposed, Louisa,' he said (Mrs Chick had nailed her\ncolours to the mast, and repeated 'I know it isn't,' but he took no\nnotice of it), 'but that there are many persons who, supposing that\nI recognised any claim at all in such a case, have a claim upon me\nsuperior to Miss Tox's. But I do not. I recognise no such thing. Paul\nand myself will be able, when the time comes, to hold our own--the\nHouse, in other words, will be able to hold its own, and maintain its\nown, and hand down its own of itself, and without any such common-place\naids. The kind of foreign help which people usually seek for their\nchildren, I can afford to despise; being above it, I hope. So that\nPaul's infancy and childhood pass away well, and I see him becoming\nqualified without waste of time for the career on which he is destined\nto enter, I am satisfied. He will make what powerful friends he pleases\nin after-life, when he is actively maintaining--and extending, if that\nis possible--the dignity and credit of the Firm. Until then, I am enough\nfor him, perhaps, and all in all. I have no wish that people should step\nin between us. I would much rather show my sense of the obliging conduct\nof a deserving person like your friend. Therefore let it be so; and\nyour husband and myself will do well enough for the other sponsors, I\ndaresay.'\n\nIn the course of these remarks, delivered with great majesty and\ngrandeur, Mr Dombey had truly revealed the secret feelings of his\nbreast. An indescribable distrust of anybody stepping in between himself\nand his son; a haughty dread of having any rival or partner in the boy's\nrespect and deference; a sharp misgiving, recently acquired, that he was\nnot infallible in his power of bending and binding human wills; as sharp\na jealousy of any second check or cross; these were, at that time the\nmaster keys of his soul. In all his life, he had never made a friend.\nHis cold and distant nature had neither sought one, nor found one. And\nnow, when that nature concentrated its whole force so strongly on a\npartial scheme of parental interest and ambition, it seemed as if its\nicy current, instead of being released by this influence, and running\nclear and free, had thawed for but an instant to admit its burden, and\nthen frozen with it into one unyielding block.\n\nElevated thus to the godmothership of little Paul, in virtue of her\ninsignificance, Miss Tox was from that hour chosen and appointed to\noffice; and Mr Dombey further signified his pleasure that the ceremony,\nalready long delayed, should take place without further postponement.\nHis sister, who had been far from anticipating so signal a success,\nwithdrew as soon as she could, to communicate it to her best of friends;\nand Mr Dombey was left alone in his library. He had already laid his\nhand upon the bellrope to convey his usual summons to Richards, when his\neye fell upon a writing-desk, belonging to his deceased wife, which had\nbeen taken, among other things, from a cabinet in her chamber. It was\nnot the first time that his eye had lighted on it He carried the key\nin his pocket; and he brought it to his table and opened it now--having\npreviously locked the room door--with a well-accustomed hand.\n\nFrom beneath a leaf of torn and cancelled scraps of paper, he took one\nletter that remained entire. Involuntarily holding his breath as he\nopened this document, and 'bating in the stealthy action something of\nhis arrogant demeanour, he sat down, resting his head upon one hand,\nand read it through.\n\nHe read it slowly and attentively, and with a nice particularity\nto every syllable. Otherwise than as his great deliberation seemed\nunnatural, and perhaps the result of an effort equally great, he allowed\nno sign of emotion to escape him. When he had read it through, he\nfolded and refolded it slowly several times, and tore it carefully into\nfragments. Checking his hand in the act of throwing these away, he put\nthem in his pocket, as if unwilling to trust them even to the chances\nof being re-united and deciphered; and instead of ringing, as usual, for\nlittle Paul, he sat solitary, all the evening, in his cheerless room.\n\nThere was anything but solitude in the nursery; for there, Mrs Chick and\nMiss Tox were enjoying a social evening, so much to the disgust of Miss\nSusan Nipper, that that young lady embraced every opportunity of making\nwry faces behind the door. Her feelings were so much excited on the\noccasion, that she found it indispensable to afford them this relief,\neven without having the comfort of any audience or sympathy whatever.\nAs the knight-errants of old relieved their minds by carving their\nmistress's names in deserts, and wildernesses, and other savage places\nwhere there was no probability of there ever being anybody to read them,\nso did Miss Susan Nipper curl her snub nose into drawers and wardrobes,\nput away winks of disparagement in cupboards, shed derisive squints into\nstone pitchers, and contradict and call names out in the passage.\n\nThe two interlopers, however, blissfully unconscious of the young lady's\nsentiments, saw little Paul safe through all the stages of undressing,\nairy exercise, supper and bed; and then sat down to tea before the fire.\nThe two children now lay, through the good offices of Polly, in\none room; and it was not until the ladies were established at their\ntea-table that, happening to look towards the little beds, they thought\nof Florence.\n\n'How sound she sleeps!' said Miss Tox.\n\n'Why, you know, my dear, she takes a great deal of exercise in the\ncourse of the day,' returned Mrs Chick, 'playing about little Paul so\nmuch.'\n\n'She is a curious child,' said Miss Tox.\n\n'My dear,' retorted Mrs Chick, in a low voice: 'Her Mama, all over!'\n\n'In-deed!' said Miss Tox. 'Ah dear me!'\n\nA tone of most extraordinary compassion Miss Tox said it in, though she\nhad no distinct idea why, except that it was expected of her.\n\n'Florence will never, never, never be a Dombey,' said Mrs Chick, 'not if\nshe lives to be a thousand years old.'\n\nMiss Tox elevated her eyebrows, and was again full of commiseration.\n\n'I quite fret and worry myself about her,' said Mrs Chick, with a sigh\nof modest merit. 'I really don't see what is to become of her when she\ngrows older, or what position she is to take. She don't gain on her Papa\nin the least. How can one expect she should, when she is so very unlike\na Dombey?'\n\nMiss Tox looked as if she saw no way out of such a cogent argument as\nthat, at all.\n\n'And the child, you see,' said Mrs Chick, in deep confidence, 'has poor\ndear Fanny's nature. She'll never make an effort in after-life, I'll\nventure to say. Never! She'll never wind and twine herself about her\nPapa's heart like--'\n\n'Like the ivy?' suggested Miss Tox.\n\n'Like the ivy,' Mrs Chick assented. 'Never! She'll never glide and\nnestle into the bosom of her Papa's affections like--the--'\n\n'Startled fawn?' suggested Miss Tox.\n\n'Like the startled fawn,' said Mrs Chick. 'Never! Poor Fanny! Yet, how I\nloved her!'\n\n'You must not distress yourself, my dear,' said Miss Tox, in a soothing\nvoice. 'Now really! You have too much feeling.'\n\n'We have all our faults,' said Mrs Chick, weeping and shaking her head.\n'I daresay we have. I never was blind to hers. I never said I was. Far\nfrom it. Yet how I loved her!'\n\nWhat a satisfaction it was to Mrs Chick--a common-place piece of folly\nenough, compared with whom her sister-in-law had been a very angel of\nwomanly intelligence and gentleness--to patronise and be tender to the\nmemory of that lady: in exact pursuance of her conduct to her in her\nlifetime: and to thoroughly believe herself, and take herself in, and\nmake herself uncommonly comfortable on the strength of her toleration!\nWhat a mighty pleasant virtue toleration should be when we are right, to\nbe so very pleasant when we are wrong, and quite unable to demonstrate\nhow we come to be invested with the privilege of exercising it!\n\nMrs Chick was yet drying her eyes and shaking her head, when Richards\nmade bold to caution her that Miss Florence was awake and sitting in her\nbed. She had risen, as the nurse said, and the lashes of her eyes were\nwet with tears. But no one saw them glistening save Polly. No one else\nleant over her, and whispered soothing words to her, or was near enough\nto hear the flutter of her beating heart.\n\n'Oh! dear nurse!' said the child, looking earnestly up in her face, 'let\nme lie by my brother!'\n\n'Why, my pet?' said Richards.\n\n'Oh! I think he loves me,' cried the child wildly. 'Let me lie by him.\nPray do!'\n\nMrs Chick interposed with some motherly words about going to sleep like\na dear, but Florence repeated her supplication, with a frightened look,\nand in a voice broken by sobs and tears.\n\n'I'll not wake him,' she said, covering her face and hanging down her\nhead. 'I'll only touch him with my hand, and go to sleep. Oh, pray,\npray, let me lie by my brother to-night, for I believe he's fond of me!'\n\nRichards took her without a word, and carrying her to the little bed in\nwhich the infant was sleeping, laid her down by his side. She crept as\nnear him as she could without disturbing his rest; and stretching out\none arm so that it timidly embraced his neck, and hiding her face on\nthe other, over which her damp and scattered hair fell loose, lay\nmotionless.\n\n'Poor little thing,' said Miss Tox; 'she has been dreaming, I daresay.'\n\nDreaming, perhaps, of loving tones for ever silent, of loving eyes for\never closed, of loving arms again wound round her, and relaxing in that\ndream within the dam which no tongue can relate. Seeking, perhaps--in\ndreams--some natural comfort for a heart, deeply and sorely wounded,\nthough so young a child's: and finding it, perhaps, in dreams, if not\nin waking, cold, substantial truth. This trivial incident had so\ninterrupted the current of conversation, that it was difficult\nof resumption; and Mrs Chick moreover had been so affected by the\ncontemplation of her own tolerant nature, that she was not in spirits.\nThe two friends accordingly soon made an end of their tea, and a servant\nwas despatched to fetch a hackney cabriolet for Miss Tox. Miss Tox had\ngreat experience in hackney cabs, and her starting in one was generally\na work of time, as she was systematic in the preparatory arrangements.\n\n'Have the goodness, if you please, Towlinson,' said Miss Tox, 'first of\nall, to carry out a pen and ink and take his number legibly.'\n\n'Yes, Miss,' said Towlinson.\n\n'Then, if you please, Towlinson,' said Miss Tox, 'have the goodness\nto turn the cushion. Which,' said Miss Tox apart to Mrs Chick, 'is\ngenerally damp, my dear.'\n\n'Yes, Miss,' said Towlinson.\n\n'I'll trouble you also, if you please, Towlinson,' said Miss Tox,\n'with this card and this shilling. He's to drive to the card, and is to\nunderstand that he will not on any account have more than the shilling.'\n\n'No, Miss,' said Towlinson.\n\n'And--I'm sorry to give you so much trouble, Towlinson,' said Miss Tox,\nlooking at him pensively.\n\n'Not at all, Miss,' said Towlinson.\n\n'Mention to the man, then, if you please, Towlinson,' said Miss Tox,\n'that the lady's uncle is a magistrate, and that if he gives her any of\nhis impertinence he will be punished terribly. You can pretend to say\nthat, if you please, Towlinson, in a friendly way, and because you know\nit was done to another man, who died.'\n\n'Certainly, Miss,' said Towlinson.\n\n'And now good-night to my sweet, sweet, sweet, godson,' said Miss Tox,\nwith a soft shower of kisses at each repetition of the adjective; 'and\nLouisa, my dear friend, promise me to take a little something warm\nbefore you go to bed, and not to distress yourself!'\n\nIt was with extreme difficulty that Nipper, the black-eyed, who\nlooked on steadfastly, contained herself at this crisis, and until the\nsubsequent departure of Mrs Chick. But the nursery being at length free\nof visitors, she made herself some recompense for her late restraint.\n\n'You might keep me in a strait-waistcoat for six weeks,' said Nipper,\n'and when I got it off I'd only be more aggravated, who ever heard the\nlike of them two Griffins, Mrs Richards?'\n\n'And then to talk of having been dreaming, poor dear!' said Polly.\n\n'Oh you beauties!' cried Susan Nipper, affecting to salute the door by\nwhich the ladies had departed. 'Never be a Dombey won't she? It's to be\nhoped she won't, we don't want any more such, one's enough.'\n\n'Don't wake the children, Susan dear,' said Polly.\n\n'I'm very much beholden to you, Mrs Richards,' said Susan, who was\nnot by any means discriminating in her wrath, 'and really feel it as a\nhonour to receive your commands, being a black slave and a mulotter.\nMrs Richards, if there's any other orders, you can give me, pray mention\n'em.'\n\n'Nonsense; orders,' said Polly.\n\n'Oh! bless your heart, Mrs Richards,' cried Susan, 'temporaries always\norders permanencies here, didn't you know that, why wherever was you\nborn, Mrs Richards? But wherever you was born, Mrs Richards,' pursued\nSpitfire, shaking her head resolutely, 'and whenever, and however (which\nis best known to yourself), you may bear in mind, please, that it's one\nthing to give orders, and quite another thing to take 'em. A person may\ntell a person to dive off a bridge head foremost into five-and-forty\nfeet of water, Mrs Richards, but a person may be very far from diving.'\n\n'There now,' said Polly, 'you're angry because you're a good little\nthing, and fond of Miss Florence; and yet you turn round on me, because\nthere's nobody else.'\n\n'It's very easy for some to keep their tempers, and be soft-spoken, Mrs\nRichards,' returned Susan, slightly mollified, 'when their child's made\nas much of as a prince, and is petted and patted till it wishes its\nfriends further, but when a sweet young pretty innocent, that never\nought to have a cross word spoken to or of it, is rundown, the case is\nvery different indeed. My goodness gracious me, Miss Floy, you naughty,\nsinful child, if you don't shut your eyes this minute, I'll call in them\nhobgoblins that lives in the cock-loft to come and eat you up alive!'\n\nHere Miss Nipper made a horrible lowing, supposed to issue from a\nconscientious goblin of the bull species, impatient to discharge the\nsevere duty of his position. Having further composed her young charge\nby covering her head with the bedclothes, and making three or four angry\ndabs at the pillow, she folded her arms, and screwed up her mouth, and\nsat looking at the fire for the rest of the evening.\n\nThough little Paul was said, in nursery phrase, 'to take a deal of\nnotice for his age,' he took as little notice of all this as of\nthe preparations for his christening on the next day but one; which\nnevertheless went on about him, as to his personal apparel, and that of\nhis sister and the two nurses, with great activity. Neither did he, on\nthe arrival of the appointed morning, show any sense of its importance;\nbeing, on the contrary, unusually inclined to sleep, and unusually\ninclined to take it ill in his attendants that they dressed him to go\nout.\n\nIt happened to be an iron-grey autumnal day, with a shrewd east wind\nblowing--a day in keeping with the proceedings. Mr Dombey represented in\nhimself the wind, the shade, and the autumn of the christening. He stood\nin his library to receive the company, as hard and cold as the weather;\nand when he looked out through the glass room, at the trees in the\nlittle garden, their brown and yellow leaves came fluttering down, as if\nhe blighted them.\n\nUgh! They were black, cold rooms; and seemed to be in mourning, like the\ninmates of the house. The books precisely matched as to size, and\ndrawn up in line, like soldiers, looked in their cold, hard, slippery\nuniforms, as if they had but one idea among them, and that was a\nfreezer. The bookcase, glazed and locked, repudiated all familiarities.\nMr Pitt, in bronze, on the top, with no trace of his celestial origin\nabout him, guarded the unattainable treasure like an enchanted Moor.\nA dusty urn at each high corner, dug up from an ancient tomb, preached\ndesolation and decay, as from two pulpits; and the chimney-glass,\nreflecting Mr Dombey and his portrait at one blow, seemed fraught with\nmelancholy meditations.\n\nThe stiff and stark fire-irons appeared to claim a nearer relationship\nthan anything else there to Mr Dombey, with his buttoned coat, his white\ncravat, his heavy gold watch-chain, and his creaking boots.  But this\nwas before the arrival of Mr and Mrs Chick, his lawful relatives, who\nsoon presented themselves.\n\n'My dear Paul,' Mrs Chick murmured, as she embraced him, 'the beginning,\nI hope, of many joyful days!'\n\n'Thank you, Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, grimly. 'How do you do, Mr John?'\n\n'How do you do, Sir?' said Chick.\n\nHe gave Mr Dombey his hand, as if he feared it might electrify him. Mr\nDombey took it as if it were a fish, or seaweed, or some such clammy\nsubstance, and immediately returned it to him with exalted politeness.\n\n'Perhaps, Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, slightly turning his head in his\ncravat, as if it were a socket, 'you would have preferred a fire?'\n\n'Oh, my dear Paul, no,' said Mrs Chick, who had much ado to keep her\nteeth from chattering; 'not for me.'\n\n'Mr John,' said Mr Dombey, 'you are not sensible of any chill?'\n\nMr John, who had already got both his hands in his pockets over the\nwrists, and was on the very threshold of that same canine chorus which\nhad given Mrs Chick so much offence on a former occasion, protested that\nhe was perfectly comfortable.\n\nHe added in a low voice, 'With my tiddle tol toor rul'--when he was\nprovidentially stopped by Towlinson, who announced:\n\n'Miss Tox!'\n\nAnd enter that fair enslaver, with a blue nose and indescribably frosty\nface, referable to her being very thinly clad in a maze of fluttering\nodds and ends, to do honour to the ceremony.\n\n'How do you do, Miss Tox?' said Mr Dombey.\n\nMiss Tox, in the midst of her spreading gauzes, went down altogether\nlike an opera-glass shutting-up; she curtseyed so low, in acknowledgment\nof Mr Dombey's advancing a step or two to meet her.\n\n'I can never forget this occasion, Sir,' said Miss Tox, softly. ''Tis\nimpossible. My dear Louisa, I can hardly believe the evidence of my\nsenses.'\n\nIf Miss Tox could believe the evidence of one of her senses, it was a\nvery cold day. That was quite clear. She took an early opportunity of\npromoting the circulation in the tip of her nose by secretly chafing\nit with her pocket handkerchief, lest, by its very low temperature, it\nshould disagreeably astonish the baby when she came to kiss it.\n\nThe baby soon appeared, carried in great glory by Richards; while\nFlorence, in custody of that active young constable, Susan Nipper,\nbrought up the rear. Though the whole nursery party were dressed by\nthis time in lighter mourning than at first, there was enough in the\nappearance of the bereaved children to make the day no brighter. The\nbaby too--it might have been Miss Tox's nose--began to cry. Thereby, as\nit happened, preventing Mr Chick from the awkward fulfilment of a very\nhonest purpose he had; which was, to make much of Florence. For this\ngentleman, insensible to the superior claims of a perfect Dombey\n(perhaps on account of having the honour to be united to a Dombey\nhimself, and being familiar with excellence), really liked her, and\nshowed that he liked her, and was about to show it in his own way now,\nwhen Paul cried, and his helpmate stopped him short--\n\n'Now Florence, child!' said her aunt, briskly, 'what are you doing,\nlove? Show yourself to him. Engage his attention, my dear!'\n\nThe atmosphere became or might have become colder and colder, when Mr\nDombey stood frigidly watching his little daughter, who, clapping her\nhands, and standing on tip-toe before the throne of his son and heir,\nlured him to bend down from his high estate, and look at her. Some\nhonest act of Richards's may have aided the effect, but he did look\ndown, and held his peace. As his sister hid behind her nurse, he\nfollowed her with his eyes; and when she peeped out with a merry cry to\nhim, he sprang up and crowed lustily--laughing outright when she ran in\nupon him; and seeming to fondle her curls with his tiny hands, while she\nsmothered him with kisses.\n\nWas Mr Dombey pleased to see this? He testified no pleasure by the\nrelaxation of a nerve; but outward tokens of any kind of feeling were\nunusual with him. If any sunbeam stole into the room to light the\nchildren at their play, it never reached his face. He looked on so\nfixedly and coldly, that the warm light vanished even from the laughing\neyes of little Florence, when, at last, they happened to meet his.\n\nIt was a dull, grey, autumn day indeed, and in a minute's pause and\nsilence that took place, the leaves fell sorrowfully.\n\n'Mr John,' said Mr Dombey, referring to his watch, and assuming his hat\nand gloves. 'Take my sister, if you please: my arm today is Miss Tox's.\nYou had better go first with Master Paul, Richards. Be very careful.'\n\nIn Mr Dombey's carriage, Dombey and Son, Miss Tox, Mrs Chick, Richards,\nand Florence. In a little carriage following it, Susan Nipper and the\nowner Mr Chick. Susan looking out of window, without intermission, as\na relief from the embarrassment of confronting the large face of that\ngentleman, and thinking whenever anything rattled that he was putting up\nin paper an appropriate pecuniary compliment for herself.\n\nOnce upon the road to church, Mr Dombey clapped his hands for the\namusement of his son. At which instance of parental enthusiasm Miss\nTox was enchanted. But exclusive of this incident, the chief difference\nbetween the christening party and a party in a mourning coach consisted\nin the colours of the carriage and horses.\n\nArrived at the church steps, they were received by a portentous beadle.\nMr Dombey dismounting first to help the ladies out, and standing near\nhim at the church door, looked like another beadle. A beadle less\ngorgeous but more dreadful; the beadle of private life; the beadle of\nour business and our bosoms.\n\nMiss Tox's hand trembled as she slipped it through Mr Dombey's arm,\nand felt herself escorted up the steps, preceded by a cocked hat and\na Babylonian collar. It seemed for a moment like that other solemn\ninstitution, 'Wilt thou have this man, Lucretia?' 'Yes, I will.'\n\n'Please to bring the child in quick out of the air there,' whispered the\nbeadle, holding open the inner door of the church.\n\nLittle Paul might have asked with Hamlet 'into my grave?' so chill and\nearthy was the place. The tall, shrouded pulpit and reading desk; the\ndreary perspective of empty pews stretching away under the galleries,\nand empty benches mounting to the roof and lost in the shadow of the\ngreat grim organ; the dusty matting and cold stone slabs; the grisly\nfree seats in the aisles; and the damp corner by the bell-rope, where\nthe black trestles used for funerals were stowed away, along with some\nshovels and baskets, and a coil or two of deadly-looking rope; the\nstrange, unusual, uncomfortable smell, and the cadaverous light; were\nall in unison. It was a cold and dismal scene.\n\n'There's a wedding just on, Sir,' said the beadle, 'but it'll be over\ndirectly, if you'll walk into the westry here.'\n\nBefore he turned again to lead the way, he gave Mr Dombey a bow and a\nhalf smile of recognition, importing that he (the beadle) remembered to\nhave had the pleasure of attending on him when he buried his wife, and\nhoped he had enjoyed himself since.\n\nThe very wedding looked dismal as they passed in front of the altar. The\nbride was too old and the bridegroom too young, and a superannuated beau\nwith one eye and an eyeglass stuck in its blank companion, was giving\naway the lady, while the friends were shivering. In the vestry the fire\nwas smoking; and an over-aged and over-worked and under-paid attorney's\nclerk, 'making a search,' was running his forefinger down the parchment\npages of an immense register (one of a long series of similar volumes)\ngorged with burials. Over the fireplace was a ground-plan of the vaults\nunderneath the church; and Mr Chick, skimming the literary portion of\nit aloud, by way of enlivening the company, read the reference to Mrs\nDombey's tomb in full, before he could stop himself.\n\nAfter another cold interval, a wheezy little pew-opener afflicted with\nan asthma, appropriate to the churchyard, if not to the church, summoned\nthem to the font--a rigid marble basin which seemed to have been playing\na churchyard game at cup and ball with its matter of fact pedestal, and\nto have been just that moment caught on the top of it. Here they waited\nsome little time while the marriage party enrolled themselves; and\nmeanwhile the wheezy little pew-opener--partly in consequence of her\ninfirmity, and partly that the marriage party might not forget her--went\nabout the building coughing like a grampus.\n\nPresently the clerk (the only cheerful-looking object there, and he was\nan undertaker) came up with a jug of warm water, and said something, as\nhe poured it into the font, about taking the chill off; which millions\nof gallons boiling hot could not have done for the occasion. Then the\nclergyman, an amiable and mild-looking young curate, but obviously\nafraid of the baby, appeared like the principal character in a\nghost-story, 'a tall figure all in white;' at sight of whom Paul rent\nthe air with his cries, and never left off again till he was taken out\nblack in the face.\n\nEven when that event had happened, to the great relief of everybody,\nhe was heard under the portico, during the rest of the ceremony, now\nfainter, now louder, now hushed, now bursting forth again with an\nirrepressible sense of his wrongs. This so distracted the attention of\nthe two ladies, that Mrs Chick was constantly deploying into the centre\naisle, to send out messages by the pew-opener, while Miss Tox kept her\nPrayer-book open at the Gunpowder Plot, and occasionally read responses\nfrom that service.\n\nDuring the whole of these proceedings, Mr Dombey remained as impassive\nand gentlemanly as ever, and perhaps assisted in making it so cold, that\nthe young curate smoked at the mouth as he read. The only time that he\nunbent his visage in the least, was when the clergyman, in delivering\n(very unaffectedly and simply) the closing exhortation, relative to the\nfuture examination of the child by the sponsors, happened to rest his\neye on Mr Chick; and then Mr Dombey might have been seen to express by a\nmajestic look, that he would like to catch him at it.\n\nIt might have been well for Mr Dombey, if he had thought of his own\ndignity a little less; and had thought of the great origin and purpose\nof the ceremony in which he took so formal and so stiff a part, a little\nmore. His arrogance contrasted strangely with its history.\n\nWhen it was all over, he again gave his arm to Miss Tox, and conducted\nher to the vestry, where he informed the clergyman how much pleasure\nit would have given him to have solicited the honour of his company\nat dinner, but for the unfortunate state of his household affairs. The\nregister signed, and the fees paid, and the pew-opener (whose cough was\nvery bad again) remembered, and the beadle gratified, and the sexton\n(who was accidentally on the doorsteps, looking with great interest at\nthe weather) not forgotten, they got into the carriage again, and drove\nhome in the same bleak fellowship.\n\nThere they found Mr Pitt turning up his nose at a cold collation, set\nforth in a cold pomp of glass and silver, and looking more like a dead\ndinner lying in state than a social refreshment. On their arrival Miss\nTox produced a mug for her godson, and Mr Chick a knife and fork and\nspoon in a case. Mr Dombey also produced a bracelet for Miss Tox; and,\non the receipt of this token, Miss Tox was tenderly affected.\n\n'Mr John,' said Mr Dombey, 'will you take the bottom of the table, if\nyou please? What have you got there, Mr John?'\n\n'I have got a cold fillet of veal here, Sir,' replied Mr Chick, rubbing\nhis numbed hands hard together. 'What have you got there, Sir?'\n\n'This,' returned Mr Dombey, 'is some cold preparation of calf's head, I\nthink. I see cold fowls--ham--patties--salad--lobster. Miss Tox will do\nme the honour of taking some wine? Champagne to Miss Tox.'\n\nThere was a toothache in everything. The wine was so bitter cold that it\nforced a little scream from Miss Tox, which she had great difficulty in\nturning into a 'Hem!' The veal had come from such an airy pantry, that\nthe first taste of it had struck a sensation as of cold lead to Mr\nChick's extremities. Mr Dombey alone remained unmoved. He might have\nbeen hung up for sale at a Russian fair as a specimen of a frozen\ngentleman.\n\nThe prevailing influence was too much even for his sister. She made\nno effort at flattery or small talk, and directed all her efforts to\nlooking as warm as she could.\n\n'Well, Sir,' said Mr Chick, making a desperate plunge, after a long\nsilence, and filling a glass of sherry; 'I shall drink this, if you'll\nallow me, Sir, to little Paul.'\n\n'Bless him!' murmured Miss Tox, taking a sip of wine.\n\n'Dear little Dombey!' murmured Mrs Chick.\n\n'Mr John,' said Mr Dombey, with severe gravity, 'my son would feel and\nexpress himself obliged to you, I have no doubt, if he could appreciate\nthe favour you have done him. He will prove, in time to come, I trust,\nequal to any responsibility that the obliging disposition of his\nrelations and friends, in private, or the onerous nature of our\nposition, in public, may impose upon him.'\n\nThe tone in which this was said admitting of nothing more, Mr Chick\nrelapsed into low spirits and silence. Not so Miss Tox, who, having\nlistened to Mr Dombey with even a more emphatic attention than usual,\nand with a more expressive tendency of her head to one side, now leant\nacross the table, and said to Mrs Chick softly:\n\n'Louisa!'\n\n'My dear,' said Mrs Chick.\n\n'Onerous nature of our position in public may--I have forgotten\nthe exact term.'\n\n'Expose him to,' said Mrs Chick.\n\n'Pardon me, my dear,' returned Miss Tox, 'I think not. It was more\nrounded and flowing. Obliging disposition of relations and friends in\nprivate, or onerous nature of position in public--may--impose upon him!'\n\n'Impose upon him, to be sure,' said Mrs Chick.\n\nMiss Tox struck her delicate hands together lightly, in triumph; and\nadded, casting up her eyes, 'eloquence indeed!'\n\nMr Dombey, in the meanwhile, had issued orders for the attendance of\nRichards, who now entered curtseying, but without the baby; Paul being\nasleep after the fatigues of the morning. Mr Dombey, having delivered a\nglass of wine to this vassal, addressed her in the following words: Miss\nTox previously settling her head on one side, and making other little\narrangements for engraving them on her heart.\n\n'During the six months or so, Richards, which have seen you an inmate\nof this house, you have done your duty. Desiring to connect some little\nservice to you with this occasion, I considered how I could best effect\nthat object, and I also advised with my sister, Mrs--'\n\n'Chick,' interposed the gentleman of that name.\n\n'Oh, hush if you please!' said Miss Tox.\n\n'I was about to say to you, Richards,' resumed Mr Dombey, with an\nappalling glance at Mr John, 'that I was further assisted in my\ndecision, by the recollection of a conversation I held with your husband\nin this room, on the occasion of your being hired, when he disclosed to\nme the melancholy fact that your family, himself at the head, were sunk\nand steeped in ignorance.'\n\nRichards quailed under the magnificence of the reproof.\n\n'I am far from being friendly,' pursued Mr Dombey, 'to what is called by\npersons of levelling sentiments, general education. But it is necessary\nthat the inferior classes should continue to be taught to know their\nposition, and to conduct themselves properly. So far I approve of\nschools. Having the power of nominating a child on the foundation of an\nancient establishment, called (from a worshipful company) the Charitable\nGrinders; where not only is a wholesome education bestowed upon the\nscholars, but where a dress and badge is likewise provided for them;\nI have (first communicating, through Mrs Chick, with your family)\nnominated your eldest son to an existing vacancy; and he has this day, I\nam informed, assumed the habit. The number of her son, I believe,' said\nMr Dombey, turning to his sister and speaking of the child as if he were\na hackney-coach, is one hundred and forty-seven. Louisa, you can tell\nher.'\n\n'One hundred and forty-seven,' said Mrs Chick 'The dress, Richards, is\na nice, warm, blue baize tailed coat and cap, turned up with orange\ncoloured binding; red worsted stockings; and very strong leather\nsmall-clothes. One might wear the articles one's self,' said Mrs Chick,\nwith enthusiasm, 'and be grateful.'\n\n'There, Richards!' said Miss Tox. 'Now, indeed, you may be proud. The\nCharitable Grinders!'\n\n'I am sure I am very much obliged, Sir,' returned Richards faintly, 'and\ntake it very kind that you should remember my little ones.' At the same\ntime a vision of Biler as a Charitable Grinder, with his very small legs\nencased in the serviceable clothing described by Mrs Chick, swam before\nRichards's eyes, and made them water.\n\n'I am very glad to see you have so much feeling, Richards,' said Miss\nTox.\n\n'It makes one almost hope, it really does,' said Mrs Chick, who prided\nherself on taking trustful views of human nature, 'that there may yet be\nsome faint spark of gratitude and right feeling in the world.'\n\nRichards deferred to these compliments by curtseying and murmuring\nher thanks; but finding it quite impossible to recover her spirits from\nthe disorder into which they had been thrown by the image of her son in\nhis precocious nether garments, she gradually approached the door and\nwas heartily relieved to escape by it.\n\nSuch temporary indications of a partial thaw that had appeared with her,\nvanished with her; and the frost set in again, as cold and hard as ever.\nMr Chick was twice heard to hum a tune at the bottom of the table, but\non both occasions it was a fragment of the Dead March in Saul. The party\nseemed to get colder and colder, and to be gradually resolving itself\ninto a congealed and solid state, like the collation round which it was\nassembled. At length Mrs Chick looked at Miss Tox, and Miss Tox returned\nthe look, and they both rose and said it was really time to go. Mr\nDombey receiving this announcement with perfect equanimity, they took\nleave of that gentleman, and presently departed under the protection of\nMr Chick; who, when they had turned their backs upon the house and left\nits master in his usual solitary state, put his hands in his pockets,\nthrew himself back in the carriage, and whistled 'With a hey ho chevy!'\nall through; conveying into his face as he did so, an expression of such\ngloomy and terrible defiance, that Mrs Chick dared not protest, or in\nany way molest him.\n\nRichards, though she had little Paul on her lap, could not forget her\nown first-born. She felt it was ungrateful; but the influence of the\nday fell even on the Charitable Grinders, and she could hardly help\nregarding his pewter badge, number one hundred and forty-seven, as,\nsomehow, a part of its formality and sternness. She spoke, too, in the\nnursery, of his 'blessed legs,' and was again troubled by his spectre in\nuniform.\n\n'I don't know what I wouldn't give,' said Polly, 'to see the poor little\ndear before he gets used to 'em.'\n\n'Why, then, I tell you what, Mrs Richards,' retorted Nipper, who had\nbeen admitted to her confidence, 'see him and make your mind easy.'\n\n'Mr Dombey wouldn't like it,' said Polly.\n\n'Oh, wouldn't he, Mrs Richards!' retorted Nipper, 'he'd like it very\nmuch, I think when he was asked.'\n\n'You wouldn't ask him, I suppose, at all?' said Polly.\n\n'No, Mrs Richards, quite contrairy,' returned Susan, 'and them two\ninspectors Tox and Chick, not intending to be on duty tomorrow, as I\nheard 'em say, me and Miss Floy will go along with you tomorrow morning,\nand welcome, Mrs Richards, if you like, for we may as well walk there as\nup and down a street, and better too.'\n\nPolly rejected the idea pretty stoutly at first; but by little and\nlittle she began to entertain it, as she entertained more and more\ndistinctly the forbidden pictures of her children, and her own home.\nAt length, arguing that there could be no great harm in calling for a\nmoment at the door, she yielded to the Nipper proposition.\n\nThe matter being settled thus, little Paul began to cry most piteously,\nas if he had a foreboding that no good would come of it.\n\n'What's the matter with the child?' asked Susan.\n\n'He's cold, I think,' said Polly, walking with him to and fro, and\nhushing him.\n\nIt was a bleak autumnal afternoon indeed; and as she walked, and hushed,\nand, glancing through the dreary windows, pressed the little fellow\ncloser to her breast, the withered leaves came showering down.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6. Paul's Second Deprivation\n\n\nPolly was beset by so many misgivings in the morning, that but for\nthe incessant promptings of her black-eyed companion, she would have\nabandoned all thoughts of the expedition, and formally petitioned for\nleave to see number one hundred and forty-seven, under the awful shadow\nof Mr Dombey's roof. But Susan who was personally disposed in favour\nof the excursion, and who (like Tony Lumpkin), if she could bear the\ndisappointments of other people with tolerable fortitude, could not\nabide to disappoint herself, threw so many ingenious doubts in the way\nof this second thought, and stimulated the original intention with so\nmany ingenious arguments, that almost as soon as Mr Dombey's stately\nback was turned, and that gentleman was pursuing his daily road towards\nthe City, his unconscious son was on his way to Staggs's Gardens.\n\nThis euphonious locality was situated in a suburb, known by the\ninhabitants of Staggs's Gardens by the name of Camberling Town; a\ndesignation which the Strangers' Map of London, as printed (with a\nview to pleasant and commodious reference) on pocket handkerchiefs,\ncondenses, with some show of reason, into Camden Town. Hither the two\nnurses bent their steps, accompanied by their charges; Richards carrying\nPaul, of course, and Susan leading little Florence by the hand, and\ngiving her such jerks and pokes from time to time, as she considered it\nwholesome to administer.\n\nThe first shock of a great earthquake had, just at that period, rent the\nwhole neighbourhood to its centre. Traces of its course were visible\non every side. Houses were knocked down; streets broken through and\nstopped; deep pits and trenches dug in the ground; enormous heaps of\nearth and clay thrown up; buildings that were undermined and shaking,\npropped by great beams of wood. Here, a chaos of carts, overthrown and\njumbled together, lay topsy-turvy at the bottom of a steep unnatural\nhill; there, confused treasures of iron soaked and rusted in something\nthat had accidentally become a pond. Everywhere were bridges that led\nnowhere; thoroughfares that were wholly impassable; Babel towers\nof chimneys, wanting half their height; temporary wooden houses\nand enclosures, in the most unlikely situations; carcases of ragged\ntenements, and fragments of unfinished walls and arches, and piles of\nscaffolding, and wildernesses of bricks, and giant forms of cranes, and\ntripods straddling above nothing. There were a hundred thousand shapes\nand substances of incompleteness, wildly mingled out of their places,\nupside down, burrowing in the earth, aspiring in the air, mouldering\nin the water, and unintelligible as any dream. Hot springs and\nfiery eruptions, the usual attendants upon earthquakes, lent their\ncontributions of confusion to the scene. Boiling water hissed and heaved\nwithin dilapidated walls; whence, also, the glare and roar of flames\ncame issuing forth; and mounds of ashes blocked up rights of way, and\nwholly changed the law and custom of the neighbourhood.\n\nIn short, the yet unfinished and unopened Railroad was in progress; and,\nfrom the very core of all this dire disorder, trailed smoothly away,\nupon its mighty course of civilisation and improvement.\n\nBut as yet, the neighbourhood was shy to own the Railroad. One or two\nbold speculators had projected streets; and one had built a little,\nbut had stopped among the mud and ashes to consider farther of it. A\nbran-new Tavern, redolent of fresh mortar and size, and fronting nothing\nat all, had taken for its sign The Railway Arms; but that might be rash\nenterprise--and then it hoped to sell drink to the workmen. So, the\nExcavators' House of Call had sprung up from a beer-shop; and the\nold-established Ham and Beef Shop had become the Railway Eating House,\nwith a roast leg of pork daily, through interested motives of a similar\nimmediate and popular description. Lodging-house keepers were favourable\nin like manner; and for the like reasons were not to be trusted. The\ngeneral belief was very slow. There were frowzy fields, and\ncow-houses, and dunghills, and dustheaps, and ditches, and gardens,\nand summer-houses, and carpet-beating grounds, at the very door of the\nRailway. Little tumuli of oyster shells in the oyster season, and of\nlobster shells in the lobster season, and of broken crockery and faded\ncabbage leaves in all seasons, encroached upon its high places. Posts,\nand rails, and old cautions to trespassers, and backs of mean houses,\nand patches of wretched vegetation, stared it out of countenance.\nNothing was the better for it, or thought of being so. If the miserable\nwaste ground lying near it could have laughed, it would have laughed it\nto scorn, like many of the miserable neighbours.\n\nStaggs's Gardens was uncommonly incredulous. It was a little row of\nhouses, with little squalid patches of ground before them, fenced off\nwith old doors, barrel staves, scraps of tarpaulin, and dead bushes;\nwith bottomless tin kettles and exhausted iron fenders, thrust into the\ngaps. Here, the Staggs's Gardeners trained scarlet beans, kept fowls\nand rabbits, erected rotten summer-houses (one was an old boat), dried\nclothes, and smoked pipes. Some were of opinion that Staggs's Gardens\nderived its name from a deceased capitalist, one Mr Staggs, who had\nbuilt it for his delectation. Others, who had a natural taste for the\ncountry, held that it dated from those rural times when the antlered\nherd, under the familiar denomination of Staggses, had resorted to its\nshady precincts. Be this as it may, Staggs's Gardens was regarded by\nits population as a sacred grove not to be withered by Railroads; and so\nconfident were they generally of its long outliving any such ridiculous\ninventions, that the master chimney-sweeper at the corner, who was\nunderstood to take the lead in the local politics of the Gardens, had\npublicly declared that on the occasion of the Railroad opening, if ever\nit did open, two of his boys should ascend the flues of his dwelling,\nwith instructions to hail the failure with derisive cheers from the\nchimney-pots.\n\nTo this unhallowed spot, the very name of which had hitherto been\ncarefully concealed from Mr Dombey by his sister, was little Paul now\nborne by Fate and Richards\n\n'That's my house, Susan,' said Polly, pointing it out.\n\n'Is it, indeed, Mrs Richards?' said Susan, condescendingly.\n\n'And there's my sister Jemima at the door, I do declare' cried Polly,\n'with my own sweet precious baby in her arms!'\n\nThe sight added such an extensive pair of wings to Polly's impatience,\nthat she set off down the Gardens at a run, and bouncing on Jemima,\nchanged babies with her in a twinkling; to the unutterable astonishment\nof that young damsel, on whom the heir of the Dombeys seemed to have\nfallen from the clouds.\n\n'Why, Polly!' cried Jemima. 'You! what a turn you have given me! who'd\nhave thought it! come along in Polly! How well you do look to be sure!\nThe children will go half wild to see you Polly, that they will.'\n\nThat they did, if one might judge from the noise they made, and the\nway in which they dashed at Polly and dragged her to a low chair in the\nchimney corner, where her own honest apple face became immediately the\ncentre of a bunch of smaller pippins, all laying their rosy cheeks close\nto it, and all evidently the growth of the same tree. As to Polly, she\nwas full as noisy and vehement as the children; and it was not until she\nwas quite out of breath, and her hair was hanging all about her flushed\nface, and her new christening attire was very much dishevelled, that any\npause took place in the confusion. Even then, the smallest Toodle but\none remained in her lap, holding on tight with both arms round her neck;\nwhile the smallest Toodle but two mounted on the back of the chair, and\nmade desperate efforts, with one leg in the air, to kiss her round the\ncorner.\n\n'Look! there's a pretty little lady come to see you,' said Polly; 'and\nsee how quiet she is! what a beautiful little lady, ain't she?'\n\nThis reference to Florence, who had been standing by the door not\nunobservant of what passed, directed the attention of the younger\nbranches towards her; and had likewise the happy effect of leading to\nthe formal recognition of Miss Nipper, who was not quite free from a\nmisgiving that she had been already slighted.\n\n'Oh do come in and sit down a minute, Susan, please,' said Polly. 'This\nis my sister Jemima, this is. Jemima, I don't know what I should ever do\nwith myself, if it wasn't for Susan Nipper; I shouldn't be here now but\nfor her.'\n\n'Oh do sit down, Miss Nipper, if you please,' quoth Jemima.\n\nSusan took the extreme corner of a chair, with a stately and ceremonious\naspect.\n\n'I never was so glad to see anybody in all my life; now really I never\nwas, Miss Nipper,' said Jemima.\n\nSusan relaxing, took a little more of the chair, and smiled graciously.\n\n'Do untie your bonnet-strings, and make yourself at home, Miss Nipper,\nplease,' entreated Jemima. 'I am afraid it's a poorer place than you're\nused to; but you'll make allowances, I'm sure.'\n\nThe black-eyed was so softened by this deferential behaviour, that\nshe caught up little Miss Toodle who was running past, and took her to\nBanbury Cross immediately.\n\n'But where's my pretty boy?' said Polly. 'My poor fellow? I came all\nthis way to see him in his new clothes.'\n\n'Ah what a pity!' cried Jemima. 'He'll break his heart, when he hears\nhis mother has been here. He's at school, Polly.'\n\n'Gone already!'\n\n'Yes. He went for the first time yesterday, for fear he should lose any\nlearning. But it's half-holiday, Polly: if you could only stop till he\ncomes home--you and Miss Nipper, leastways,' said Jemima, mindful in\ngood time of the dignity of the black-eyed.\n\n'And how does he look, Jemima, bless him!' faltered Polly.\n\n'Well, really he don't look so bad as you'd suppose,' returned Jemima.\n\n'Ah!' said Polly, with emotion, 'I knew his legs must be too short.'\n\n'His legs is short,' returned Jemima; 'especially behind; but they'll get\nlonger, Polly, every day.'\n\nIt was a slow, prospective kind of consolation; but the cheerfulness and\ngood nature with which it was administered, gave it a value it did not\nintrinsically possess. After a moment's silence, Polly asked, in a more\nsprightly manner:\n\n'And where's Father, Jemima dear?'--for by that patriarchal appellation,\nMr Toodle was generally known in the family.\n\n'There again!' said Jemima. 'What a pity! Father took his dinner with\nhim this morning, and isn't coming home till night. But he's always\ntalking of you, Polly, and telling the children about you; and is the\npeaceablest, patientest, best-temperedest soul in the world, as he\nalways was and will be!'\n\n'Thankee, Jemima,' cried the simple Polly; delighted by the speech, and\ndisappointed by the absence.\n\n'Oh you needn't thank me, Polly,' said her sister, giving her a sounding\nkiss upon the cheek, and then dancing little Paul cheerfully. 'I say the\nsame of you sometimes, and think it too.'\n\nIn spite of the double disappointment, it was impossible to regard in\nthe light of a failure a visit which was greeted with such a reception;\nso the sisters talked hopefully about family matters, and about Biler,\nand about all his brothers and sisters: while the black-eyed, having\nperformed several journeys to Banbury Cross and back, took sharp note\nof the furniture, the Dutch clock, the cupboard, the castle on\nthe mantel-piece with red and green windows in it, susceptible of\nillumination by a candle-end within; and the pair of small black velvet\nkittens, each with a lady's reticule in its mouth; regarded by the\nStaggs's Gardeners as prodigies of imitative art. The conversation soon\nbecoming general lest the black-eyed should go off at score and turn\nsarcastic, that young lady related to Jemima a summary of everything\nshe knew concerning Mr Dombey, his prospects, family, pursuits, and\ncharacter. Also an exact inventory of her personal wardrobe, and some\naccount of her principal relations and friends. Having relieved her mind\nof these disclosures, she partook of shrimps and porter, and evinced a\ndisposition to swear eternal friendship.\n\nLittle Florence herself was not behind-hand in improving the occasion;\nfor, being conducted forth by the young Toodles to inspect some\ntoad-stools and other curiosities of the Gardens, she entered with them,\nheart and soul, on the formation of a temporary breakwater across a\nsmall green pool that had collected in a corner. She was still busily\nengaged in that labour, when sought and found by Susan; who, such was\nher sense of duty, even under the humanizing influence of shrimps,\ndelivered a moral address to her (punctuated with thumps) on her\ndegenerate nature, while washing her face and hands; and predicted that\nshe would bring the grey hairs of her family in general, with sorrow to\nthe grave. After some delay, occasioned by a pretty long confidential\ninterview above stairs on pecuniary subjects, between Polly and Jemima,\nan interchange of babies was again effected--for Polly had all this\ntime retained her own child, and Jemima little Paul--and the visitors\ntook leave.\n\nBut first the young Toodles, victims of a pious fraud, were deluded into\nrepairing in a body to a chandler's shop in the neighbourhood, for the\nostensible purpose of spending a penny; and when the coast was quite\nclear, Polly fled: Jemima calling after her that if they could only go\nround towards the City Road on their way back, they would be sure to\nmeet little Biler coming from school.\n\n'Do you think that we might make time to go a little round in that\ndirection, Susan?' inquired Polly, when they halted to take breath.\n\n'Why not, Mrs Richards?' returned Susan.\n\n'It's getting on towards our dinner time you know,' said Polly.\n\nBut lunch had rendered her companion more than indifferent to this grave\nconsideration, so she allowed no weight to it, and they resolved to go\n'a little round.'\n\nNow, it happened that poor Biler's life had been, since yesterday\nmorning, rendered weary by the costume of the Charitable Grinders. The\nyouth of the streets could not endure it. No young vagabond could be\nbrought to bear its contemplation for a moment, without throwing himself\nupon the unoffending wearer, and doing him a mischief. His social\nexistence had been more like that of an early Christian, than an\ninnocent child of the nineteenth century. He had been stoned in the\nstreets. He had been overthrown into gutters; bespattered with mud;\nviolently flattened against posts. Entire strangers to his person had\nlifted his yellow cap off his head, and cast it to the winds. His legs\nhad not only undergone verbal criticisms and revilings, but had been\nhandled and pinched. That very morning, he had received a perfectly\nunsolicited black eye on his way to the Grinders' establishment, and\nhad been punished for it by the master: a superannuated old Grinder\nof savage disposition, who had been appointed schoolmaster because he\ndidn't know anything, and wasn't fit for anything, and for whose cruel\ncane all chubby little boys had a perfect fascination.\n\nThus it fell out that Biler, on his way home, sought unfrequented\npaths; and slunk along by narrow passages and back streets, to avoid\nhis tormentors. Being compelled to emerge into the main road, his ill\nfortune brought him at last where a small party of boys, headed by a\nferocious young butcher, were lying in wait for any means of pleasurable\nexcitement that might happen. These, finding a Charitable Grinder in\nthe midst of them--unaccountably delivered over, as it were, into their\nhands--set up a general yell and rushed upon him.\n\nBut it so fell out likewise, that, at the same time, Polly, looking\nhopelessly along the road before her, after a good hour's walk, had said\nit was no use going any further, when suddenly she saw this sight. She\nno sooner saw it than, uttering a hasty exclamation, and giving Master\nDombey to the black-eyed, she started to the rescue of her unhappy\nlittle son.\n\nSurprises, like misfortunes, rarely come alone. The astonished Susan\nNipper and her two young charges were rescued by the bystanders from\nunder the very wheels of a passing carriage before they knew what had\nhappened; and at that moment (it was market day) a thundering alarm of\n'Mad Bull!' was raised.\n\nWith a wild confusion before her, of people running up and down, and\nshouting, and wheels running over them, and boys fighting, and mad bulls\ncoming up, and the nurse in the midst of all these dangers being torn\nto pieces, Florence screamed and ran. She ran till she was exhausted,\nurging Susan to do the same; and then, stopping and wringing her hands\nas she remembered they had left the other nurse behind, found, with a\nsensation of terror not to be described, that she was quite alone.\n\n'Susan! Susan!' cried Florence, clapping her hands in the very ecstasy\nof her alarm. 'Oh, where are they? where are they?'\n\n'Where are they?' said an old woman, coming hobbling across as fast as\nshe could from the opposite side of the way. 'Why did you run away from\n'em?'\n\n'I was frightened,' answered Florence. 'I didn't know what I did. I\nthought they were with me. Where are they?'\n\nThe old woman took her by the wrist, and said, 'I'll show you.'\n\nShe was a very ugly old woman, with red rims round her eyes, and a mouth\nthat mumbled and chattered of itself when she was not speaking. She was\nmiserably dressed, and carried some skins over her arm. She seemed to\nhave followed Florence some little way at all events, for she had lost\nher breath; and this made her uglier still, as she stood trying to\nregain it: working her shrivelled yellow face and throat into all sorts\nof contortions.\n\nFlorence was afraid of her, and looked, hesitating, up the street, of\nwhich she had almost reached the bottom. It was a solitary place--more a\nback road than a street--and there was no one in it but her-self and the\nold woman.\n\n'You needn't be frightened now,' said the old woman, still holding her\ntight. 'Come along with me.'\n\n'I--I don't know you. What's your name?' asked Florence.\n\n'Mrs Brown,' said the old woman. 'Good Mrs Brown.'\n\n'Are they near here?' asked Florence, beginning to be led away.\n\n'Susan ain't far off,' said Good Mrs Brown; 'and the others are close to\nher.'\n\n'Is anybody hurt?' cried Florence.\n\n'Not a bit of it,' said Good Mrs Brown.\n\nThe child shed tears of delight on hearing this, and accompanied the old\nwoman willingly; though she could not help glancing at her face as\nthey went along--particularly at that industrious mouth--and wondering\nwhether Bad Mrs Brown, if there were such a person, was at all like her.\n\nThey had not gone far, but had gone by some very uncomfortable places,\nsuch as brick-fields and tile-yards, when the old woman turned down a\ndirty lane, where the mud lay in deep black ruts in the middle of the\nroad. She stopped before a shabby little house, as closely shut up as\na house that was full of cracks and crevices could be. Opening the door\nwith a key she took out of her bonnet, she pushed the child before her\ninto a back room, where there was a great heap of rags of different\ncolours lying on the floor; a heap of bones, and a heap of sifted dust\nor cinders; but there was no furniture at all, and the walls and ceiling\nwere quite black.\n\nThe child became so terrified the she was stricken speechless, and\nlooked as though about to swoon.\n\n'Now don't be a young mule,' said Good Mrs Brown, reviving her with a\nshake. 'I'm not a going to hurt you. Sit upon the rags.'\n\nFlorence obeyed her, holding out her folded hands, in mute supplication.\n\n'I'm not a going to keep you, even, above an hour,' said Mrs Brown.\n'D'ye understand what I say?'\n\nThe child answered with great difficulty, 'Yes.'\n\n'Then,' said Good Mrs Brown, taking her own seat on the bones, 'don't\nvex me. If you don't, I tell you I won't hurt you. But if you do, I'll\nkill you. I could have you killed at any time--even if you was in your\nown bed at home. Now let's know who you are, and what you are, and all\nabout it.'\n\nThe old woman's threats and promises; the dread of giving her offence;\nand the habit, unusual to a child, but almost natural to Florence now,\nof being quiet, and repressing what she felt, and feared, and hoped;\nenabled her to do this bidding, and to tell her little history, or what\nshe knew of it. Mrs Brown listened attentively, until she had finished.\n\n'So your name's Dombey, eh?' said Mrs Brown.\n\n'I want that pretty frock, Miss Dombey,' said Good Mrs Brown, 'and that\nlittle bonnet, and a petticoat or two, and anything else you can spare.\nCome! Take 'em off.'\n\nFlorence obeyed, as fast as her trembling hands would allow; keeping,\nall the while, a frightened eye on Mrs Brown. When she had divested\nherself of all the articles of apparel mentioned by that lady, Mrs B.\nexamined them at leisure, and seemed tolerably well satisfied with their\nquality and value.\n\n'Humph!' she said, running her eyes over the child's slight figure, 'I\ndon't see anything else--except the shoes. I must have the shoes, Miss\nDombey.'\n\nPoor little Florence took them off with equal alacrity, only too glad\nto have any more means of conciliation about her. The old woman then\nproduced some wretched substitutes from the bottom of the heap of rags,\nwhich she turned up for that purpose; together with a girl's cloak,\nquite worn out and very old; and the crushed remains of a bonnet that\nhad probably been picked up from some ditch or dunghill. In this\ndainty raiment, she instructed Florence to dress herself; and as such\npreparation seemed a prelude to her release, the child complied with\nincreased readiness, if possible.\n\nIn hurriedly putting on the bonnet, if that may be called a bonnet which\nwas more like a pad to carry loads on, she caught it in her hair which\ngrew luxuriantly, and could not immediately disentangle it. Good\nMrs Brown whipped out a large pair of scissors, and fell into an\nunaccountable state of excitement.\n\n'Why couldn't you let me be!' said Mrs Brown, 'when I was contented? You\nlittle fool!'\n\n'I beg your pardon. I don't know what I have done,' panted Florence. 'I\ncouldn't help it.'\n\n'Couldn't help it!' cried Mrs Brown. 'How do you expect I can help\nit? Why, Lord!' said the old woman, ruffling her curls with a furious\npleasure, 'anybody but me would have had 'em off, first of all.'\n\nFlorence was so relieved to find that it was only her hair and not\nher head which Mrs Brown coveted, that she offered no resistance or\nentreaty, and merely raised her mild eyes towards the face of that good\nsoul.\n\n'If I hadn't once had a gal of my own--beyond seas now--that was proud\nof her hair,' said Mrs Brown, 'I'd have had every lock of it. She's far\naway, she's far away! Oho! Oho!'\n\nMrs Brown's was not a melodious cry, but, accompanied with a wild\ntossing up of her lean arms, it was full of passionate grief, and\nthrilled to the heart of Florence, whom it frightened more than ever.\nIt had its part, perhaps, in saving her curls; for Mrs Brown, after\nhovering about her with the scissors for some moments, like a new kind\nof butterfly, bade her hide them under the bonnet and let no trace of\nthem escape to tempt her. Having accomplished this victory over herself,\nMrs Brown resumed her seat on the bones, and smoked a very short black\npipe, mowing and mumbling all the time, as if she were eating the stem.\n\nWhen the pipe was smoked out, she gave the child a rabbit-skin to carry,\nthat she might appear the more like her ordinary companion, and told her\nthat she was now going to lead her to a public street whence she could\ninquire her way to her friends. But she cautioned her, with threats of\nsummary and deadly vengeance in case of disobedience, not to talk to\nstrangers, nor to repair to her own home (which may have been too near\nfor Mrs Brown's convenience), but to her father's office in the City;\nalso to wait at the street corner where she would be left, until the\nclock struck three. These directions Mrs Brown enforced with assurances\nthat there would be potent eyes and ears in her employment cognizant\nof all she did; and these directions Florence promised faithfully and\nearnestly to observe.\n\nAt length, Mrs Brown, issuing forth, conducted her changed and ragged\nlittle friend through a labyrinth of narrow streets and lanes and\nalleys, which emerged, after a long time, upon a stable yard, with a\ngateway at the end, whence the roar of a great thoroughfare made itself\naudible. Pointing out this gateway, and informing Florence that when the\nclocks struck three she was to go to the left, Mrs Brown, after making a\nparting grasp at her hair which seemed involuntary and quite beyond her\nown control, told her she knew what to do, and bade her go and do it:\nremembering that she was watched.\n\nWith a lighter heart, but still sore afraid, Florence felt herself\nreleased, and tripped off to the corner. When she reached it, she looked\nback and saw the head of Good Mrs Brown peeping out of the low wooden\npassage, where she had issued her parting injunctions; likewise the fist\nof Good Mrs Brown shaking towards her. But though she often looked back\nafterwards--every minute, at least, in her nervous recollection of the\nold woman--she could not see her again.\n\nFlorence remained there, looking at the bustle in the street, and more\nand more bewildered by it; and in the meanwhile the clocks appeared to\nhave made up their minds never to strike three any more. At last the\nsteeples rang out three o'clock; there was one close by, so she couldn't\nbe mistaken; and--after often looking over her shoulder, and often going\na little way, and as often coming back again, lest the all-powerful\nspies of Mrs Brown should take offence--she hurried off, as fast as she\ncould in her slipshod shoes, holding the rabbit-skin tight in her hand.\n\nAll she knew of her father's offices was that they belonged to Dombey\nand Son, and that that was a great power belonging to the City. So\nshe could only ask the way to Dombey and Son's in the City; and as\nshe generally made inquiry of children--being afraid to ask grown\npeople--she got very little satisfaction indeed. But by dint of asking\nher way to the City after a while, and dropping the rest of her inquiry\nfor the present, she really did advance, by slow degrees, towards the\nheart of that great region which is governed by the terrible Lord Mayor.\n\nTired of walking, repulsed and pushed about, stunned by the noise and\nconfusion, anxious for her brother and the nurses, terrified by what she\nhad undergone, and the prospect of encountering her angry father in such\nan altered state; perplexed and frightened alike by what had passed, and\nwhat was passing, and what was yet before her; Florence went upon her\nweary way with tearful eyes, and once or twice could not help stopping\nto ease her bursting heart by crying bitterly. But few people noticed\nher at those times, in the garb she wore: or if they did, believed that\nshe was tutored to excite compassion, and passed on. Florence, too,\ncalled to her aid all the firmness and self-reliance of a character that\nher sad experience had prematurely formed and tried: and keeping the end\nshe had in view steadily before her, steadily pursued it.\n\nIt was full two hours later in the afternoon than when she had started\non this strange adventure, when, escaping from the clash and clangour\nof a narrow street full of carts and waggons, she peeped into a kind\nof wharf or landing-place upon the river-side, where there were a great\nmany packages, casks, and boxes, strewn about; a large pair of wooden\nscales; and a little wooden house on wheels, outside of which, looking\nat the neighbouring masts and boats, a stout man stood whistling, with\nhis pen behind his ear, and his hands in his pockets, as if his day's\nwork were nearly done.\n\n'Now then!' said this man, happening to turn round. 'We haven't got\nanything for you, little girl. Be off!'\n\n'If you please, is this the City?' asked the trembling daughter of the\nDombeys.\n\n'Ah! It's the City. You know that well enough, I daresay. Be off! We\nhaven't got anything for you.'\n\n'I don't want anything, thank you,' was the timid answer. 'Except to\nknow the way to Dombey and Son's.'\n\nThe man who had been strolling carelessly towards her, seemed surprised\nby this reply, and looking attentively in her face, rejoined:\n\n'Why, what can you want with Dombey and Son's?'\n\n'To know the way there, if you please.'\n\nThe man looked at her yet more curiously, and rubbed the back of his\nhead so hard in his wonderment that he knocked his own hat off.\n\n'Joe!' he called to another man--a labourer--as he picked it up and put\nit on again.\n\n'Joe it is!' said Joe.\n\n'Where's that young spark of Dombey's who's been watching the shipment\nof them goods?'\n\n'Just gone, by t'other gate,' said Joe.\n\n'Call him back a minute.'\n\nJoe ran up an archway, bawling as he went, and very soon returned\nwith a blithe-looking boy.\n\n'You're Dombey's jockey, ain't you?' said the first man.\n\n'I'm in Dombey's House, Mr Clark,' returned the boy.\n\n'Look'ye here, then,' said Mr Clark.\n\nObedient to the indication of Mr Clark's hand, the boy approached\ntowards Florence, wondering, as well he might, what he had to do with\nher. But she, who had heard what passed, and who, besides the relief\nof so suddenly considering herself safe at her journey's end, felt\nreassured beyond all measure by his lively youthful face and manner, ran\neagerly up to him, leaving one of the slipshod shoes upon the ground and\ncaught his hand in both of hers.\n\n'I am lost, if you please!' said Florence.\n\n'Lost!' cried the boy.\n\n'Yes, I was lost this morning, a long way from here--and I have had my\nclothes taken away, since--and I am not dressed in my own now--and my\nname is Florence Dombey, my little brother's only sister--and, oh dear,\ndear, take care of me, if you please!' sobbed Florence, giving full vent\nto the childish feelings she had so long suppressed, and bursting into\ntears. At the same time her miserable bonnet falling off, her hair\ncame tumbling down about her face: moving to speechless admiration\nand commiseration, young Walter, nephew of Solomon Gills, Ships'\nInstrument-maker in general.\n\nMr Clark stood rapt in amazement: observing under his breath, I never\nsaw such a start on this wharf before. Walter picked up the shoe, and\nput it on the little foot as the Prince in the story might have fitted\nCinderella's slipper on. He hung the rabbit-skin over his left arm;\ngave the right to Florence; and felt, not to say like Richard\nWhittington--that is a tame comparison--but like Saint George of\nEngland, with the dragon lying dead before him.\n\n'Don't cry, Miss Dombey,' said Walter, in a transport of enthusiasm.\n'What a wonderful thing for me that I am here! You are as safe now as if\nyou were guarded by a whole boat's crew of picked men from a man-of-war.\nOh, don't cry.'\n\n'I won't cry any more,' said Florence. 'I am only crying for joy.'\n\n'Crying for joy!' thought Walter, 'and I'm the cause of it! Come along,\nMiss Dombey. There's the other shoe off now! Take mine, Miss Dombey.'\n\n'No, no, no,' said Florence, checking him in the act of impetuously\npulling off his own. 'These do better. These do very well.'\n\n'Why, to be sure,' said Walter, glancing at her foot, 'mine are a mile\ntoo large. What am I thinking about! You never could walk in mine! Come\nalong, Miss Dombey. Let me see the villain who will dare molest you\nnow.'\n\nSo Walter, looking immensely fierce, led off Florence, looking very\nhappy; and they went arm-in-arm along the streets, perfectly indifferent\nto any astonishment that their appearance might or did excite by the\nway.\n\nIt was growing dark and foggy, and beginning to rain too; but they cared\nnothing for this: being both wholly absorbed in the late adventures of\nFlorence, which she related with the innocent good faith and confidence\nof her years, while Walter listened as if, far from the mud and grease\nof Thames Street, they were rambling alone among the broad leaves and\ntall trees of some desert island in the tropics--as he very likely\nfancied, for the time, they were.\n\n'Have we far to go?' asked Florence at last, lilting up her eyes to her\ncompanion's face.\n\n'Ah! By-the-bye,' said Walter, stopping, 'let me see; where are we? Oh!\nI know. But the offices are shut up now, Miss Dombey. There's nobody\nthere. Mr Dombey has gone home long ago. I suppose we must go home too?\nor, stay. Suppose I take you to my Uncle's, where I live--it's very near\nhere--and go to your house in a coach to tell them you are safe, and\nbring you back some clothes. Won't that be best?'\n\n'I think so,' answered Florence. 'Don't you? What do you think?'\n\nAs they stood deliberating in the street, a man passed them, who glanced\nquickly at Walter as he went by, as if he recognised him; but seeming to\ncorrect that first impression, he passed on without stopping.\n\n'Why, I think it's Mr Carker,' said Walter. 'Carker in our House. Not\nCarker our Manager, Miss Dombey--the other Carker; the Junior--Halloa!\nMr Carker!'\n\n'Is that Walter Gay?' said the other, stopping and returning. 'I\ncouldn't believe it, with such a strange companion.'\n\nAs he stood near a lamp, listening with surprise to Walter's hurried\nexplanation, he presented a remarkable contrast to the two youthful\nfigures arm-in-arm before him. He was not old, but his hair was white;\nhis body was bent, or bowed as if by the weight of some great trouble:\nand there were deep lines in his worn and melancholy face. The fire of\nhis eyes, the expression of his features, the very voice in which he\nspoke, were all subdued and quenched, as if the spirit within him lay\nin ashes. He was respectably, though very plainly dressed, in black; but\nhis clothes, moulded to the general character of his figure, seemed\nto shrink and abase themselves upon him, and to join in the sorrowful\nsolicitation which the whole man from head to foot expressed, to be left\nunnoticed, and alone in his humility.\n\nAnd yet his interest in youth and hopefulness was not extinguished\nwith the other embers of his soul, for he watched the boy's earnest\ncountenance as he spoke with unusual sympathy, though with an\ninexplicable show of trouble and compassion, which escaped into his\nlooks, however hard he strove to hold it prisoner. When Walter, in\nconclusion, put to him the question he had put to Florence, he still\nstood glancing at him with the same expression, as if he had read some\nfate upon his face, mournfully at variance with its present brightness.\n\n'What do you advise, Mr Carker?' said Walter, smiling. 'You always give\nme good advice, you know, when you do speak to me. That's not often,\nthough.'\n\n'I think your own idea is the best,' he answered: looking from Florence\nto Walter, and back again.\n\n'Mr Carker,' said Walter, brightening with a generous thought, 'Come!\nHere's a chance for you. Go you to Mr Dombey's, and be the messenger of\ngood news. It may do you some good, Sir. I'll remain at home. You shall\ngo.'\n\n'I!' returned the other.\n\n'Yes. Why not, Mr Carker?' said the boy.\n\nHe merely shook him by the hand in answer; he seemed in a manner ashamed\nand afraid even to do that; and bidding him good-night, and advising him\nto make haste, turned away.\n\n'Come, Miss Dombey,' said Walter, looking after him as they turned away\nalso, 'we'll go to my Uncle's as quick as we can. Did you ever hear Mr\nDombey speak of Mr Carker the Junior, Miss Florence?'\n\n'No,' returned the child, mildly, 'I don't often hear Papa speak.'\n\n'Ah! true! more shame for him,' thought Walter. After a minute's pause,\nduring which he had been looking down upon the gentle patient little\nface moving on at his side, he said, 'The strangest man, Mr Carker\nthe Junior is, Miss Florence, that ever you heard of. If you could\nunderstand what an extraordinary interest he takes in me, and yet how he\nshuns me and avoids me; and what a low place he holds in our office, and\nhow he is never advanced, and never complains, though year after year\nhe sees young men passed over his head, and though his brother (younger\nthan he is), is our head Manager, you would be as much puzzled about him\nas I am.'\n\nAs Florence could hardly be expected to understand much about it, Walter\nbestirred himself with his accustomed boyish animation and restlessness\nto change the subject; and one of the unfortunate shoes coming off again\nopportunely, proposed to carry Florence to his uncle's in his arms.\nFlorence, though very tired, laughingly declined the proposal, lest\nhe should let her fall; and as they were already near the wooden\nMidshipman, and as Walter went on to cite various precedents, from\nshipwrecks and other moving accidents, where younger boys than he had\ntriumphantly rescued and carried off older girls than Florence, they\nwere still in full conversation about it when they arrived at the\nInstrument-maker's door.\n\n'Holloa, Uncle Sol!' cried Walter, bursting into the shop, and speaking\nincoherently and out of breath, from that time forth, for the rest of\nthe evening. 'Here's a wonderful adventure! Here's Mr Dombey's daughter\nlost in the streets, and robbed of her clothes by an old witch of a\nwoman--found by me--brought home to our parlour to rest--look here!'\n\n'Good Heaven!' said Uncle Sol, starting back against his favourite\ncompass-case. 'It can't be! Well, I--'\n\n'No, nor anybody else,' said Walter, anticipating the rest. 'Nobody\nwould, nobody could, you know. Here! just help me lift the little sofa\nnear the fire, will you, Uncle Sol--take care of the plates--cut some\ndinner for her, will you, Uncle--throw those shoes under the grate. Miss\nFlorence--put your feet on the fender to dry--how damp they are--here's\nan adventure, Uncle, eh?--God bless my soul, how hot I am!'\n\nSolomon Gills was quite as hot, by sympathy, and in excessive\nbewilderment. He patted Florence's head, pressed her to eat, pressed\nher to drink, rubbed the soles of her feet with his pocket-handkerchief\nheated at the fire, followed his locomotive nephew with his eyes, and\nears, and had no clear perception of anything except that he was being\nconstantly knocked against and tumbled over by that excited young\ngentleman, as he darted about the room attempting to accomplish twenty\nthings at once, and doing nothing at all.\n\n'Here, wait a minute, Uncle,' he continued, catching up a candle, 'till\nI run upstairs, and get another jacket on, and then I'll be off. I say,\nUncle, isn't this an adventure?'\n\n'My dear boy,' said Solomon, who, with his spectacles on his forehead\nand the great chronometer in his pocket, was incessantly oscillating\nbetween Florence on the sofa, and his nephew in all parts of the\nparlour, 'it's the most extraordinary--'\n\n'No, but do, Uncle, please--do, Miss Florence--dinner, you know, Uncle.'\n\n'Yes, yes, yes,' cried Solomon, cutting instantly into a leg of mutton,\nas if he were catering for a giant. 'I'll take care of her, Wally! I\nunderstand. Pretty dear! Famished, of course. You go and get ready. Lord\nbless me! Sir Richard Whittington thrice Lord Mayor of London.'\n\nWalter was not very long in mounting to his lofty garret and descending\nfrom it, but in the meantime Florence, overcome by fatigue, had sunk\ninto a doze before the fire. The short interval of quiet, though only\na few minutes in duration, enabled Solomon Gills so far to collect his\nwits as to make some little arrangements for her comfort, and to darken\nthe room, and to screen her from the blaze. Thus, when the boy returned,\nshe was sleeping peacefully.\n\n'That's capital!' he whispered, giving Solomon such a hug that it\nsqueezed a new expression into his face. 'Now I'm off. I'll just take a\ncrust of bread with me, for I'm very hungry--and don't wake her, Uncle\nSol.'\n\n'No, no,' said Solomon. 'Pretty child.'\n\n'Pretty, indeed!' cried Walter. 'I never saw such a face, Uncle Sol. Now\nI'm off.'\n\n'That's right,' said Solomon, greatly relieved.\n\n'I say, Uncle Sol,' cried Walter, putting his face in at the door.\n\n'Here he is again,' said Solomon.\n\n'How does she look now?'\n\n'Quite happy,' said Solomon.\n\n'That's famous! now I'm off.'\n\n'I hope you are,' said Solomon to himself.\n\n'I say, Uncle Sol,' cried Walter, reappearing at the door.\n\n'Here he is again!' said Solomon.\n\n'We met Mr Carker the Junior in the street, queerer than ever. He bade\nme good-bye, but came behind us here--there's an odd thing!--for when we\nreached the shop door, I looked round, and saw him going quietly away,\nlike a servant who had seen me home, or a faithful dog. How does she\nlook now, Uncle?'\n\n'Pretty much the same as before, Wally,' replied Uncle Sol.\n\n'That's right. Now I am off!'\n\nAnd this time he really was: and Solomon Gills, with no appetite for\ndinner, sat on the opposite side of the fire, watching Florence in\nher slumber, building a great many airy castles of the most fantastic\narchitecture; and looking, in the dim shade, and in the close vicinity\nof all the instruments, like a magician disguised in a Welsh wig and a\nsuit of coffee colour, who held the child in an enchanted sleep.\n\nIn the meantime, Walter proceeded towards Mr Dombey's house at a pace\nseldom achieved by a hack horse from the stand; and yet with his head\nout of window every two or three minutes, in impatient remonstrance\nwith the driver. Arriving at his journey's end, he leaped out, and\nbreathlessly announcing his errand to the servant, followed him straight\ninto the library, we there was a great confusion of tongues, and where\nMr Dombey, his sister, and Miss Tox, Richards, and Nipper, were all\ncongregated together.\n\n'Oh! I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Walter, rushing up to him, 'but I'm\nhappy to say it's all right, Sir. Miss Dombey's found!'\n\nThe boy with his open face, and flowing hair, and sparkling eyes,\npanting with pleasure and excitement, was wonderfully opposed to Mr\nDombey, as he sat confronting him in his library chair.\n\n'I told you, Louisa, that she would certainly be found,' said Mr Dombey,\nlooking slightly over his shoulder at that lady, who wept in company\nwith Miss Tox. 'Let the servants know that no further steps are\nnecessary. This boy who brings the information, is young Gay, from the\noffice. How was my daughter found, Sir? I know how she was lost.' Here\nhe looked majestically at Richards. 'But how was she found? Who found\nher?'\n\n'Why, I believe I found Miss Dombey, Sir,' said Walter modestly, 'at\nleast I don't know that I can claim the merit of having exactly found\nher, Sir, but I was the fortunate instrument of--'\n\n'What do you mean, Sir,' interrupted Mr Dombey, regarding the boy's\nevident pride and pleasure in his share of the transaction with an\ninstinctive dislike, 'by not having exactly found my daughter, and by\nbeing a fortunate instrument? Be plain and coherent, if you please.'\n\nIt was quite out of Walter's power to be coherent; but he rendered\nhimself as explanatory as he could, in his breathless state, and stated\nwhy he had come alone.\n\n'You hear this, girl?' said Mr Dombey sternly to the black-eyed. 'Take\nwhat is necessary, and return immediately with this young man to fetch\nMiss Florence home. Gay, you will be rewarded to-morrow.'\n\n'Oh! thank you, Sir,' said Walter. 'You are very kind. I'm sure I was\nnot thinking of any reward, Sir.'\n\n'You are a boy,' said Mr Dombey, suddenly and almost fiercely; 'and what\nyou think of, or affect to think of, is of little consequence. You\nhave done well, Sir. Don't undo it. Louisa, please to give the lad some\nwine.'\n\nMr Dombey's glance followed Walter Gay with sharp disfavour, as he left\nthe room under the pilotage of Mrs Chick; and it may be that his mind's\neye followed him with no greater relish, as he rode back to his Uncle's\nwith Miss Susan Nipper.\n\nThere they found that Florence, much refreshed by sleep, had dined, and\ngreatly improved the acquaintance of Solomon Gills, with whom she was on\nterms of perfect confidence and ease. The black-eyed (who had cried so\nmuch that she might now be called the red-eyed, and who was very silent\nand depressed) caught her in her arms without a word of contradiction or\nreproach, and made a very hysterical meeting of it. Then converting the\nparlour, for the nonce, into a private tiring room, she dressed her,\nwith great care, in proper clothes; and presently led her forth, as like\na Dombey as her natural disqualifications admitted of her being made.\n\n'Good-night!' said Florence, running up to Solomon. 'You have been very\ngood to me.'\n\nOld Sol was quite delighted, and kissed her like her grand-father.\n\n'Good-night, Walter! Good-bye!' said Florence.\n\n'Good-bye!' said Walter, giving both his hands.\n\n'I'll never forget you,' pursued Florence. 'No! indeed I never will.\nGood-bye, Walter!'\n\nIn the innocence of her grateful heart, the child lifted up her face to\nhis. Walter, bending down his own, raised it again, all red and burning;\nand looked at Uncle Sol, quite sheepishly.\n\n'Where's Walter?' 'Good-night, Walter!' 'Good-bye, Walter!' 'Shake hands\nonce more, Walter!' This was still Florence's cry, after she was shut up\nwith her little maid, in the coach. And when the coach at length\nmoved off, Walter on the door-step gaily returned the waving of her\nhandkerchief, while the wooden Midshipman behind him seemed, like\nhimself, intent upon that coach alone, excluding all the other passing\ncoaches from his observation.\n\nIn good time Mr Dombey's mansion was gained again, and again there was\na noise of tongues in the library. Again, too, the coach was ordered\nto wait--'for Mrs Richards,' one of Susan's fellow-servants ominously\nwhispered, as she passed with Florence.\n\nThe entrance of the lost child made a slight sensation, but not much. Mr\nDombey, who had never found her, kissed her once upon the forehead, and\ncautioned her not to run away again, or wander anywhere with treacherous\nattendants. Mrs Chick stopped in her lamentations on the corruption of\nhuman nature, even when beckoned to the paths of virtue by a Charitable\nGrinder; and received her with a welcome something short of the\nreception due to none but perfect Dombeys. Miss Tox regulated her\nfeelings by the models before her. Richards, the culprit Richards, alone\npoured out her heart in broken words of welcome, and bowed herself over\nthe little wandering head as if she really loved it.\n\n'Ah, Richards!' said Mrs Chick, with a sigh. 'It would have been much\nmore satisfactory to those who wish to think well of their fellow\ncreatures, and much more becoming in you, if you had shown some\nproper feeling, in time, for the little child that is now going to be\nprematurely deprived of its natural nourishment.\n\n'Cut off,' said Miss Tox, in a plaintive whisper, 'from one common\nfountain!'\n\n'If it was my ungrateful case,' said Mrs Chick, solemnly, 'and I had your\nreflections, Richards, I should feel as if the Charitable Grinders'\ndress would blight my child, and the education choke him.'\n\nFor the matter of that--but Mrs Chick didn't know it--he had been pretty\nwell blighted by the dress already; and as to the education, even its\nretributive effect might be produced in time, for it was a storm of sobs\nand blows.\n\n'Louisa!' said Mr Dombey. 'It is not necessary to prolong these\nobservations. The woman is discharged and paid. You leave this house,\nRichards, for taking my son--my son,' said Mr Dombey, emphatically\nrepeating these two words, 'into haunts and into society which are not\nto be thought of without a shudder. As to the accident which befel Miss\nFlorence this morning, I regard that as, in one great sense, a happy and\nfortunate circumstance; inasmuch as, but for that occurrence, I never\ncould have known--and from your own lips too--of what you had been\nguilty. I think, Louisa, the other nurse, the young person,' here Miss\nNipper sobbed aloud, 'being so much younger, and necessarily influenced\nby Paul's nurse, may remain. Have the goodness to direct that this\nwoman's coach is paid to'--Mr Dombey stopped and winced--'to Staggs's\nGardens.'\n\nPolly moved towards the door, with Florence holding to her dress, and\ncrying to her in the most pathetic manner not to go away. It was a\ndagger in the haughty father's heart, an arrow in his brain, to see how\nthe flesh and blood he could not disown clung to this obscure stranger,\nand he sitting by. Not that he cared to whom his daughter turned, or\nfrom whom turned away. The swift sharp agony struck through him, as he\nthought of what his son might do.\n\nHis son cried lustily that night, at all events. Sooth to say, poor Paul\nhad better reason for his tears than sons of that age often have, for he\nhad lost his second mother--his first, so far as he knew--by a stroke\nas sudden as that natural affliction which had darkened the beginning of\nhis life. At the same blow, his sister too, who cried herself to sleep\nso mournfully, had lost as good and true a friend. But that is quite\nbeside the question. Let us waste no words about it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7. A Bird's-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox's Dwelling-place: also of\nthe State of Miss Tox's Affections\n\n\nMiss Tox inhabited a dark little house that had been squeezed, at some\nremote period of English History, into a fashionable neighbourhood\nat the west end of the town, where it stood in the shade like a poor\nrelation of the great street round the corner, coldly looked down\nupon by mighty mansions. It was not exactly in a court, and it was\nnot exactly in a yard; but it was in the dullest of No-Thoroughfares,\nrendered anxious and haggard by distant double knocks. The name of this\nretirement, where grass grew between the chinks in the stone pavement,\nwas Princess's Place; and in Princess's Place was Princess's Chapel,\nwith a tinkling bell, where sometimes as many as five-and-twenty people\nattended service on a Sunday. The Princess's Arms was also there, and\nmuch resorted to by splendid footmen. A sedan chair was kept inside the\nrailing before the Princess's Arms, but it had never come out within the\nmemory of man; and on fine mornings, the top of every rail (there were\neight-and-forty, as Miss Tox had often counted) was decorated with a\npewter-pot.\n\nThere was another private house besides Miss Tox's in Princess's\nPlace: not to mention an immense Pair of gates, with an immense pair of\nlion-headed knockers on them, which were never opened by any chance, and\nwere supposed to constitute a disused entrance to somebody's stables.\nIndeed, there was a smack of stabling in the air of Princess's Place;\nand Miss Tox's bedroom (which was at the back) commanded a vista of\nMews, where hostlers, at whatever sort of work engaged, were continually\naccompanying themselves with effervescent noises; and where the most\ndomestic and confidential garments of coachmen and their wives and\nfamilies, usually hung, like Macbeth's banners, on the outward walls.\n\nAt this other private house in Princess's Place, tenanted by a retired\nbutler who had married a housekeeper, apartments were let Furnished, to\na single gentleman: to wit, a wooden-featured, blue-faced Major, with\nhis eyes starting out of his head, in whom Miss Tox recognised, as she\nherself expressed it, 'something so truly military;' and between whom\nand herself, an occasional interchange of newspapers and pamphlets,\nand such Platonic dalliance, was effected through the medium of a dark\nservant of the Major's who Miss Tox was quite content to classify as a\n'native,' without connecting him with any geographical idea whatever.\n\nPerhaps there never was a smaller entry and staircase, than the entry\nand staircase of Miss Tox's house. Perhaps, taken altogether, from top\nto bottom, it was the most inconvenient little house in England, and the\ncrookedest; but then, Miss Tox said, what a situation! There was very\nlittle daylight to be got there in the winter: no sun at the best of\ntimes: air was out of the question, and traffic was walled out. Still\nMiss Tox said, think of the situation! So said the blue-faced Major,\nwhose eyes were starting out of his head: who gloried in Princess's\nPlace: and who delighted to turn the conversation at his club, whenever\nhe could, to something connected with some of the great people in the\ngreat street round the corner, that he might have the satisfaction of\nsaying they were his neighbours.\n\nIn short, with Miss Tox and the blue-faced Major, it was enough for\nPrincess's Place--as with a very small fragment of society, it is enough\nfor many a little hanger-on of another sort--to be well connected, and\nto have genteel blood in its veins. It might be poor, mean, shabby,\nstupid, dull. No matter. The great street round the corner trailed off\ninto Princess's Place; and that which of High Holborn would have become\na choleric word, spoken of Princess's Place became flat blasphemy.\n\nThe dingy tenement inhabited by Miss Tox was her own; having been\ndevised and bequeathed to her by the deceased owner of the fishy eye\nin the locket, of whom a miniature portrait, with a powdered head and\na pigtail, balanced the kettle-holder on opposite sides of the parlour\nfireplace. The greater part of the furniture was of the powdered-head\nand pig-tail period: comprising a plate-warmer, always languishing\nand sprawling its four attenuated bow legs in somebody's way; and an\nobsolete harpsichord, illuminated round the maker's name with a painted\ngarland of sweet peas. In any part of the house, visitors were usually\ncognizant of a prevailing mustiness; and in warm weather Miss Tox\nhad been seen apparently writing in sundry chinks and crevices of\nthe wainscoat with the the wrong end of a pen dipped in spirits of\nturpentine.\n\nAlthough Major Bagstock had arrived at what is called in polite\nliterature, the grand meridian of life, and was proceeding on his\njourney downhill with hardly any throat, and a very rigid pair\nof jaw-bones, and long-flapped elephantine ears, and his eyes and\ncomplexion in the state of artificial excitement already mentioned, he\nwas mightily proud of awakening an interest in Miss Tox, and tickled his\nvanity with the fiction that she was a splendid woman who had her eye\non him. This he had several times hinted at the club: in connexion with\nlittle jocularities, of which old Joe Bagstock, old Joey Bagstock, old\nJ. Bagstock, old Josh Bagstock, or so forth, was the perpetual theme:\nit being, as it were, the Major's stronghold and donjon-keep of light\nhumour, to be on the most familiar terms with his own name.\n\n'Joey B., Sir,' the Major would say, with a flourish of his\nwalking-stick, 'is worth a dozen of you. If you had a few more of the\nBagstock breed among you, Sir, you'd be none the worse for it. Old Joe,\nSir, needn't look far for a wife even now, if he was on the look-out;\nbut he's hard-hearted, Sir, is Joe--he's tough, Sir, tough, and\nde-vilish sly!' After such a declaration, wheezing sounds would be\nheard; and the Major's blue would deepen into purple, while his eyes\nstrained and started convulsively.\n\nNotwithstanding his very liberal laudation of himself, however, the\nMajor was selfish. It may be doubted whether there ever was a more\nentirely selfish person at heart; or at stomach is perhaps a better\nexpression, seeing that he was more decidedly endowed with that latter\norgan than with the former. He had no idea of being overlooked or\nslighted by anybody; least of all, had he the remotest comprehension of\nbeing overlooked and slighted by Miss Tox.\n\nAnd yet, Miss Tox, as it appeared, forgot him--gradually forgot him. She\nbegan to forget him soon after her discovery of the Toodle family. She\ncontinued to forget him up to the time of the christening. She went on\nforgetting him with compound interest after that. Something or somebody\nhad superseded him as a source of interest.\n\n'Good morning, Ma'am,' said the Major, meeting Miss Tox in Princess's\nPlace, some weeks after the changes chronicled in the last chapter.\n\n'Good morning, Sir,' said Miss Tox; very coldly.\n\n'Joe Bagstock, Ma'am,' observed the Major, with his usual gallantry,\n'has not had the happiness of bowing to you at your window, for a\nconsiderable period. Joe has been hardly used, Ma'am. His sun has been\nbehind a cloud.'\n\nMiss Tox inclined her head; but very coldly indeed.\n\n'Joe's luminary has been out of town, Ma'am, perhaps,' inquired the\nMajor.\n\n'I? out of town? oh no, I have not been out of town,' said Miss Tox.\n'I have been much engaged lately. My time is nearly all devoted to some\nvery intimate friends. I am afraid I have none to spare, even now. Good\nmorning, Sir!'\n\nAs Miss Tox, with her most fascinating step and carriage, disappeared\nfrom Princess's Place, the Major stood looking after her with a bluer\nface than ever: muttering and growling some not at all complimentary\nremarks.\n\n'Why, damme, Sir,' said the Major, rolling his lobster eyes round and\nround Princess's Place, and apostrophizing its fragrant air, 'six months\nago, the woman loved the ground Josh Bagstock walked on. What's the\nmeaning of it?'\n\nThe Major decided, after some consideration, that it meant mantraps;\nthat it meant plotting and snaring; that Miss Tox was digging pitfalls.\n'But you won't catch Joe, Ma'am,' said the Major. 'He's tough, Ma'am,\ntough, is J.B. Tough, and de-vilish sly!' over which reflection he\nchuckled for the rest of the day.\n\nBut still, when that day and many other days were gone and past, it\nseemed that Miss Tox took no heed whatever of the Major, and thought\nnothing at all about him. She had been wont, once upon a time, to look\nout at one of her little dark windows by accident, and blushingly return\nthe Major's greeting; but now, she never gave the Major a chance,\nand cared nothing at all whether he looked over the way or not. Other\nchanges had come to pass too. The Major, standing in the shade of his\nown apartment, could make out that an air of greater smartness had\nrecently come over Miss Tox's house; that a new cage with gilded wires\nhad been provided for the ancient little canary bird; that divers\nornaments, cut out of coloured card-boards and paper, seemed to decorate\nthe chimney-piece and tables; that a plant or two had suddenly sprung up\nin the windows; that Miss Tox occasionally practised on the harpsichord,\nwhose garland of sweet peas was always displayed ostentatiously, crowned\nwith the Copenhagen and Bird Waltzes in a Music Book of Miss Tox's own\ncopying.\n\nOver and above all this, Miss Tox had long been dressed with uncommon\ncare and elegance in slight mourning. But this helped the Major out of\nhis difficulty; and he determined within himself that she had come into\na small legacy, and grown proud.\n\nIt was on the very next day after he had eased his mind by arriving\nat this decision, that the Major, sitting at his breakfast, saw\nan apparition so tremendous and wonderful in Miss Tox's little\ndrawing-room, that he remained for some time rooted to his chair;\nthen, rushing into the next room, returned with a double-barrelled\nopera-glass, through which he surveyed it intently for some minutes.\n\n'It's a Baby, Sir,' said the Major, shutting up the glass again, 'for\nfifty thousand pounds!'\n\nThe Major couldn't forget it. He could do nothing but whistle, and stare\nto that extent, that his eyes, compared with what they now became, had\nbeen in former times quite cavernous and sunken. Day after day, two,\nthree, four times a week, this Baby reappeared. The Major continued to\nstare and whistle. To all other intents and purposes he was alone in\nPrincess's Place. Miss Tox had ceased to mind what he did. He might have\nbeen black as well as blue, and it would have been of no consequence to\nher.\n\nThe perseverance with which she walked out of Princess's Place to fetch\nthis baby and its nurse, and walked back with them, and walked home\nwith them again, and continually mounted guard over them; and the\nperseverance with which she nursed it herself, and fed it, and played\nwith it, and froze its young blood with airs upon the harpsichord, was\nextraordinary. At about this same period too, she was seized with a\npassion for looking at a certain bracelet; also with a passion for\nlooking at the moon, of which she would take long observations from\nher chamber window. But whatever she looked at; sun, moon, stars, or\nbracelet; she looked no more at the Major. And the Major whistled, and\nstared, and wondered, and dodged about his room, and could make nothing\nof it.\n\n'You'll quite win my brother Paul's heart, and that's the truth, my\ndear,' said Mrs Chick, one day.\n\nMiss Tox turned pale.\n\n'He grows more like Paul every day,' said Mrs Chick.\n\nMiss Tox returned no other reply than by taking the little Paul in her\narms, and making his cockade perfectly flat and limp with her caresses.\n\n'His mother, my dear,' said Miss Tox, 'whose acquaintance I was to have\nmade through you, does he at all resemble her?'\n\n'Not at all,' returned Louisa\n\n'She was--she was pretty, I believe?' faltered Miss Tox.\n\n'Why, poor dear Fanny was interesting,' said Mrs Chick, after some\njudicial consideration. 'Certainly interesting. She had not that air\nof commanding superiority which one would somehow expect, almost as\na matter of course, to find in my brother's wife; nor had she that\nstrength and vigour of mind which such a man requires.'\n\nMiss Tox heaved a deep sigh.\n\n'But she was pleasing:' said Mrs Chick: 'extremely so. And she\nmeant!--oh, dear, how well poor Fanny meant!'\n\n'You Angel!' cried Miss Tox to little Paul. 'You Picture of your own\nPapa!'\n\nIf the Major could have known how many hopes and ventures, what a\nmultitude of plans and speculations, rested on that baby head; and\ncould have seen them hovering, in all their heterogeneous confusion\nand disorder, round the puckered cap of the unconscious little Paul;\nhe might have stared indeed. Then would he have recognised, among the\ncrowd, some few ambitious motes and beams belonging to Miss Tox; then\nwould he perhaps have understood the nature of that lady's faltering\ninvestment in the Dombey Firm.\n\nIf the child himself could have awakened in the night, and seen,\ngathered about his cradle-curtains, faint reflections of the dreams that\nother people had of him, they might have scared him, with good reason.\nBut he slumbered on, alike unconscious of the kind intentions of Miss\nTox, the wonder of the Major, the early sorrows of his sister, and\nthe stern visions of his father; and innocent that any spot of earth\ncontained a Dombey or a Son.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8. Paul's Further Progress, Growth and Character\n\n\nBeneath the watching and attentive eyes of Time--so far another\nMajor--Paul's slumbers gradually changed. More and more light broke\nin upon them; distincter and distincter dreams disturbed them; an\naccumulating crowd of objects and impressions swarmed about his rest;\nand so he passed from babyhood to childhood, and became a talking,\nwalking, wondering Dombey.\n\nOn the downfall and banishment of Richards, the nursery may be said to\nhave been put into commission: as a Public Department is sometimes, when\nno individual Atlas can be found to support it The Commissioners were,\nof course, Mrs Chick and Miss Tox: who devoted themselves to their\nduties with such astonishing ardour that Major Bagstock had every day\nsome new reminder of his being forsaken, while Mr Chick, bereft of\ndomestic supervision, cast himself upon the gay world, dined at clubs\nand coffee-houses, smelt of smoke on three different occasions, went to\nthe play by himself, and in short, loosened (as Mrs Chick once told him)\nevery social bond, and moral obligation.\n\nYet, in spite of his early promise, all this vigilance and care could\nnot make little Paul a thriving boy. Naturally delicate, perhaps, he\npined and wasted after the dismissal of his nurse, and, for a long time,\nseemed but to wait his opportunity of gliding through their hands, and\nseeking his lost mother. This dangerous ground in his steeple-chase\ntowards manhood passed, he still found it very rough riding, and was\ngrievously beset by all the obstacles in his course. Every tooth was a\nbreak-neck fence, and every pimple in the measles a stone wall to him.\nHe was down in every fit of the hooping-cough, and rolled upon and\ncrushed by a whole field of small diseases, that came trooping on each\nother's heels to prevent his getting up again. Some bird of prey got\ninto his throat instead of the thrush; and the very chickens turning\nferocious--if they have anything to do with that infant malady to which\nthey lend their name--worried him like tiger-cats.\n\nThe chill of Paul's christening had struck home, perhaps to some\nsensitive part of his nature, which could not recover itself in the cold\nshade of his father; but he was an unfortunate child from that day. Mrs\nWickam often said she never see a dear so put upon.\n\nMrs Wickam was a waiter's wife--which would seem equivalent to being any\nother man's widow--whose application for an engagement in Mr Dombey's\nservice had been favourably considered, on account of the apparent\nimpossibility of her having any followers, or anyone to follow; and who,\nfrom within a day or two of Paul's sharp weaning, had been engaged as\nhis nurse. Mrs Wickam was a meek woman, of a fair complexion, with her\neyebrows always elevated, and her head always drooping; who was always\nready to pity herself, or to be pitied, or to pity anybody else; and\nwho had a surprising natural gift of viewing all subjects in an utterly\nforlorn and pitiable light, and bringing dreadful precedents to bear\nupon them, and deriving the greatest consolation from the exercise of\nthat talent.\n\nIt is hardly necessary to observe, that no touch of this quality ever\nreached the magnificent knowledge of Mr Dombey. It would have been\nremarkable, indeed, if any had; when no one in the house--not even Mrs\nChick or Miss Tox--dared ever whisper to him that there had, on any one\noccasion, been the least reason for uneasiness in reference to little\nPaul. He had settled, within himself, that the child must necessarily\npass through a certain routine of minor maladies, and that the sooner\nhe did so the better. If he could have bought him off, or provided a\nsubstitute, as in the case of an unlucky drawing for the militia, he\nwould have been glad to do so, on liberal terms. But as this was not\nfeasible, he merely wondered, in his haughty manner, now and then, what\nNature meant by it; and comforted himself with the reflection that there\nwas another milestone passed upon the road, and that the great end of\nthe journey lay so much the nearer. For the feeling uppermost in his\nmind, now and constantly intensifying, and increasing in it as Paul grew\nolder, was impatience. Impatience for the time to come, when his visions\nof their united consequence and grandeur would be triumphantly realized.\n\nSome philosophers tell us that selfishness is at the root of our best\nloves and affections. Mr Dombey's young child was, from the beginning,\nso distinctly important to him as a part of his own greatness, or (which\nis the same thing) of the greatness of Dombey and Son, that there is no\ndoubt his parental affection might have been easily traced, like many\na goodly superstructure of fair fame, to a very low foundation. But he\nloved his son with all the love he had. If there were a warm place in\nhis frosty heart, his son occupied it; if its very hard surface could\nreceive the impression of any image, the image of that son was there;\nthough not so much as an infant, or as a boy, but as a grown man--the\n'Son' of the Firm. Therefore he was impatient to advance into the\nfuture, and to hurry over the intervening passages of his history.\nTherefore he had little or no anxiety about them, in spite of his love;\nfeeling as if the boy had a charmed life, and must become the man with\nwhom he held such constant communication in his thoughts, and for whom\nhe planned and projected, as for an existing reality, every day.\n\nThus Paul grew to be nearly five years old. He was a pretty little\nfellow; though there was something wan and wistful in his small face,\nthat gave occasion to many significant shakes of Mrs Wickam's head, and\nmany long-drawn inspirations of Mrs Wickam's breath. His temper gave\nabundant promise of being imperious in after-life; and he had as hopeful\nan apprehension of his own importance, and the rightful subservience\nof all other things and persons to it, as heart could desire. He was\nchildish and sportive enough at times, and not of a sullen disposition;\nbut he had a strange, old-fashioned, thoughtful way, at other times, of\nsitting brooding in his miniature arm-chair, when he looked (and talked)\nlike one of those terrible little Beings in the Fairy tales, who, at a\nhundred and fifty or two hundred years of age, fantastically represent\nthe children for whom they have been substituted. He would frequently\nbe stricken with this precocious mood upstairs in the nursery; and would\nsometimes lapse into it suddenly, exclaiming that he was tired: even\nwhile playing with Florence, or driving Miss Tox in single harness.\nBut at no time did he fall into it so surely, as when, his little chair\nbeing carried down into his father's room, he sat there with him after\ndinner, by the fire. They were the strangest pair at such a time that\never firelight shone upon. Mr Dombey so erect and solemn, gazing at the\nblare; his little image, with an old, old face, peering into the red\nperspective with the fixed and rapt attention of a sage. Mr Dombey\nentertaining complicated worldly schemes and plans; the little image\nentertaining Heaven knows what wild fancies, half-formed thoughts, and\nwandering speculations. Mr Dombey stiff with starch and arrogance; the\nlittle image by inheritance, and in unconscious imitation. The two so\nvery much alike, and yet so monstrously contrasted.\n\nOn one of these occasions, when they had both been perfectly quiet for\na long time, and Mr Dombey only knew that the child was awake by\noccasionally glancing at his eye, where the bright fire was sparkling\nlike a jewel, little Paul broke silence thus:\n\n'Papa! what's money?'\n\nThe abrupt question had such immediate reference to the subject of Mr\nDombey's thoughts, that Mr Dombey was quite disconcerted.\n\n'What is money, Paul?' he answered. 'Money?'\n\n'Yes,' said the child, laying his hands upon the elbows of his little\nchair, and turning the old face up towards Mr Dombey's; 'what is money?'\n\nMr Dombey was in a difficulty. He would have liked to give him\nsome explanation involving the terms circulating-medium, currency,\ndepreciation of currency, paper, bullion, rates of exchange, value of\nprecious metals in the market, and so forth; but looking down at the\nlittle chair, and seeing what a long way down it was, he answered:\n'Gold, and silver, and copper. Guineas, shillings, half-pence. You know\nwhat they are?'\n\n'Oh yes, I know what they are,' said Paul. 'I don't mean that, Papa. I\nmean what's money after all?'\n\nHeaven and Earth, how old his face was as he turned it up again towards\nhis father's!\n\n'What is money after all!' said Mr Dombey, backing his chair a little,\nthat he might the better gaze in sheer amazement at the presumptuous\natom that propounded such an inquiry.\n\n'I mean, Papa, what can it do?' returned Paul, folding his arms (they\nwere hardly long enough to fold), and looking at the fire, and up at\nhim, and at the fire, and up at him again.\n\nMr Dombey drew his chair back to its former place, and patted him on the\nhead. 'You'll know better by-and-by, my man,' he said. 'Money, Paul,\ncan do anything.' He took hold of the little hand, and beat it softly\nagainst one of his own, as he said so.\n\nBut Paul got his hand free as soon as he could; and rubbing it gently to\nand fro on the elbow of his chair, as if his wit were in the palm, and\nhe were sharpening it--and looking at the fire again, as though the fire\nhad been his adviser and prompter--repeated, after a short pause:\n\n'Anything, Papa?'\n\n'Yes. Anything--almost,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Anything means everything, don't it, Papa?' asked his son: not\nobserving, or possibly not understanding, the qualification.\n\n'It includes it: yes,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Why didn't money save me my Mama?' returned the child. 'It isn't cruel,\nis it?'\n\n'Cruel!' said Mr Dombey, settling his neckcloth, and seeming to resent\nthe idea. 'No. A good thing can't be cruel.'\n\n'If it's a good thing, and can do anything,' said the little fellow,\nthoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, 'I wonder why it didn't\nsave me my Mama.'\n\nHe didn't ask the question of his father this time. Perhaps he had\nseen, with a child's quickness, that it had already made his father\nuncomfortable. But he repeated the thought aloud, as if it were quite\nan old one to him, and had troubled him very much; and sat with his chin\nresting on his hand, still cogitating and looking for an explanation in\nthe fire.\n\nMr Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not to say his alarm (for\nit was the very first occasion on which the child had ever broached the\nsubject of his mother to him, though he had had him sitting by his side,\nin this same manner, evening after evening), expounded to him how\nthat money, though a very potent spirit, never to be disparaged on any\naccount whatever, could not keep people alive whose time was come to\ndie; and how that we must all die, unfortunately, even in the City,\nthough we were never so rich. But how that money caused us to be\nhonoured, feared, respected, courted, and admired, and made us powerful\nand glorious in the eyes of all men; and how that it could, very often,\neven keep off death, for a long time together. How, for example, it had\nsecured to his Mama the services of Mr Pilkins, by which he, Paul, had\noften profited himself; likewise of the great Doctor Parker Peps, whom\nhe had never known. And how it could do all, that could be done. This,\nwith more to the same purpose, Mr Dombey instilled into the mind of his\nson, who listened attentively, and seemed to understand the greater part\nof what was said to him.\n\n'It can't make me strong and quite well, either, Papa; can it?' asked\nPaul, after a short silence; rubbing his tiny hands.\n\n'Why, you are strong and quite well,' returned Mr Dombey. 'Are you not?'\n\nOh! the age of the face that was turned up again, with an expression,\nhalf of melancholy, half of slyness, on it!\n\n'You are as strong and well as such little people usually are? Eh?' said\nMr Dombey.\n\n'Florence is older than I am, but I'm not as strong and well as\nFlorence, 'I know,' returned the child; 'and I believe that when\nFlorence was as little as me, she could play a great deal longer at a\ntime without tiring herself. I am so tired sometimes,' said little Paul,\nwarming his hands, and looking in between the bars of the grate, as if\nsome ghostly puppet-show were performing there, 'and my bones ache so\n(Wickam says it's my bones), that I don't know what to do.'\n\n'Ay! But that's at night,' said Mr Dombey, drawing his own chair closer\nto his son's, and laying his hand gently on his back; 'little people\nshould be tired at night, for then they sleep well.'\n\n'Oh, it's not at night, Papa,' returned the child, 'it's in the day;\nand I lie down in Florence's lap, and she sings to me. At night I dream\nabout such cu-ri-ous things!'\n\nAnd he went on, warming his hands again, and thinking about them, like\nan old man or a young goblin.\n\nMr Dombey was so astonished, and so uncomfortable, and so perfectly at\na loss how to pursue the conversation, that he could only sit looking at\nhis son by the light of the fire, with his hand resting on his back, as\nif it were detained there by some magnetic attraction. Once he advanced\nhis other hand, and turned the contemplative face towards his own for\na moment. But it sought the fire again as soon as he released it;\nand remained, addressed towards the flickering blaze, until the nurse\nappeared, to summon him to bed.\n\n'I want Florence to come for me,' said Paul.\n\n'Won't you come with your poor Nurse Wickam, Master Paul?' inquired that\nattendant, with great pathos.\n\n'No, I won't,' replied Paul, composing himself in his arm-chair again,\nlike the master of the house.\n\nInvoking a blessing upon his innocence, Mrs Wickam withdrew, and\npresently Florence appeared in her stead. The child immediately started\nup with sudden readiness and animation, and raised towards his father in\nbidding him good-night, a countenance so much brighter, so much younger,\nand so much more child-like altogether, that Mr Dombey, while he felt\ngreatly reassured by the change, was quite amazed at it.\n\nAfter they had left the room together, he thought he heard a soft voice\nsinging; and remembering that Paul had said his sister sung to him, he\nhad the curiosity to open the door and listen, and look after them. She\nwas toiling up the great, wide, vacant staircase, with him in her arms;\nhis head was lying on her shoulder, one of his arms thrown negligently\nround her neck. So they went, toiling up; she singing all the way, and\nPaul sometimes crooning out a feeble accompaniment. Mr Dombey looked\nafter them until they reached the top of the staircase--not without\nhalting to rest by the way--and passed out of his sight; and then he\nstill stood gazing upwards, until the dull rays of the moon, glimmering\nin a melancholy manner through the dim skylight, sent him back to his\nroom.\n\nMrs Chick and Miss Tox were convoked in council at dinner next day;\nand when the cloth was removed, Mr Dombey opened the proceedings by\nrequiring to be informed, without any gloss or reservation, whether\nthere was anything the matter with Paul, and what Mr Pilkins said about\nhim.\n\n'For the child is hardly,' said Mr Dombey, 'as stout as I could wish.'\n\n'My dear Paul,' returned Mrs Chick, 'with your usual happy\ndiscrimination, which I am weak enough to envy you, every time I am in\nyour company; and so I think is Miss Tox.'\n\n'Oh my dear!' said Miss Tox, softly, 'how could it be otherwise?\nPresumptuous as it is to aspire to such a level; still, if the bird of\nnight may--but I'll not trouble Mr Dombey with the sentiment. It merely\nrelates to the Bulbul.'\n\nMr Dombey bent his head in stately recognition of the Bulbuls as an\nold-established body.\n\n'With your usual happy discrimination, my dear Paul,' resumed Mrs Chick,\n'you have hit the point at once. Our darling is altogether as stout as\nwe could wish. The fact is, that his mind is too much for him. His soul\nis a great deal too large for his frame. I am sure the way in which\nthat dear child talks!' said Mrs Chick, shaking her head; 'no one would\nbelieve. His expressions, Lucretia, only yesterday upon the subject of\nFunerals!'\n\n'I am afraid,' said Mr Dombey, interrupting her testily, 'that some of\nthose persons upstairs suggest improper subjects to the child. He was\nspeaking to me last night about his--about his Bones,' said Mr Dombey,\nlaying an irritated stress upon the word. 'What on earth has anybody to\ndo with the--with the--Bones of my son? He is not a living skeleton, I\nsuppose.'\n\n'Very far from it,' said Mrs Chick, with unspeakable expression.\n\n'I hope so,' returned her brother. 'Funerals again! who talks to the\nchild of funerals? We are not undertakers, or mutes, or grave-diggers, I\nbelieve.'\n\n'Very far from it,' interposed Mrs Chick, with the same profound\nexpression as before.\n\n'Then who puts such things into his head?' said Mr Dombey. 'Really I\nwas quite dismayed and shocked last night. Who puts such things into his\nhead, Louisa?'\n\n'My dear Paul,' said Mrs Chick, after a moment's silence, 'it is of no\nuse inquiring. I do not think, I will tell you candidly that Wickam is a\nperson of very cheerful spirit, or what one would call a--'\n\n'A daughter of Momus,' Miss Tox softly suggested.\n\n'Exactly so,' said Mrs Chick; 'but she is exceedingly attentive and\nuseful, and not at all presumptuous; indeed I never saw a more biddable\nwoman. I would say that for her, if I was put upon my trial before a\nCourt of Justice.'\n\n'Well! you are not put upon your trial before a Court of Justice, at\npresent, Louisa,' returned Mr Dombey, chafing, 'and therefore it don't\nmatter.'\n\n'My dear Paul,' said Mrs Chick, in a warning voice, 'I must be spoken\nto kindly, or there is an end of me,' at the same time a premonitory\nredness developed itself in Mrs Chick's eyelids which was an invariable\nsign of rain, unless the weather changed directly.\n\n'I was inquiring, Louisa,' observed Mr Dombey, in an altered voice, and\nafter a decent interval, 'about Paul's health and actual state.'\n\n'If the dear child,' said Mrs Chick, in the tone of one who was summing\nup what had been previously quite agreed upon, instead of saying it all\nfor the first time, 'is a little weakened by that last attack, and is\nnot in quite such vigorous health as we could wish; and if he has some\ntemporary weakness in his system, and does occasionally seem about to\nlose, for the moment, the use of his--'\n\nMrs Chick was afraid to say limbs, after Mr Dombey's recent objection to\nbones, and therefore waited for a suggestion from Miss Tox, who, true to\nher office, hazarded 'members.'\n\n'Members!' repeated Mr Dombey.\n\n'I think the medical gentleman mentioned legs this morning, my dear\nLouisa, did he not?' said Miss Tox.\n\n'Why, of course he did, my love,' retorted Mrs Chick, mildly\nreproachful. 'How can you ask me? You heard him. I say, if our dear Paul\nshould lose, for the moment, the use of his legs, these are casualties\ncommon to many children at his time of life, and not to be prevented\nby any care or caution. The sooner you understand that, Paul, and admit\nthat, the better. If you have any doubt as to the amount of care, and\ncaution, and affection, and self-sacrifice, that has been bestowed\nupon little Paul, I should wish to refer the question to your medical\nattendant, or to any of your dependants in this house. Call Towlinson,'\nsaid Mrs Chick, 'I believe he has no prejudice in our favour; quite the\ncontrary. I should wish to hear what accusation Towlinson can make!'\n\n'Surely you must know, Louisa,' observed Mr Dombey, 'that I don't\nquestion your natural devotion to, and regard for, the future head of my\nhouse.'\n\n'I am glad to hear it, Paul,' said Mrs Chick; 'but really you are very\nodd, and sometimes talk very strangely, though without meaning it, I\nknow. If your dear boy's soul is too much for his body, Paul, you should\nremember whose fault that is--who he takes after, I mean--and make the\nbest of it. He's as like his Papa as he can be. People have noticed it\nin the streets. The very beadle, I am informed, observed it, so long ago\nas at his christening. He's a very respectable man, with children of his\nown. He ought to know.'\n\n'Mr Pilkins saw Paul this morning, I believe?' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Yes, he did,' returned his sister. 'Miss Tox and myself were present.\nMiss Tox and myself are always present. We make a point of it. Mr\nPilkins has seen him for some days past, and a very clever man I believe\nhim to be. He says it is nothing to speak of; which I can confirm,\nif that is any consolation; but he recommended, to-day, sea-air. Very\nwisely, Paul, I feel convinced.'\n\n'Sea-air,' repeated Mr Dombey, looking at his sister.\n\n'There is nothing to be made uneasy by, in that,' said Mrs Chick. 'My\nGeorge and Frederick were both ordered sea-air, when they were about his\nage; and I have been ordered it myself a great many times. I quite\nagree with you, Paul, that perhaps topics may be incautiously mentioned\nupstairs before him, which it would be as well for his little mind not\nto expatiate upon; but I really don't see how that is to be helped, in\nthe case of a child of his quickness. If he were a common child, there\nwould be nothing in it. I must say I think, with Miss Tox, that a short\nabsence from this house, the air of Brighton, and the bodily and mental\ntraining of so judicious a person as Mrs Pipchin for instance--'\n\n'Who is Mrs Pipchin, Louisa?' asked Mr Dombey; aghast at this familiar\nintroduction of a name he had never heard before.\n\n'Mrs Pipchin, my dear Paul,' returned his sister, 'is an elderly\nlady--Miss Tox knows her whole history--who has for some time devoted\nall the energies of her mind, with the greatest success, to the study\nand treatment of infancy, and who has been extremely well connected. Her\nhusband broke his heart in--how did you say her husband broke his heart,\nmy dear? I forget the precise circumstances.\n\n'In pumping water out of the Peruvian Mines,' replied Miss Tox.\n\n'Not being a Pumper himself, of course,' said Mrs Chick, glancing at her\nbrother; and it really did seem necessary to offer the explanation, for\nMiss Tox had spoken of him as if he had died at the handle; 'but having\ninvested money in the speculation, which failed. I believe that Mrs\nPipchin's management of children is quite astonishing. I have heard it\ncommended in private circles ever since I was--dear me--how high!' Mrs\nChick's eye wandered about the bookcase near the bust of Mr Pitt, which\nwas about ten feet from the ground.\n\n'Perhaps I should say of Mrs Pipchin, my dear Sir,' observed Miss Tox,\nwith an ingenuous blush, 'having been so pointedly referred to, that\nthe encomium which has been passed upon her by your sweet sister is\nwell merited. Many ladies and gentleman, now grown up to be interesting\nmembers of society, have been indebted to her care. The humble\nindividual who addresses you was once under her charge. I believe\njuvenile nobility itself is no stranger to her establishment.'\n\n'Do I understand that this respectable matron keeps an establishment,\nMiss Tox?' the Mr Dombey, condescendingly.\n\n'Why, I really don't know,' rejoined that lady, 'whether I am justified\nin calling it so. It is not a Preparatory School by any means. Should\nI express my meaning,' said Miss Tox, with peculiar sweetness, 'if I\ndesignated it an infantine Boarding-House of a very select description?'\n\n'On an exceedingly limited and particular scale,' suggested Mrs Chick,\nwith a glance at her brother.\n\n'Oh! Exclusion itself!' said Miss Tox.\n\nThere was something in this. Mrs Pipchin's husband having broken his\nheart of the Peruvian mines was good. It had a rich sound. Besides, Mr\nDombey was in a state almost amounting to consternation at the idea\nof Paul remaining where he was one hour after his removal had been\nrecommended by the medical practitioner. It was a stoppage and delay\nupon the road the child must traverse, slowly at the best, before the\ngoal was reached. Their recommendation of Mrs Pipchin had great weight\nwith him; for he knew that they were jealous of any interference with\ntheir charge, and he never for a moment took it into account that they\nmight be solicitous to divide a responsibility, of which he had, as\nshown just now, his own established views. Broke his heart of the\nPeruvian mines, mused Mr Dombey. Well! a very respectable way of doing\nIt.\n\n'Supposing we should decide, on to-morrow's inquiries, to send Paul down\nto Brighton to this lady, who would go with him?' inquired Mr Dombey,\nafter some reflection.\n\n'I don't think you could send the child anywhere at present without\nFlorence, my dear Paul,' returned his sister, hesitating. 'It's quite an\ninfatuation with him. He's very young, you know, and has his fancies.'\n\nMr Dombey turned his head away, and going slowly to the bookcase, and\nunlocking it, brought back a book to read.\n\n'Anybody else, Louisa?' he said, without looking up, and turning over\nthe leaves.\n\n'Wickam, of course. Wickam would be quite sufficient, I should say,'\nreturned his sister. 'Paul being in such hands as Mrs Pipchin's, you\ncould hardly send anybody who would be a further check upon her. You\nwould go down yourself once a week at least, of course.'\n\n'Of course,' said Mr Dombey; and sat looking at one page for an hour\nafterwards, without reading one word.\n\nThis celebrated Mrs Pipchin was a marvellous ill-favoured,\nill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure, with a mottled face,\nlike bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard grey eye, that looked as if it\nmight have been hammered at on an anvil without sustaining any injury.\nForty years at least had elapsed since the Peruvian mines had been the\ndeath of Mr Pipchin; but his relict still wore black bombazeen, of such\na lustreless, deep, dead, sombre shade, that gas itself couldn't light\nher up after dark, and her presence was a quencher to any number of\ncandles. She was generally spoken of as 'a great manager' of children;\nand the secret of her management was, to give them everything that they\ndidn't like, and nothing that they did--which was found to sweeten their\ndispositions very much. She was such a bitter old lady, that one was\ntempted to believe there had been some mistake in the application of\nthe Peruvian machinery, and that all her waters of gladness and milk of\nhuman kindness, had been pumped out dry, instead of the mines.\n\nThe Castle of this ogress and child-queller was in a steep by-street\nat Brighton; where the soil was more than usually chalky, flinty, and\nsterile, and the houses were more than usually brittle and thin; where\nthe small front-gardens had the unaccountable property of producing\nnothing but marigolds, whatever was sown in them; and where snails were\nconstantly discovered holding on to the street doors, and other\npublic places they were not expected to ornament, with the tenacity of\ncupping-glasses. In the winter time the air couldn't be got out of the\nCastle, and in the summer time it couldn't be got in. There was such\na continual reverberation of wind in it, that it sounded like a great\nshell, which the inhabitants were obliged to hold to their ears\nnight and day, whether they liked it or no. It was not, naturally, a\nfresh-smelling house; and in the window of the front parlour, which was\nnever opened, Mrs Pipchin kept a collection of plants in pots, which\nimparted an earthy flavour of their own to the establishment. However\nchoice examples of their kind, too, these plants were of a kind\npeculiarly adapted to the embowerment of Mrs Pipchin. There were\nhalf-a-dozen specimens of the cactus, writhing round bits of lath, like\nhairy serpents; another specimen shooting out broad claws, like a green\nlobster; several creeping vegetables, possessed of sticky and adhesive\nleaves; and one uncomfortable flower-pot hanging to the ceiling, which\nappeared to have boiled over, and tickling people underneath with\nits long green ends, reminded them of spiders--in which Mrs Pipchin's\ndwelling was uncommonly prolific, though perhaps it challenged\ncompetition still more proudly, in the season, in point of earwigs.\n\nMrs Pipchin's scale of charges being high, however, to all who could\nafford to pay, and Mrs Pipchin very seldom sweetening the equable\nacidity of her nature in favour of anybody, she was held to be an old\n'lady of remarkable firmness, who was quite scientific in her knowledge\nof the childish character.' On this reputation, and on the broken heart\nof Mr Pipchin, she had contrived, taking one year with another, to eke\nout a tolerable sufficient living since her husband's demise. Within\nthree days after Mrs Chick's first allusion to her, this excellent old\nlady had the satisfaction of anticipating a handsome addition to\nher current receipts, from the pocket of Mr Dombey; and of receiving\nFlorence and her little brother Paul, as inmates of the Castle.\n\nMrs Chick and Miss Tox, who had brought them down on the previous night\n(which they all passed at an Hotel), had just driven away from the door,\non their journey home again; and Mrs Pipchin, with her back to the fire,\nstood, reviewing the new-comers, like an old soldier. Mrs Pipchin's\nmiddle-aged niece, her good-natured and devoted slave, but possessing a\ngaunt and iron-bound aspect, and much afflicted with boils on her nose,\nwas divesting Master Bitherstone of the clean collar he had worn on\nparade. Miss Pankey, the only other little boarder at present, had that\nmoment been walked off to the Castle Dungeon (an empty apartment at the\nback, devoted to correctional purposes), for having sniffed thrice, in\nthe presence of visitors.\n\n'Well, Sir,' said Mrs Pipchin to Paul, 'how do you think you shall like\nme?'\n\n'I don't think I shall like you at all,' replied Paul. 'I want to go\naway. This isn't my house.'\n\n'No. It's mine,' retorted Mrs Pipchin.\n\n'It's a very nasty one,' said Paul.\n\n'There's a worse place in it than this though,' said Mrs Pipchin, 'where\nwe shut up our bad boys.'\n\n'Has he ever been in it?' asked Paul: pointing out Master Bitherstone.\n\nMrs Pipchin nodded assent; and Paul had enough to do, for the rest\nof that day, in surveying Master Bitherstone from head to foot,\nand watching all the workings of his countenance, with the interest\nattaching to a boy of mysterious and terrible experiences.\n\nAt one o'clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the farinaceous and\nvegetable kind, when Miss Pankey (a mild little blue-eyed morsel of a\nchild, who was shampoo'd every morning, and seemed in danger of being\nrubbed away, altogether) was led in from captivity by the ogress\nherself, and instructed that nobody who sniffed before visitors ever\nwent to Heaven. When this great truth had been thoroughly impressed upon\nher, she was regaled with rice; and subsequently repeated the form of\ngrace established in the Castle, in which there was a special clause,\nthanking Mrs Pipchin for a good dinner. Mrs Pipchin's niece, Berinthia,\ntook cold pork. Mrs Pipchin, whose constitution required warm\nnourishment, made a special repast of mutton-chops, which were brought\nin hot and hot, between two plates, and smelt very nice.\n\nAs it rained after dinner, and they couldn't go out walking on the\nbeach, and Mrs Pipchin's constitution required rest after chops, they\nwent away with Berry (otherwise Berinthia) to the Dungeon; an empty room\nlooking out upon a chalk wall and a water-butt, and made ghastly by a\nragged fireplace without any stove in it. Enlivened by company, however,\nthis was the best place after all; for Berry played with them there, and\nseemed to enjoy a game at romps as much as they did; until Mrs Pipchin\nknocking angrily at the wall, like the Cock Lane Ghost revived, they\nleft off, and Berry told them stories in a whisper until twilight.\n\nFor tea there was plenty of milk and water, and bread and butter, with\na little black tea-pot for Mrs Pipchin and Berry, and buttered toast\nunlimited for Mrs Pipchin, which was brought in, hot and hot, like the\nchops. Though Mrs Pipchin got very greasy, outside, over this dish, it\ndidn't seem to lubricate her internally, at all; for she was as fierce\nas ever, and the hard grey eye knew no softening.\n\nAfter tea, Berry brought out a little work-box, with the Royal Pavilion\non the lid, and fell to working busily; while Mrs Pipchin, having put on\nher spectacles and opened a great volume bound in green baize, began to\nnod. And whenever Mrs Pipchin caught herself falling forward into the\nfire, and woke up, she filliped Master Bitherstone on the nose for\nnodding too.\n\nAt last it was the children's bedtime, and after prayers they went to\nbed. As little Miss Pankey was afraid of sleeping alone in the dark,\nMrs Pipchin always made a point of driving her upstairs herself, like a\nsheep; and it was cheerful to hear Miss Pankey moaning long afterwards,\nin the least eligible chamber, and Mrs Pipchin now and then going in\nto shake her. At about half-past nine o'clock the odour of a warm\nsweet-bread (Mrs Pipchin's constitution wouldn't go to sleep without\nsweet-bread) diversified the prevailing fragrance of the house, which\nMrs Wickam said was 'a smell of building;' and slumber fell upon the\nCastle shortly after.\n\nThe breakfast next morning was like the tea over night, except that Mrs\nPipchin took her roll instead of toast, and seemed a little more irate\nwhen it was over. Master Bitherstone read aloud to the rest a pedigree\nfrom Genesis (judiciously selected by Mrs Pipchin), getting over the\nnames with the ease and clearness of a person tumbling up the treadmill.\nThat done, Miss Pankey was borne away to be shampoo'd; and Master\nBitherstone to have something else done to him with salt water, from\nwhich he always returned very blue and dejected. Paul and Florence went\nout in the meantime on the beach with Wickam--who was constantly in\ntears--and at about noon Mrs Pipchin presided over some Early Readings.\nIt being a part of Mrs Pipchin's system not to encourage a child's mind\nto develop and expand itself like a young flower, but to open it by\nforce like an oyster, the moral of these lessons was usually of a\nviolent and stunning character: the hero--a naughty boy--seldom, in the\nmildest catastrophe, being finished off anything less than a lion, or a\nbear.\n\nSuch was life at Mrs Pipchin's. On Saturday Mr Dombey came down; and\nFlorence and Paul would go to his Hotel, and have tea They passed the\nwhole of Sunday with him, and generally rode out before dinner; and on\nthese occasions Mr Dombey seemed to grow, like Falstaff's assailants,\nand instead of being one man in buckram, to become a dozen. Sunday\nevening was the most melancholy evening in the week; for Mrs Pipchin\nalways made a point of being particularly cross on Sunday nights. Miss\nPankey was generally brought back from an aunt's at Rottingdean, in deep\ndistress; and Master Bitherstone, whose relatives were all in India, and\nwho was required to sit, between the services, in an erect position\nwith his head against the parlour wall, neither moving hand nor foot,\nsuffered so acutely in his young spirits that he once asked Florence,\non a Sunday night, if she could give him any idea of the way back to\nBengal.\n\nBut it was generally said that Mrs Pipchin was a woman of system with\nchildren; and no doubt she was. Certainly the wild ones went home tame\nenough, after sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof.\nIt was generally said, too, that it was highly creditable of Mrs Pipchin\nto have devoted herself to this way of life, and to have made such\na sacrifice of her feelings, and such a resolute stand against her\ntroubles, when Mr Pipchin broke his heart in the Peruvian mines.\n\nAt this exemplary old lady, Paul would sit staring in his little\narm-chair by the fire, for any length of time. He never seemed to know\nwhat weariness was, when he was looking fixedly at Mrs Pipchin. He was\nnot fond of her; he was not afraid of her; but in those old, old moods\nof his, she seemed to have a grotesque attraction for him. There he\nwould sit, looking at her, and warming his hands, and looking at her,\nuntil he sometimes quite confounded Mrs Pipchin, Ogress as she was. Once\nshe asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about.\n\n'You,' said Paul, without the least reserve.\n\n'And what are you thinking about me?' asked Mrs Pipchin.\n\n'I'm thinking how old you must be,' said Paul.\n\n'You mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman,' returned the\ndame. 'That'll never do.'\n\n'Why not?' asked Paul.\n\n'Because it's not polite,' said Mrs Pipchin, snappishly.\n\n'Not polite?' said Paul.\n\n'No.'\n\n'It's not polite,' said Paul, innocently, 'to eat all the mutton chops\nand toast', Wickam says.\n\n'Wickam,' retorted Mrs Pipchin, colouring, 'is a wicked, impudent,\nbold-faced hussy.'\n\n'What's that?' inquired Paul.\n\n'Never you mind, Sir,' retorted Mrs Pipchin. 'Remember the story of the\nlittle boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions.'\n\n'If the bull was mad,' said Paul, 'how did he know that the boy had\nasked questions? Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I\ndon't believe that story.'\n\n'You don't believe it, Sir?' repeated Mrs Pipchin, amazed.\n\n'No,' said Paul.\n\n'Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little Infidel?'\nsaid Mrs Pipchin.\n\nAs Paul had not considered the subject in that light, and had founded\nhis conclusions on the alleged lunacy of the bull, he allowed himself\nto be put down for the present. But he sat turning it over in his mind,\nwith such an obvious intention of fixing Mrs Pipchin presently, that\neven that hardy old lady deemed it prudent to retreat until he should\nhave forgotten the subject.\n\nFrom that time, Mrs Pipchin appeared to have something of the same odd\nkind of attraction towards Paul, as Paul had towards her. She would make\nhim move his chair to her side of the fire, instead of sitting opposite;\nand there he would remain in a nook between Mrs Pipchin and the fender,\nwith all the light of his little face absorbed into the black bombazeen\ndrapery, studying every line and wrinkle of her countenance, and peering\nat the hard grey eye, until Mrs Pipchin was sometimes fain to shut it,\non pretence of dozing. Mrs Pipchin had an old black cat, who generally\nlay coiled upon the centre foot of the fender, purring egotistically,\nand winking at the fire until the contracted pupils of his eyes were\nlike two notes of admiration. The good old lady might have been--not\nto record it disrespectfully--a witch, and Paul and the cat her two\nfamiliars, as they all sat by the fire together. It would have been\nquite in keeping with the appearance of the party if they had all sprung\nup the chimney in a high wind one night, and never been heard of any\nmore.\n\nThis, however, never came to pass. The cat, and Paul, and Mrs Pipchin,\nwere constantly to be found in their usual places after dark; and Paul,\neschewing the companionship of Master Bitherstone, went on studying Mrs\nPipchin, and the cat, and the fire, night after night, as if they were a\nbook of necromancy, in three volumes.\n\nMrs Wickam put her own construction on Paul's eccentricities; and being\nconfirmed in her low spirits by a perplexed view of chimneys from the\nroom where she was accustomed to sit, and by the noise of the wind, and\nby the general dulness (gashliness was Mrs Wickam's strong expression)\nof her present life, deduced the most dismal reflections from the\nforegoing premises. It was a part of Mrs Pipchin's policy to prevent\nher own 'young hussy'--that was Mrs Pipchin's generic name for female\nservant--from communicating with Mrs Wickam: to which end she devoted\nmuch of her time to concealing herself behind doors, and springing\nout on that devoted maiden, whenever she made an approach towards Mrs\nWickam's apartment. But Berry was free to hold what converse she could\nin that quarter, consistently with the discharge of the multifarious\nduties at which she toiled incessantly from morning to night; and to\nBerry Mrs Wickam unburdened her mind.\n\n'What a pretty fellow he is when he's asleep!' said Berry, stopping to\nlook at Paul in bed, one night when she took up Mrs Wickam's supper.\n\n'Ah!' sighed Mrs Wickam. 'He need be.'\n\n'Why, he's not ugly when he's awake,' observed Berry.\n\n'No, Ma'am. Oh, no. No more was my Uncle's Betsey Jane,' said Mrs\nWickam.\n\nBerry looked as if she would like to trace the connexion of ideas\nbetween Paul Dombey and Mrs Wickam's Uncle's Betsey Jane.\n\n'My Uncle's wife,' Mrs Wickam went on to say, 'died just like his Mama.\nMy Uncle's child took on just as Master Paul do.'\n\n'Took on! You don't think he grieves for his Mama, sure?' argued Berry,\nsitting down on the side of the bed. 'He can't remember anything about\nher, you know, Mrs Wickam. It's not possible.'\n\n'No, Ma'am,' said Mrs Wickam 'No more did my Uncle's child. But my\nUncle's child said very strange things sometimes, and looked very\nstrange, and went on very strange, and was very strange altogether. My\nUncle's child made people's blood run cold, some times, she did!'\n\n'How?' asked Berry.\n\n'I wouldn't have sat up all night alone with Betsey Jane!' said Mrs\nWickam, 'not if you'd have put Wickam into business next morning for\nhimself. I couldn't have done it, Miss Berry.\n\nMiss Berry naturally asked why not? But Mrs Wickam, agreeably to the\nusage of some ladies in her condition, pursued her own branch of the\nsubject, without any compunction.\n\n'Betsey Jane,' said Mrs Wickam, 'was as sweet a child as I could wish\nto see. I couldn't wish to see a sweeter. Everything that a child could\nhave in the way of illnesses, Betsey Jane had come through. The cramps\nwas as common to her,' said Mrs Wickam, 'as biles is to yourself, Miss\nBerry.' Miss Berry involuntarily wrinkled her nose.\n\n'But Betsey Jane,' said Mrs Wickam, lowering her voice, and looking\nround the room, and towards Paul in bed, 'had been minded, in her\ncradle, by her departed mother. I couldn't say how, nor I couldn't say\nwhen, nor I couldn't say whether the dear child knew it or not, but\nBetsey Jane had been watched by her mother, Miss Berry!' and Mrs Wickam,\nwith a very white face, and with watery eyes, and with a tremulous\nvoice, again looked fearfully round the room, and towards Paul in bed.\n\n'Nonsense!' cried Miss Berry--somewhat resentful of the idea.\n\n'You may say nonsense! I ain't offended, Miss. I hope you may be able\nto think in your own conscience that it is nonsense; you'll find\nyour spirits all the better for it in this--you'll excuse my being so\nfree--in this burying-ground of a place; which is wearing of me down.\nMaster Paul's a little restless in his sleep. Pat his back, if you\nplease.'\n\n'Of course you think,' said Berry, gently doing what she was asked,\n'that he has been nursed by his mother, too?'\n\n'Betsey Jane,' returned Mrs Wickam in her most solemn tones, 'was put\nupon as that child has been put upon, and changed as that child has\nchanged. I have seen her sit, often and often, think, think, thinking,\nlike him. I have seen her look, often and often, old, old, old, like\nhim. I have heard her, many a time, talk just like him. I consider that\nchild and Betsey Jane on the same footing entirely, Miss Berry.'\n\n'Is your Uncle's child alive?' asked Berry.\n\n'Yes, Miss, she is alive,' returned Mrs Wickam with an air of triumph,\nfor it was evident. Miss Berry expected the reverse; 'and is married to\na silver-chaser. Oh yes, Miss, SHE is alive,' said Mrs Wickam, laying\nstrong stress on her nominative case.\n\nIt being clear that somebody was dead, Mrs Pipchin's niece inquired who\nit was.\n\n'I wouldn't wish to make you uneasy,' returned Mrs Wickam, pursuing her\nsupper. 'Don't ask me.'\n\nThis was the surest way of being asked again. Miss Berry repeated her\nquestion, therefore; and after some resistance, and reluctance, Mrs\nWickam laid down her knife, and again glancing round the room and at\nPaul in bed, replied:\n\n'She took fancies to people; whimsical fancies, some of them; others,\naffections that one might expect to see--only stronger than common. They\nall died.'\n\nThis was so very unexpected and awful to Mrs Pipchin's niece, that\nshe sat upright on the hard edge of the bedstead, breathing short, and\nsurveying her informant with looks of undisguised alarm.\n\nMrs Wickam shook her left fore-finger stealthily towards the bed where\nFlorence lay; then turned it upside down, and made several emphatic\npoints at the floor; immediately below which was the parlour in which\nMrs Pipchin habitually consumed the toast.\n\n'Remember my words, Miss Berry,' said Mrs Wickam, 'and be thankful that\nMaster Paul is not too fond of you. I am, that he's not too fond of\nme, I assure you; though there isn't much to live for--you'll excuse my\nbeing so free--in this jail of a house!'\n\nMiss Berry's emotion might have led to her patting Paul too hard on the\nback, or might have produced a cessation of that soothing monotony, but\nhe turned in his bed just now, and, presently awaking, sat up in it with\nhis hair hot and wet from the effects of some childish dream, and asked\nfor Florence.\n\nShe was out of her own bed at the first sound of his voice; and bending\nover his pillow immediately, sang him to sleep again. Mrs Wickam shaking\nher head, and letting fall several tears, pointed out the little group\nto Berry, and turned her eyes up to the ceiling.\n\n'He's asleep now, my dear,' said Mrs Wickam after a pause, 'you'd better\ngo to bed again. Don't you feel cold?'\n\n'No, nurse,' said Florence, laughing. 'Not at all.'\n\n'Ah!' sighed Mrs Wickam, and she shook her head again, expressing to the\nwatchful Berry, 'we shall be cold enough, some of us, by and by!'\n\nBerry took the frugal supper-tray, with which Mrs Wickam had by this\ntime done, and bade her good-night.\n\n'Good-night, Miss!' returned Wickam softly. 'Good-night! Your aunt is an\nold lady, Miss Berry, and it's what you must have looked for, often.'\n\nThis consolatory farewell, Mrs Wickam accompanied with a look of\nheartfelt anguish; and being left alone with the two children again, and\nbecoming conscious that the wind was blowing mournfully, she indulged in\nmelancholy--that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries--until she was\noverpowered by slumber.\n\nAlthough the niece of Mrs Pipchin did not expect to find that exemplary\ndragon prostrate on the hearth-rug when she went downstairs, she was\nrelieved to find her unusually fractious and severe, and with every\npresent appearance of intending to live a long time to be a comfort to\nall who knew her. Nor had she any symptoms of declining, in the course\nof the ensuing week, when the constitutional viands still continued to\ndisappear in regular succession, notwithstanding that Paul studied her\nas attentively as ever, and occupied his usual seat between the black\nskirts and the fender, with unwavering constancy.\n\nBut as Paul himself was no stronger at the expiration of that time than\nhe had been on his first arrival, though he looked much healthier in the\nface, a little carriage was got for him, in which he could lie at his\nease, with an alphabet and other elementary works of reference, and be\nwheeled down to the sea-side. Consistent in his odd tastes, the child\nset aside a ruddy-faced lad who was proposed as the drawer of this\ncarriage, and selected, instead, his grandfather--a weazen, old,\ncrab-faced man, in a suit of battered oilskin, who had got tough and\nstringy from long pickling in salt water, and who smelt like a weedy\nsea-beach when the tide is out.\n\nWith this notable attendant to pull him along, and Florence always\nwalking by his side, and the despondent Wickam bringing up the rear, he\nwent down to the margin of the ocean every day; and there he would sit\nor lie in his carriage for hours together: never so distressed as by the\ncompany of children--Florence alone excepted, always.\n\n'Go away, if you please,' he would say to any child who came to bear him\ncompany. 'Thank you, but I don't want you.'\n\nSome small voice, near his ear, would ask him how he was, perhaps.\n\n'I am very well, I thank you,' he would answer. 'But you had better go\nand play, if you please.'\n\nThen he would turn his head, and watch the child away, and say to\nFlorence, 'We don't want any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy.'\n\nHe had even a dislike, at such times, to the company of Wickam, and was\nwell pleased when she strolled away, as she generally did, to pick up\nshells and acquaintances. His favourite spot was quite a lonely one, far\naway from most loungers; and with Florence sitting by his side at work,\nor reading to him, or talking to him, and the wind blowing on his face,\nand the water coming up among the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing\nmore.\n\n'Floy,' he said one day, 'where's India, where that boy's friends live?'\n\n'Oh, it's a long, long distance off,' said Florence, raising her eyes\nfrom her work.\n\n'Weeks off?' asked Paul.\n\n'Yes dear. Many weeks' journey, night and day.'\n\n'If you were in India, Floy,' said Paul, after being silent for a\nminute, 'I should--what is it that Mama did? I forget.'\n\n'Loved me!' answered Florence.\n\n'No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy? What is it?--Died. If you were in\nIndia, I should die, Floy.'\n\nShe hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her head down on his pillow,\ncaressing him. And so would she, she said, if he were there. He would be\nbetter soon.\n\n'Oh! I am a great deal better now!' he answered. 'I don't mean that. I\nmean that I should die of being so sorry and so lonely, Floy!'\n\nAnother time, in the same place, he fell asleep, and slept quietly for a\nlong time. Awaking suddenly, he listened, started up, and sat listening.\n\nFlorence asked him what he thought he heard.\n\n'I want to know what it says,' he answered, looking steadily in her\nface. 'The sea' Floy, what is it that it keeps on saying?'\n\nShe told him that it was only the noise of the rolling waves.\n\n'Yes, yes,' he said. 'But I know that they are always saying something.\nAlways the same thing. What place is over there?' He rose up, looking\neagerly at the horizon.\n\nShe told him that there was another country opposite, but he said he\ndidn't mean that: he meant further away--farther away!\n\nVery often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off,\nto try to understand what it was that the waves were always saying; and\nwould rise up in his couch to look towards that invisible region, far\naway.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9. In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble\n\n\nThat spice of romance and love of the marvellous, of which there was a\npretty strong infusion in the nature of young Walter Gay, and which the\nguardianship of his Uncle, old Solomon Gills, had not very much weakened\nby the waters of stern practical experience, was the occasion of his\nattaching an uncommon and delightful interest to the adventure of\nFlorence with Good Mrs Brown. He pampered and cherished it in his\nmemory, especially that part of it with which he had been associated:\nuntil it became the spoiled child of his fancy, and took its own way,\nand did what it liked with it.\n\nThe recollection of those incidents, and his own share in them, may have\nbeen made the more captivating, perhaps, by the weekly dreamings of\nold Sol and Captain Cuttle on Sundays. Hardly a Sunday passed, without\nmysterious references being made by one or other of those worthy chums\nto Richard Whittington; and the latter gentleman had even gone so far as\nto purchase a ballad of considerable antiquity, that had long fluttered\namong many others, chiefly expressive of maritime sentiments, on a dead\nwall in the Commercial Road: which poetical performance set forth the\ncourtship and nuptials of a promising young coal-whipper with a certain\n'lovely Peg,' the accomplished daughter of the master and part-owner of\na Newcastle collier. In this stirring legend, Captain Cuttle descried a\nprofound metaphysical bearing on the case of Walter and Florence; and it\nexcited him so much, that on very festive occasions, as birthdays and a\nfew other non-Dominical holidays, he would roar through the whole song\nin the little back parlour; making an amazing shake on the word Pe-e-eg,\nwith which every verse concluded, in compliment to the heroine of the\npiece.\n\nBut a frank, free-spirited, open-hearted boy, is not much given to\nanalysing the nature of his own feelings, however strong their hold upon\nhim: and Walter would have found it difficult to decide this point. He\nhad a great affection for the wharf where he had encountered Florence,\nand for the streets (albeit not enchanting in themselves) by which they\nhad come home. The shoes that had so often tumbled off by the way, he\npreserved in his own room; and, sitting in the little back parlour of\nan evening, he had drawn a whole gallery of fancy portraits of Good Mrs\nBrown. It may be that he became a little smarter in his dress after that\nmemorable occasion; and he certainly liked in his leisure time to walk\ntowards that quarter of the town where Mr Dombey's house was situated,\non the vague chance of passing little Florence in the street. But the\nsentiment of all this was as boyish and innocent as could be. Florence\nwas very pretty, and it is pleasant to admire a pretty face. Florence\nwas defenceless and weak, and it was a proud thought that he had been\nable to render her any protection and assistance. Florence was the most\ngrateful little creature in the world, and it was delightful to see her\nbright gratitude beaming in her face. Florence was neglected and coldly\nlooked upon, and his breast was full of youthful interest for the\nslighted child in her dull, stately home.\n\nThus it came about that, perhaps some half-a-dozen times in the course\nof the year, Walter pulled off his hat to Florence in the street,\nand Florence would stop to shake hands. Mrs Wickam (who, with a\ncharacteristic alteration of his name, invariably spoke of him as\n'Young Graves') was so well used to this, knowing the story of their\nacquaintance, that she took no heed of it at all. Miss Nipper, on the\nother hand, rather looked out for these occasions: her sensitive young\nheart being secretly propitiated by Walter's good looks, and inclining\nto the belief that its sentiments were responded to.\n\nIn this way, Walter, so far from forgetting or losing sight of his\nacquaintance with Florence, only remembered it better and better. As to\nits adventurous beginning, and all those little circumstances which gave\nit a distinctive character and relish, he took them into account, more\nas a pleasant story very agreeable to his imagination, and not to be\ndismissed from it, than as a part of any matter of fact with which he\nwas concerned. They set off Florence very much, to his fancy; but not\nhimself. Sometimes he thought (and then he walked very fast) what a\ngrand thing it would have been for him to have been going to sea on the\nday after that first meeting, and to have gone, and to have done wonders\nthere, and to have stopped away a long time, and to have come back an\nAdmiral of all the colours of the dolphin, or at least a Post-Captain\nwith epaulettes of insupportable brightness, and have married Florence\n(then a beautiful young woman) in spite of Mr Dombey's teeth, cravat,\nand watch-chain, and borne her away to the blue shores of somewhere or\nother, triumphantly. But these flights of fancy seldom burnished the\nbrass plate of Dombey and Son's Offices into a tablet of golden hope, or\nshed a brilliant lustre on their dirty skylights; and when the Captain\nand Uncle Sol talked about Richard Whittington and masters' daughters,\nWalter felt that he understood his true position at Dombey and Son's,\nmuch better than they did.\n\nSo it was that he went on doing what he had to do from day to day, in\na cheerful, pains-taking, merry spirit; and saw through the sanguine\ncomplexion of Uncle Sol and Captain Cuttle; and yet entertained a\nthousand indistinct and visionary fancies of his own, to which theirs\nwere work-a-day probabilities. Such was his condition at the Pipchin\nperiod, when he looked a little older than of yore, but not much; and\nwas the same light-footed, light-hearted, light-headed lad, as when\nhe charged into the parlour at the head of Uncle Sol and the imaginary\nboarders, and lighted him to bring up the Madeira.\n\n'Uncle Sol,' said Walter, 'I don't think you're well. You haven't eaten\nany breakfast. I shall bring a doctor to you, if you go on like this.'\n\n'He can't give me what I want, my boy,' said Uncle Sol. 'At least he is\nin good practice if he can--and then he wouldn't.'\n\n'What is it, Uncle? Customers?'\n\n'Ay,' returned Solomon, with a sigh. 'Customers would do.'\n\n'Confound it, Uncle!' said Walter, putting down his breakfast cup with\na clatter, and striking his hand on the table: 'when I see the people\ngoing up and down the street in shoals all day, and passing and\nre-passing the shop every minute, by scores, I feel half tempted to rush\nout, collar somebody, bring him in, and make him buy fifty pounds' worth\nof instruments for ready money. What are you looking in at the door\nfor?--' continued Walter, apostrophizing an old gentleman with a\npowdered head (inaudibly to him of course), who was staring at a ship's\ntelescope with all his might and main. 'That's no use. I could do that.\nCome in and buy it!'\n\nThe old gentleman, however, having satiated his curiosity, walked calmly\naway.\n\n'There he goes!' said Walter. 'That's the way with 'em all. But,\nUncle--I say, Uncle Sol'--for the old man was meditating and had not\nresponded to his first appeal. 'Don't be cast down. Don't be out of\nspirits, Uncle. When orders do come, they'll come in such a crowd, you\nwon't be able to execute 'em.'\n\n'I shall be past executing 'em, whenever they come, my boy,' returned\nSolomon Gills. 'They'll never come to this shop again, till I am out of\nt.'\n\n'I say, Uncle! You musn't really, you know!' urged Walter. 'Don't!'\n\nOld Sol endeavoured to assume a cheery look, and smiled across the\nlittle table at him as pleasantly as he could.\n\n'There's nothing more than usual the matter; is there, Uncle?' said\nWalter, leaning his elbows on the tea tray, and bending over, to speak\nthe more confidentially and kindly. 'Be open with me, Uncle, if there\nis, and tell me all about it.'\n\n'No, no, no,' returned Old Sol. 'More than usual? No, no. What should\nthere be the matter more than usual?'\n\nWalter answered with an incredulous shake of his head. 'That's what I\nwant to know,' he said, 'and you ask me! I'll tell you what, Uncle, when\nI see you like this, I am quite sorry that I live with you.'\n\nOld Sol opened his eyes involuntarily.\n\n'Yes. Though nobody ever was happier than I am and always have been with\nyou, I am quite sorry that I live with you, when I see you with anything\nin your mind.'\n\n'I am a little dull at such times, I know,' observed Solomon, meekly\nrubbing his hands.\n\n'What I mean, Uncle Sol,' pursued Walter, bending over a little more\nto pat him on the shoulder, 'is, that then I feel you ought to have,\nsitting here and pouring out the tea instead of me, a nice little\ndumpling of a wife, you know,--a comfortable, capital, cosy old lady,\nwho was just a match for you, and knew how to manage you, and keep you\nin good heart. Here am I, as loving a nephew as ever was (I am sure I\nought to be!) but I am only a nephew, and I can't be such a companion\nto you when you're low and out of sorts as she would have made herself,\nyears ago, though I'm sure I'd give any money if I could cheer you up.\nAnd so I say, when I see you with anything on your mind, that I feel\nquite sorry you haven't got somebody better about you than a blundering\nyoung rough-and-tough boy like me, who has got the will to console you,\nUncle, but hasn't got the way--hasn't got the way,' repeated Walter,\nreaching over further yet, to shake his Uncle by the hand.\n\n'Wally, my dear boy,' said Solomon, 'if the cosy little old lady had\ntaken her place in this parlour five and forty years ago, I never could\nhave been fonder of her than I am of you.'\n\n'I know that, Uncle Sol,' returned Walter. 'Lord bless you, I know that.\nBut you wouldn't have had the whole weight of any uncomfortable secrets\nif she had been with you, because she would have known how to relieve\nyou of 'em, and I don't.'\n\n'Yes, yes, you do,' returned the Instrument-maker.\n\n'Well then, what's the matter, Uncle Sol?' said Walter, coaxingly.\n'Come! What's the matter?'\n\nSolomon Gills persisted that there was nothing the matter; and\nmaintained it so resolutely, that his nephew had no resource but to make\na very indifferent imitation of believing him.\n\n'All I can say is, Uncle Sol, that if there is--'\n\n'But there isn't,' said Solomon.\n\n'Very well,' said Walter. 'Then I've no more to say; and that's lucky,\nfor my time's up for going to business. I shall look in by-and-by when\nI'm out, to see how you get on, Uncle. And mind, Uncle! I'll never\nbelieve you again, and never tell you anything more about Mr Carker the\nJunior, if I find out that you have been deceiving me!'\n\nSolomon Gills laughingly defied him to find out anything of the kind;\nand Walter, revolving in his thoughts all sorts of impracticable ways\nof making fortunes and placing the wooden Midshipman in a position of\nindependence, betook himself to the offices of Dombey and Son with a\nheavier countenance than he usually carried there.\n\nThere lived in those days, round the corner--in Bishopsgate Street\nWithout--one Brogley, sworn broker and appraiser, who kept a shop where\nevery description of second-hand furniture was exhibited in the most\nuncomfortable aspect, and under circumstances and in combinations the\nmost completely foreign to its purpose. Dozens of chairs hooked on to\nwashing-stands, which with difficulty poised themselves on the shoulders\nof sideboards, which in their turn stood upon the wrong side of\ndining-tables, gymnastic with their legs upward on the tops of other\ndining-tables, were among its most reasonable arrangements. A banquet\narray of dish-covers, wine-glasses, and decanters was generally to\nbe seen, spread forth upon the bosom of a four-post bedstead, for the\nentertainment of such genial company as half-a-dozen pokers, and a hall\nlamp. A set of window curtains with no windows belonging to them, would\nbe seen gracefully draping a barricade of chests of drawers, loaded with\nlittle jars from chemists' shops; while a homeless hearthrug severed\nfrom its natural companion the fireside, braved the shrewd east wind\nin its adversity, and trembled in melancholy accord with the shrill\ncomplainings of a cabinet piano, wasting away, a string a day, and\nfaintly resounding to the noises of the street in its jangling and\ndistracted brain. Of motionless clocks that never stirred a finger, and\nseemed as incapable of being successfully wound up, as the pecuniary\naffairs of their former owners, there was always great choice in Mr\nBrogley's shop; and various looking-glasses, accidentally placed at\ncompound interest of reflection and refraction, presented to the eye an\neternal perspective of bankruptcy and ruin.\n\nMr Brogley himself was a moist-eyed, pink-complexioned, crisp-haired\nman, of a bulky figure and an easy temper--for that class of Caius\nMarius who sits upon the ruins of other people's Carthages, can keep up\nhis spirits well enough. He had looked in at Solomon's shop sometimes,\nto ask a question about articles in Solomon's way of business; and\nWalter knew him sufficiently to give him good day when they met in the\nstreet. But as that was the extent of the broker's acquaintance with\nSolomon Gills also, Walter was not a little surprised when he came back\nin the course of the forenoon, agreeably to his promise, to find Mr\nBrogley sitting in the back parlour with his hands in his pockets, and\nhis hat hanging up behind the door.\n\n'Well, Uncle Sol!' said Walter. The old man was sitting ruefully on the\nopposite side of the table, with his spectacles over his eyes, for a\nwonder, instead of on his forehead. 'How are you now?'\n\nSolomon shook his head, and waved one hand towards the broker, as\nintroducing him.\n\n'Is there anything the matter?' asked Walter, with a catching in his\nbreath.\n\n'No, no. There's nothing the matter, said Mr Brogley. 'Don't let it put\nyou out of the way.'\n\nWalter looked from the broker to his Uncle in mute\namazement.\n\n'The fact is,' said Mr Brogley, 'there's a little payment on a bond debt\n--three hundred and seventy odd, overdue: and I'm in possession.'\n\n'In possession!' cried Walter, looking round at the shop.\n\n'Ah!' said Mr Brogley, in confidential assent, and nodding his head\nas if he would urge the advisability of their all being comfortable\ntogether. 'It's an execution. That's what it is. Don't let it put you\nout of the way. I come myself, because of keeping it quiet and sociable.\nYou know me. It's quite private.'\n\n'Uncle Sol!' faltered Walter.\n\n'Wally, my boy,' returned his uncle. 'It's the first time. Such a\ncalamity never happened to me before. I'm an old man to begin.' Pushing\nup his spectacles again (for they were useless any longer to conceal his\nemotion), he covered his face with his hand, and sobbed aloud, and his\ntears fell down upon his coffee-coloured waistcoat.\n\n'Uncle Sol! Pray! oh don't!' exclaimed Walter, who really felt a thrill\nof terror in seeing the old man weep. 'For God's sake don't do that. Mr\nBrogley, what shall I do?'\n\n'I should recommend you looking up a friend or so,' said Mr Brogley,\n'and talking it over.'\n\n'To be sure!' cried Walter, catching at anything. 'Certainly! Thankee.\nCaptain Cuttle's the man, Uncle. Wait till I run to Captain Cuttle.\nKeep your eye upon my Uncle, will you, Mr Brogley, and make him as\ncomfortable as you can while I am gone? Don't despair, Uncle Sol. Try\nand keep a good heart, there's a dear fellow!'\n\nSaying this with great fervour, and disregarding the old man's broken\nremonstrances, Walter dashed out of the shop again as hard as he could\ngo; and, having hurried round to the office to excuse himself on the\nplea of his Uncle's sudden illness, set off, full speed, for Captain\nCuttle's residence.\n\nEverything seemed altered as he ran along the streets. There were the\nusual entanglement and noise of carts, drays, omnibuses, waggons,\nand foot passengers, but the misfortune that had fallen on the wooden\nMidshipman made it strange and new. Houses and shops were different from\nwhat they used to be, and bore Mr Brogley's warrant on their fronts\nin large characters. The broker seemed to have got hold of the very\nchurches; for their spires rose into the sky with an unwonted air. Even\nthe sky itself was changed, and had an execution in it plainly.\n\nCaptain Cuttle lived on the brink of a little canal near the India\nDocks, where there was a swivel bridge which opened now and then to\nlet some wandering monster of a ship come roaming up the street like\na stranded leviathan. The gradual change from land to water, on the\napproach to Captain Cuttle's lodgings, was curious. It began with the\nerection of flagstaffs, as appurtenances to public-houses; then came\nslop-sellers' shops, with Guernsey shirts, sou'wester hats, and canvas\npantaloons, at once the tightest and the loosest of their order, hanging\nup outside. These were succeeded by anchor and chain-cable forges, where\nsledgehammers were dinging upon iron all day long. Then came rows of\nhouses, with little vane-surmounted masts uprearing themselves from\namong the scarlet beans. Then, ditches. Then, pollard willows. Then,\nmore ditches. Then, unaccountable patches of dirty water, hardly to be\ndescried, for the ships that covered them. Then, the air was perfumed\nwith chips; and all other trades were swallowed up in mast, oar,\nand block-making, and boatbuilding. Then, the ground grew marshy and\nunsettled. Then, there was nothing to be smelt but rum and sugar. Then,\nCaptain Cuttle's lodgings--at once a first floor and a top storey, in\nBrig Place--were close before you.\n\nThe Captain was one of those timber-looking men, suits of oak as well\nas hearts, whom it is almost impossible for the liveliest imagination\nto separate from any part of their dress, however insignificant.\nAccordingly, when Walter knocked at the door, and the Captain instantly\npoked his head out of one of his little front windows, and hailed him,\nwith the hard glared hat already on it, and the shirt-collar like a\nsail, and the wide suit of blue, all standing as usual, Walter was as\nfully persuaded that he was always in that state, as if the Captain had\nbeen a bird and those had been his feathers.\n\n'Wal'r, my lad!' said Captain Cuttle. 'Stand by and knock again. Hard!\nIt's washing day.'\n\nWalter, in his impatience, gave a prodigious thump with the knocker.\n\n'Hard it is!' said Captain Cuttle, and immediately drew in his head, as\nif he expected a squall.\n\nNor was he mistaken: for a widow lady, with her sleeves rolled up to\nher shoulders, and her arms frothy with soap-suds and smoking with hot\nwater, replied to the summons with startling rapidity. Before she looked\nat Walter she looked at the knocker, and then, measuring him with her\neyes from head to foot, said she wondered he had left any of it.\n\n'Captain Cuttle's at home, I know,' said Walter with a conciliatory\nsmile.\n\n'Is he?' replied the widow lady. 'In-deed!'\n\n'He has just been speaking to me,' said Walter, in breathless\nexplanation.\n\n'Has he?' replied the widow lady. 'Then p'raps you'll give him Mrs\nMacStinger's respects, and say that the next time he lowers himself and\nhis lodgings by talking out of the winder she'll thank him to come down\nand open the door too.' Mrs MacStinger spoke loud, and listened for any\nobservations that might be offered from the first floor.\n\n'I'll mention it,' said Walter, 'if you'll have the goodness to let me\nin, Ma'am.'\n\nFor he was repelled by a wooden fortification extending across the\ndoorway, and put there to prevent the little MacStingers in their\nmoments of recreation from tumbling down the steps.\n\n'A boy that can knock my door down,' said Mrs MacStinger,\ncontemptuously, 'can get over that, I should hope!' But Walter, taking\nthis as a permission to enter, and getting over it, Mrs MacStinger\nimmediately demanded whether an Englishwoman's house was her castle\nor not; and whether she was to be broke in upon by 'raff.' On these\nsubjects her thirst for information was still very importunate,\nwhen Walter, having made his way up the little staircase through an\nartificial fog occasioned by the washing, which covered the banisters\nwith a clammy perspiration, entered Captain Cuttle's room, and found\nthat gentleman in ambush behind the door.\n\n'Never owed her a penny, Wal'r,' said Captain Cuttle, in a low voice,\nand with visible marks of trepidation on his countenance. 'Done her\na world of good turns, and the children too. Vixen at times, though.\nWhew!'\n\n'I should go away, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter.\n\n'Dursn't do it, Wal'r,' returned the Captain. 'She'd find me out,\nwherever I went. Sit down. How's Gills?'\n\nThe Captain was dining (in his hat) off cold loin of mutton, porter, and\nsome smoking hot potatoes, which he had cooked himself, and took out of\na little saucepan before the fire as he wanted them. He unscrewed his\nhook at dinner-time, and screwed a knife into its wooden socket instead,\nwith which he had already begun to peel one of these potatoes for\nWalter. His rooms were very small, and strongly impregnated with\ntobacco-smoke, but snug enough: everything being stowed away, as if\nthere were an earthquake regularly every half-hour.\n\n'How's Gills?' inquired the Captain.\n\nWalter, who had by this time recovered his breath, and lost his\nspirits--or such temporary spirits as his rapid journey had given\nhim--looked at his questioner for a moment, said 'Oh, Captain Cuttle!'\nand burst into tears.\n\nNo words can describe the Captain's consternation at this sight Mrs\nMacStinger faded into nothing before it. He dropped the potato and the\nfork--and would have dropped the knife too if he could--and sat gazing\nat the boy, as if he expected to hear next moment that a gulf had opened\nin the City, which had swallowed up his old friend, coffee-coloured\nsuit, buttons, chronometer, spectacles, and all.\n\nBut when Walter told him what was really the matter, Captain Cuttle,\nafter a moment's reflection, started up into full activity. He emptied\nout of a little tin canister on the top shelf of the cupboard, his whole\nstock of ready money (amounting to thirteen pounds and half-a-crown),\nwhich he transferred to one of the pockets of his square blue coat;\nfurther enriched that repository with the contents of his plate chest,\nconsisting of two withered atomies of tea-spoons, and an obsolete pair\nof knock-knee'd sugar-tongs; pulled up his immense double-cased silver\nwatch from the depths in which it reposed, to assure himself that that\nvaluable was sound and whole; re-attached the hook to his right wrist;\nand seizing the stick covered over with knobs, bade Walter come along.\n\nRemembering, however, in the midst of his virtuous excitement, that Mrs\nMacStinger might be lying in wait below, Captain Cuttle hesitated at\nlast, not without glancing at the window, as if he had some thoughts\nof escaping by that unusual means of egress, rather than encounter his\nterrible enemy. He decided, however, in favour of stratagem.\n\n'Wal'r,' said the Captain, with a timid wink, 'go afore, my lad. Sing\nout, \"good-bye, Captain Cuttle,\" when you're in the passage, and shut\nthe door. Then wait at the corner of the street 'till you see me.\n\nThese directions were not issued without a previous knowledge of the\nenemy's tactics, for when Walter got downstairs, Mrs MacStinger glided\nout of the little back kitchen, like an avenging spirit. But not gliding\nout upon the Captain, as she had expected, she merely made a further\nallusion to the knocker, and glided in again.\n\nSome five minutes elapsed before Captain Cuttle could summon courage\nto attempt his escape; for Walter waited so long at the street corner,\nlooking back at the house, before there were any symptoms of the\nhard glazed hat. At length the Captain burst out of the door with the\nsuddenness of an explosion, and coming towards him at a great pace, and\nnever once looking over his shoulder, pretended, as soon as they were\nwell out of the street, to whistle a tune.\n\n'Uncle much hove down, Wal'r?' inquired the Captain, as they were\nwalking along.\n\n'I am afraid so. If you had seen him this morning, you would never have\nforgotten it.'\n\n'Walk fast, Wal'r, my lad,' returned the Captain, mending his pace; 'and\nwalk the same all the days of your life. Overhaul the catechism for that\nadvice, and keep it!'\n\nThe Captain was too busy with his own thoughts of Solomon Gills, mingled\nperhaps with some reflections on his late escape from Mrs MacStinger, to\noffer any further quotations on the way for Walter's moral improvement\nThey interchanged no other word until they arrived at old Sol's door,\nwhere the unfortunate wooden Midshipman, with his instrument at his eye,\nseemed to be surveying the whole horizon in search of some friend to\nhelp him out of his difficulty.\n\n'Gills!' said the Captain, hurrying into the back parlour, and taking\nhim by the hand quite tenderly. 'Lay your head well to the wind, and\nwe'll fight through it. All you've got to do,' said the Captain, with\nthe solemnity of a man who was delivering himself of one of the most\nprecious practical tenets ever discovered by human wisdom, 'is to lay\nyour head well to the wind, and we'll fight through it!'\n\nOld Sol returned the pressure of his hand, and thanked him.\n\nCaptain Cuttle, then, with a gravity suitable to the nature of\nthe occasion, put down upon the table the two tea-spoons and the\nsugar-tongs, the silver watch, and the ready money; and asked Mr\nBrogley, the broker, what the damage was.\n\n'Come! What do you make of it?' said Captain Cuttle.\n\n'Why, Lord help you!' returned the broker; 'you don't suppose that\nproperty's of any use, do you?'\n\n'Why not?' inquired the Captain.\n\n'Why? The amount's three hundred and seventy, odd,' replied the broker.\n\n'Never mind,' returned the Captain, though he was evidently dismayed by\nthe figures: 'all's fish that comes to your net, I suppose?'\n\n'Certainly,' said Mr Brogley. 'But sprats ain't whales, you know.'\n\nThe philosophy of this observation seemed to strike the Captain. He\nruminated for a minute; eyeing the broker, meanwhile, as a deep genius;\nand then called the Instrument-maker aside.\n\n'Gills,' said Captain Cuttle, 'what's the bearings of this business?\nWho's the creditor?'\n\n'Hush!' returned the old man. 'Come away. Don't speak before Wally. It's\na matter of security for Wally's father--an old bond. I've paid a good\ndeal of it, Ned, but the times are so bad with me that I can't do more\njust now. I've foreseen it, but I couldn't help it. Not a word before\nWally, for all the world.'\n\n'You've got some money, haven't you?' whispered the Captain.\n\n'Yes, yes--oh yes--I've got some,' returned old Sol, first putting his\nhands into his empty pockets, and then squeezing his Welsh wig between\nthem, as if he thought he might wring some gold out of it; 'but I--the\nlittle I have got, isn't convertible, Ned; it can't be got at. I have\nbeen trying to do something with it for Wally, and I'm old fashioned,\nand behind the time. It's here and there, and--and, in short, it's as\ngood as nowhere,' said the old man, looking in bewilderment about him.\n\nHe had so much the air of a half-witted person who had been hiding his\nmoney in a variety of places, and had forgotten where, that the Captain\nfollowed his eyes, not without a faint hope that he might remember some\nfew hundred pounds concealed up the chimney, or down in the cellar. But\nSolomon Gills knew better than that.\n\n'I'm behind the time altogether, my dear Ned,' said Sol, in resigned\ndespair, 'a long way. It's no use my lagging on so far behind it. The\nstock had better be sold--it's worth more than this debt--and I had\nbetter go and die somewhere, on the balance. I haven't any energy left.\nI don't understand things. This had better be the end of it. Let 'em\nsell the stock and take him down,' said the old man, pointing feebly to\nthe wooden Midshipman, 'and let us both be broken up together.'\n\n'And what d'ye mean to do with Wal'r?' said the Captain. 'There, there!\nSit ye down, Gills, sit ye down, and let me think o' this. If I warn't a\nman on a small annuity, that was large enough till to-day, I hadn't need\nto think of it. But you only lay your head well to the wind,' said the\nCaptain, again administering that unanswerable piece of consolation,\n'and you're all right!'\n\nOld Sol thanked him from his heart, and went and laid it against the\nback parlour fire-place instead.\n\nCaptain Cuttle walked up and down the shop for some time, cogitating\nprofoundly, and bringing his bushy black eyebrows to bear so heavily on\nhis nose, like clouds setting on a mountain, that Walter was afraid to\noffer any interruption to the current of his reflections. Mr Brogley,\nwho was averse to being any constraint upon the party, and who had\nan ingenious cast of mind, went, softly whistling, among the stock;\nrattling weather-glasses, shaking compasses as if they were physic,\ncatching up keys with loadstones, looking through telescopes,\nendeavouring to make himself acquainted with the use of the globes,\nsetting parallel rulers astride on to his nose, and amusing himself with\nother philosophical transactions.\n\n'Wal'r!' said the Captain at last. 'I've got it.'\n\n'Have you, Captain Cuttle?' cried Walter, with great animation.\n\n'Come this way, my lad,' said the Captain. 'The stock's the security.\nI'm another. Your governor's the man to advance money.'\n\n'Mr Dombey!' faltered Walter.\n\nThe Captain nodded gravely. 'Look at him,' he said. 'Look at Gills.\nIf they was to sell off these things now, he'd die of it. You know he\nwould. We mustn't leave a stone unturned--and there's a stone for you.'\n\n'A stone!--Mr Dombey!' faltered Walter.\n\n'You run round to the office, first of all, and see if he's there,' said\nCaptain Cuttle, clapping him on the back. 'Quick!'\n\nWalter felt he must not dispute the command--a glance at his Uncle would\nhave determined him if he had felt otherwise--and disappeared to execute\nit. He soon returned, out of breath, to say that Mr Dombey was not\nthere. It was Saturday, and he had gone to Brighton.\n\n'I tell you what, Wal'r!' said the Captain, who seemed to have prepared\nhimself for this contingency in his absence. 'We'll go to Brighton.\nI'll back you, my boy. I'll back you, Wal'r. We'll go to Brighton by the\nafternoon's coach.'\n\nIf the application must be made to Mr Dombey at all, which was awful\nto think of, Walter felt that he would rather prefer it alone and\nunassisted, than backed by the personal influence of Captain Cuttle, to\nwhich he hardly thought Mr Dombey would attach much weight. But as the\nCaptain appeared to be of quite another opinion, and was bent upon it,\nand as his friendship was too zealous and serious to be trifled with\nby one so much younger than himself, he forbore to hint the least\nobjection. Cuttle, therefore, taking a hurried leave of Solomon Gills,\nand returning the ready money, the teaspoons, the sugar-tongs, and\nthe silver watch, to his pocket--with a view, as Walter thought, with\nhorror, to making a gorgeous impression on Mr Dombey--bore him off to\nthe coach-office, without a minute's delay, and repeatedly assured\nhim, on the road, that he would stick by him to the last.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10. Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman's Disaster\n\n\nMajor Bagstock, after long and frequent observation of Paul, across\nPrincess's Place, through his double-barrelled opera-glass; and after\nreceiving many minute reports, daily, weekly, and monthly, on that\nsubject, from the native who kept himself in constant communication with\nMiss Tox's maid for that purpose; came to the conclusion that Dombey,\nSir, was a man to be known, and that J. B. was the boy to make his\nacquaintance.\n\nMiss Tox, however, maintaining her reserved behaviour, and frigidly\ndeclining to understand the Major whenever he called (which he often\ndid) on any little fishing excursion connected with this project, the\nMajor, in spite of his constitutional toughness and slyness, was fain\nto leave the accomplishment of his desire in some measure to chance,\n'which,' as he was used to observe with chuckles at his club, 'has been\nfifty to one in favour of Joey B., Sir, ever since his elder brother\ndied of Yellow Jack in the West Indies.'\n\nIt was some time coming to his aid in the present instance, but it\nbefriended him at last. When the dark servant, with full particulars,\nreported Miss Tox absent on Brighton service, the Major was suddenly\ntouched with affectionate reminiscences of his friend Bill Bitherstone\nof Bengal, who had written to ask him, if he ever went that way, to\nbestow a call upon his only son. But when the same dark servant reported\nPaul at Mrs Pipchin's, and the Major, referring to the letter favoured\nby Master Bitherstone on his arrival in England--to which he had\nnever had the least idea of paying any attention--saw the opening\nthat presented itself, he was made so rabid by the gout, with which\nhe happened to be then laid up, that he threw a footstool at the dark\nservant in return for his intelligence, and swore he would be the death\nof the rascal before he had done with him: which the dark servant was\nmore than half disposed to believe.\n\nAt length the Major being released from his fit, went one Saturday\ngrowling down to Brighton, with the native behind him; apostrophizing\nMiss Tox all the way, and gloating over the prospect of carrying by\nstorm the distinguished friend to whom she attached so much mystery, and\nfor whom she had deserted him.\n\n'Would you, Ma'am, would you!' said the Major, straining with\nvindictiveness, and swelling every already swollen vein in his head.\n'Would you give Joey B. the go-by, Ma'am? Not yet, Ma'am, not yet!\nDamme, not yet, Sir. Joe is awake, Ma'am. Bagstock is alive, Sir. J. B.\nknows a move or two, Ma'am. Josh has his weather-eye open, Sir. You'll\nfind him tough, Ma'am. Tough, Sir, tough is Joseph. Tough, and de-vilish\nsly!'\n\nAnd very tough indeed Master Bitherstone found him, when he took that\nyoung gentleman out for a walk. But the Major, with his complexion\nlike a Stilton cheese, and his eyes like a prawn's, went roving about,\nperfectly indifferent to Master Bitherstone's amusement, and dragging\nMaster Bitherstone along, while he looked about him high and low, for Mr\nDombey and his children.\n\nIn good time the Major, previously instructed by Mrs Pipchin, spied\nout Paul and Florence, and bore down upon them; there being a stately\ngentleman (Mr Dombey, doubtless) in their company. Charging with Master\nBitherstone into the very heart of the little squadron, it fell out, of\ncourse, that Master Bitherstone spoke to his fellow-sufferers. Upon that\nthe Major stopped to notice and admire them; remembered with amazement\nthat he had seen and spoken to them at his friend Miss Tox's in\nPrincess's Place; opined that Paul was a devilish fine fellow, and his\nown little friend; inquired if he remembered Joey B. the Major; and\nfinally, with a sudden recollection of the conventionalities of life,\nturned and apologised to Mr Dombey.\n\n'But my little friend here, Sir,' said the Major, 'makes a boy of me\nagain: An old soldier, Sir--Major Bagstock, at your service--is not\nashamed to confess it.' Here the Major lifted his hat. 'Damme, Sir,'\ncried the Major with sudden warmth, 'I envy you.' Then he recollected\nhimself, and added, 'Excuse my freedom.'\n\nMr Dombey begged he wouldn't mention it.\n\n'An old campaigner, Sir,' said the Major, 'a smoke-dried, sun-burnt,\nused-up, invalided old dog of a Major, Sir, was not afraid of being\ncondemned for his whim by a man like Mr Dombey. I have the honour of\naddressing Mr Dombey, I believe?'\n\n'I am the present unworthy representative of that name, Major,' returned\nMr Dombey.\n\n'By G--, Sir!' said the Major, 'it's a great name. It's a name, Sir,'\nsaid the Major firmly, as if he defied Mr Dombey to contradict him, and\nwould feel it his painful duty to bully him if he did, 'that is known\nand honoured in the British possessions abroad. It is a name, Sir,\nthat a man is proud to recognise. There is nothing adulatory in Joseph\nBagstock, Sir. His Royal Highness the Duke of York observed on more than\none occasion, \"there is no adulation in Joey. He is a plain old soldier\nis Joe. He is tough to a fault is Joseph:\" but it's a great name, Sir.\nBy the Lord, it's a great name!' said the Major, solemnly.\n\n'You are good enough to rate it higher than it deserves, perhaps,\nMajor,' returned Mr Dombey.\n\n'No, Sir,' said the Major, in a severe tone. No, Mr Dombey, let us\nunderstand each other. That is not the Bagstock vein, Sir. You don't\nknow Joseph B. He is a blunt old blade is Josh. No flattery in him, Sir.\nNothing like it.'\n\nMr Dombey inclined his head, and said he believed him to be in earnest,\nand that his high opinion was gratifying.\n\n'My little friend here, Sir,' croaked the Major, looking as amiably\nas he could, on Paul, 'will certify for Joseph Bagstock that he is a\nthorough-going, down-right, plain-spoken, old Trump, Sir, and nothing\nmore. That boy, Sir,' said the Major in a lower tone, 'will live in\nhistory. That boy, Sir, is not a common production. Take care of him, Mr\nDombey.'\n\nMr Dombey seemed to intimate that he would endeavour to do so.\n\n'Here is a boy here, Sir,' pursued the Major, confidentially, and\ngiving him a thrust with his cane. 'Son of Bitherstone of Bengal. Bill\nBitherstone formerly of ours. That boy's father and myself, Sir, were\nsworn friends. Wherever you went, Sir, you heard of nothing but Bill\nBitherstone and Joe Bagstock. Am I blind to that boy's defects? By no\nmeans. He's a fool, Sir.'\n\nMr Dombey glanced at the libelled Master Bitherstone, of whom he knew at\nleast as much as the Major did, and said, in quite a complacent manner,\n'Really?'\n\n'That is what he is, sir,' said the Major. 'He's a fool. Joe Bagstock\nnever minces matters. The son of my old friend Bill Bitherstone, of\nBengal, is a born fool, Sir.' Here the Major laughed till he was almost\nblack. 'My little friend is destined for a public school, I presume,\nMr Dombey?' said the Major when he had recovered.\n\n'I am not quite decided,' returned Mr Dombey. 'I think not. He is\ndelicate.'\n\n'If he's delicate, Sir,' said the Major, 'you are right. None but the\ntough fellows could live through it, Sir, at Sandhurst. We put each\nother to the torture there, Sir. We roasted the new fellows at a slow\nfire, and hung 'em out of a three pair of stairs window, with their\nheads downwards. Joseph Bagstock, Sir, was held out of the window by the\nheels of his boots, for thirteen minutes by the college clock.'\n\nThe Major might have appealed to his countenance in corroboration of\nthis story. It certainly looked as if he had hung out a little too long.\n\n'But it made us what we were, Sir,' said the Major, settling his shirt\nfrill. 'We were iron, Sir, and it forged us. Are you remaining here, Mr\nDombey?'\n\n'I generally come down once a week, Major,' returned that gentleman. 'I\nstay at the Bedford.'\n\n'I shall have the honour of calling at the Bedford, Sir, if you'll\npermit me,' said the Major. 'Joey B., Sir, is not in general a calling\nman, but Mr Dombey's is not a common name. I am much indebted to my\nlittle friend, Sir, for the honour of this introduction.'\n\nMr Dombey made a very gracious reply; and Major Bagstock, having patted\nPaul on the head, and said of Florence that her eyes would play the\nDevil with the youngsters before long--'and the oldsters too, Sir, if\nyou come to that,' added the Major, chuckling very much--stirred up\nMaster Bitherstone with his walking-stick, and departed with that young\ngentleman, at a kind of half-trot; rolling his head and coughing with\ngreat dignity, as he staggered away, with his legs very wide asunder.\n\nIn fulfilment of his promise, the Major afterwards called on Mr Dombey;\nand Mr Dombey, having referred to the army list, afterwards called on\nthe Major. Then the Major called at Mr Dombey's house in town; and came\ndown again, in the same coach as Mr Dombey. In short, Mr Dombey and\nthe Major got on uncommonly well together, and uncommonly fast: and Mr\nDombey observed of the Major, to his sister, that besides being quite\na military man he was really something more, as he had a very admirable\nidea of the importance of things unconnected with his own profession.\n\nAt length Mr Dombey, bringing down Miss Tox and Mrs Chick to see the\nchildren, and finding the Major again at Brighton, invited him to dinner\nat the Bedford, and complimented Miss Tox highly, beforehand, on her\nneighbour and acquaintance.\n\n'My dearest Louisa,' said Miss Tox to Mrs Chick, when they were alone\ntogether, on the morning of the appointed day, 'if I should seem at all\nreserved to Major Bagstock, or under any constraint with him, promise me\nnot to notice it.'\n\n'My dear Lucretia,' returned Mrs Chick, 'what mystery is involved in\nthis remarkable request? I must insist upon knowing.'\n\n'Since you are resolved to extort a confession from me, Louisa,' said\nMiss Tox instantly, 'I have no alternative but to confide to you that\nthe Major has been particular.'\n\n'Particular!' repeated Mrs Chick.\n\n'The Major has long been very particular indeed, my love, in his\nattentions,' said Miss Tox, 'occasionally they have been so very marked,\nthat my position has been one of no common difficulty.'\n\n'Is he in good circumstances?' inquired Mrs Chick.\n\n'I have every reason to believe, my dear--indeed I may say I know,'\nreturned Miss Tox, 'that he is wealthy. He is truly military, and full\nof anecdote. I have been informed that his valour, when he was in active\nservice, knew no bounds. I am told that he did all sorts of things in\nthe Peninsula, with every description of fire-arm; and in the East and\nWest Indies, my love, I really couldn't undertake to say what he did not\ndo.'\n\n'Very creditable to him indeed,' said Mrs Chick, 'extremely so; and you\nhave given him no encouragement, my dear?'\n\n'If I were to say, Louisa,' replied Miss Tox, with every demonstration\nof making an effort that rent her soul, 'that I never encouraged Major\nBagstock slightly, I should not do justice to the friendship which\nexists between you and me. It is, perhaps, hardly in the nature of\nwoman to receive such attentions as the Major once lavished upon myself\nwithout betraying some sense of obligation. But that is past--long past.\nBetween the Major and me there is now a yawning chasm, and I will not\nfeign to give encouragement, Louisa, where I cannot give my heart. My\naffections,' said Miss Tox--'but, Louisa, this is madness!' and departed\nfrom the room.\n\nAll this Mrs Chick communicated to her brother before dinner: and it\nby no means indisposed Mr Dombey to receive the Major with unwonted\ncordiality. The Major, for his part, was in a state of plethoric\nsatisfaction that knew no bounds: and he coughed, and choked, and\nchuckled, and gasped, and swelled, until the waiters seemed positively\nafraid of him.\n\n'Your family monopolises Joe's light, Sir,' said the Major, when he had\nsaluted Miss Tox. 'Joe lives in darkness. Princess's Place is changed\ninto Kamschatka in the winter time. There is no ray of sun, Sir, for\nJoey B., now.'\n\n'Miss Tox is good enough to take a great deal of interest in Paul,\nMajor,' returned Mr Dombey on behalf of that blushing virgin.\n\n'Damme Sir,' said the Major, 'I'm jealous of my little friend. I'm\npining away Sir. The Bagstock breed is degenerating in the forsaken\nperson of old Joe.' And the Major, becoming bluer and bluer and puffing\nhis cheeks further and further over the stiff ridge of his tight cravat,\nstared at Miss Tox, until his eyes seemed as if he were at that moment\nbeing overdone before the slow fire at the military college.\n\nNotwithstanding the palpitation of the heart which these allusions\noccasioned her, they were anything but disagreeable to Miss Tox, as they\nenabled her to be extremely interesting, and to manifest an occasional\nincoherence and distraction which she was not at all unwilling to\ndisplay. The Major gave her abundant opportunities of exhibiting this\nemotion: being profuse in his complaints, at dinner, of her desertion of\nhim and Princess's Place: and as he appeared to derive great enjoyment\nfrom making them, they all got on very well.\n\nNone the worse on account of the Major taking charge of the whole\nconversation, and showing as great an appetite in that respect as in\nregard of the various dainties on the table, among which he may\nbe almost said to have wallowed: greatly to the aggravation of his\ninflammatory tendencies. Mr Dombey's habitual silence and reserve\nyielding readily to this usurpation, the Major felt that he was coming\nout and shining: and in the flow of spirits thus engendered, rang\nsuch an infinite number of new changes on his own name that he quite\nastonished himself. In a word, they were all very well pleased. The\nMajor was considered to possess an inexhaustible fund of conversation;\nand when he took a late farewell, after a long rubber, Mr Dombey again\ncomplimented the blushing Miss Tox on her neighbour and acquaintance.\n\nBut all the way home to his own hotel, the Major incessantly said to\nhimself, and of himself, 'Sly, Sir--sly, Sir--de-vil-ish sly!' And\nwhen he got there, sat down in a chair, and fell into a silent fit\nof laughter, with which he was sometimes seized, and which was always\nparticularly awful. It held him so long on this occasion that the dark\nservant, who stood watching him at a distance, but dared not for his\nlife approach, twice or thrice gave him over for lost. His whole form,\nbut especially his face and head, dilated beyond all former experience;\nand presented to the dark man's view, nothing but a heaving mass of\nindigo. At length he burst into a violent paroxysm of coughing, and when\nthat was a little better burst into such ejaculations as the following:\n\n'Would you, Ma'am, would you? Mrs Dombey, eh, Ma'am? I think not, Ma'am.\nNot while Joe B. can put a spoke in your wheel, Ma'am. J. B.'s even\nwith you now, Ma'am. He isn't altogether bowled out, yet, Sir, isn't\nBagstock. She's deep, Sir, deep, but Josh is deeper. Wide awake is old\nJoe--broad awake, and staring, Sir!' There was no doubt of this last\nassertion being true, and to a very fearful extent; as it continued to\nbe during the greater part of that night, which the Major chiefly passed\nin similar exclamations, diversified with fits of coughing and choking\nthat startled the whole house.\n\nIt was on the day after this occasion (being Sunday) when, as Mr Dombey,\nMrs Chick, and Miss Tox were sitting at breakfast, still eulogising the\nMajor, Florence came running in: her face suffused with a bright colour,\nand her eyes sparkling joyfully: and cried,\n\n'Papa! Papa! Here's Walter! and he won't come in.'\n\n'Who?' cried Mr Dombey. 'What does she mean? What is this?'\n\n'Walter, Papa!' said Florence timidly; sensible of having approached the\npresence with too much familiarity. 'Who found me when I was lost.'\n\n'Does she mean young Gay, Louisa?' inquired Mr Dombey, knitting his\nbrows. 'Really, this child's manners have become very boisterous. She\ncannot mean young Gay, I think. See what it is, will you?'\n\nMrs Chick hurried into the passage, and returned with the information\nthat it was young Gay, accompanied by a very strange-looking person; and\nthat young Gay said he would not take the liberty of coming in, hearing\nMr Dombey was at breakfast, but would wait until Mr Dombey should\nsignify that he might approach.\n\n'Tell the boy to come in now,' said Mr Dombey. 'Now, Gay, what is the\nmatter? Who sent you down here? Was there nobody else to come?'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' returned Walter. 'I have not been sent. I have\nbeen so bold as to come on my own account, which I hope you'll pardon\nwhen I mention the cause.\n\nBut Mr Dombey, without attending to what he said, was looking\nimpatiently on either side of him (as if he were a pillar in his way) at\nsome object behind.\n\n'What's that?' said Mr Dombey. 'Who is that? I think you have made some\nmistake in the door, Sir.'\n\n'Oh, I'm very sorry to intrude with anyone, Sir,' cried Walter, hastily:\n'but this is--this is Captain Cuttle, Sir.'\n\n'Wal'r, my lad,' observed the Captain in a deep voice: 'stand by!'\n\nAt the same time the Captain, coming a little further in, brought out\nhis wide suit of blue, his conspicuous shirt-collar, and his knobby\nnose in full relief, and stood bowing to Mr Dombey, and waving his hook\npolitely to the ladies, with the hard glazed hat in his one hand, and a\nred equator round his head which it had newly imprinted there.\n\nMr Dombey regarded this phenomenon with amazement and indignation, and\nseemed by his looks to appeal to Mrs Chick and Miss Tox against it.\nLittle Paul, who had come in after Florence, backed towards Miss Tox as\nthe Captain waved his hook, and stood on the defensive.\n\n'Now, Gay,' said Mr Dombey. 'What have you got to say to me?'\n\nAgain the Captain observed, as a general opening of the conversation\nthat could not fail to propitiate all parties, 'Wal'r, standby!'\n\n'I am afraid, Sir,' began Walter, trembling, and looking down at the\nground, 'that I take a very great liberty in coming--indeed, I am sure\nI do. I should hardly have had the courage to ask to see you, Sir, even\nafter coming down, I am afraid, if I had not overtaken Miss Dombey,\nand--'\n\n'Well!' said Mr Dombey, following his eyes as he glanced at the\nattentive Florence, and frowning unconsciously as she encouraged him\nwith a smile. 'Go on, if you please.'\n\n'Ay, ay,' observed the Captain, considering it incumbent on him, as a\npoint of good breeding, to support Mr Dombey. 'Well said! Go on, Wal'r.'\n\nCaptain Cuttle ought to have been withered by the look which Mr Dombey\nbestowed upon him in acknowledgment of his patronage. But quite innocent\nof this, he closed one eye in reply, and gave Mr Dombey to understand,\nby certain significant motions of his hook, that Walter was a little\nbashful at first, and might be expected to come out shortly.\n\n'It is entirely a private and personal matter, that has brought me here,\nSir,' continued Walter, faltering, 'and Captain Cuttle--'\n\n'Here!' interposed the Captain, as an assurance that he was at hand, and\nmight be relied upon.\n\n'Who is a very old friend of my poor Uncle's, and a most excellent man,\nSir,' pursued Walter, raising his eyes with a look of entreaty in the\nCaptain's behalf, 'was so good as to offer to come with me, which I\ncould hardly refuse.'\n\n'No, no, no;' observed the Captain complacently. 'Of course not. No call\nfor refusing. Go on, Wal'r.'\n\n'And therefore, Sir,' said Walter, venturing to meet Mr Dombey's eye,\nand proceeding with better courage in the very desperation of the case,\nnow that there was no avoiding it, 'therefore I have come, with him,\nSir, to say that my poor old Uncle is in very great affliction and\ndistress. That, through the gradual loss of his business, and not being\nable to make a payment, the apprehension of which has weighed very\nheavily upon his mind, months and months, as indeed I know, Sir, he has\nan execution in his house, and is in danger of losing all he has, and\nbreaking his heart. And that if you would, in your kindness, and in your\nold knowledge of him as a respectable man, do anything to help him out\nof his difficulty, Sir, we never could thank you enough for it.'\n\nWalter's eyes filled with tears as he spoke; and so did those of\nFlorence. Her father saw them glistening, though he appeared to look at\nWalter only.\n\n'It is a very large sum, Sir,' said Walter. 'More than three hundred\npounds. My Uncle is quite beaten down by his misfortune, it lies so\nheavy on him; and is quite unable to do anything for his own relief. He\ndoesn't even know yet, that I have come to speak to you. You would wish\nme to say, Sir,' added Walter, after a moment's hesitation, 'exactly\nwhat it is I want. I really don't know, Sir. There is my Uncle's stock,\non which I believe I may say, confidently, there are no other demands,\nand there is Captain Cuttle, who would wish to be security too. I--I\nhardly like to mention,' said Walter, 'such earnings as mine; but if\nyou would allow them--accumulate--payment--advance--Uncle--frugal,\nhonourable, old man.' Walter trailed off, through these broken\nsentences, into silence: and stood with downcast head, before his\nemployer.\n\nConsidering this a favourable moment for the display of the valuables,\nCaptain Cuttle advanced to the table; and clearing a space among the\nbreakfast-cups at Mr Dombey's elbow, produced the silver watch, the\nready money, the teaspoons, and the sugar-tongs; and piling them up into\na heap that they might look as precious as possible, delivered himself\nof these words:\n\n'Half a loaf's better than no bread, and the same remark holds good with\ncrumbs. There's a few. Annuity of one hundred pound premium also ready\nto be made over. If there is a man chock full of science in the world,\nit's old Sol Gills. If there is a lad of promise--one flowing,' added\nthe Captain, in one of his happy quotations, 'with milk and honey--it's\nhis nevy!'\n\nThe Captain then withdrew to his former place, where he stood arranging\nhis scattered locks with the air of a man who had given the finishing\ntouch to a difficult performance.\n\nWhen Walter ceased to speak, Mr Dombey's eyes were attracted to little\nPaul, who, seeing his sister hanging down her head and silently weeping\nin her commiseration for the distress she had heard described, went over\nto her, and tried to comfort her: looking at Walter and his father as he\ndid so, with a very expressive face. After the momentary distraction of\nCaptain Cuttle's address, which he regarded with lofty indifference, Mr\nDombey again turned his eyes upon his son, and sat steadily regarding\nthe child, for some moments, in silence.\n\n'What was this debt contracted for?' asked Mr Dombey, at length. 'Who is\nthe creditor?'\n\n'He don't know,' replied the Captain, putting his hand on Walter's\nshoulder. 'I do. It came of helping a man that's dead now, and that's\ncost my friend Gills many a hundred pound already. More particulars in\nprivate, if agreeable.'\n\n'People who have enough to do to hold their own way,' said Mr Dombey,\nunobservant of the Captain's mysterious signs behind Walter, and still\nlooking at his son, 'had better be content with their own obligations\nand difficulties, and not increase them by engaging for other men. It\nis an act of dishonesty and presumption, too,' said Mr Dombey, sternly;\n'great presumption; for the wealthy could do no more. Paul, come here!'\n\nThe child obeyed: and Mr Dombey took him on his knee.\n\n'If you had money now--' said Mr Dombey. 'Look at me!'\n\nPaul, whose eyes had wandered to his sister, and to Walter, looked his\nfather in the face.\n\n'If you had money now,' said Mr Dombey; 'as much money as young Gay has\ntalked about; what would you do?'\n\n'Give it to his old Uncle,' returned Paul.\n\n'Lend it to his old Uncle, eh?' retorted Mr Dombey. 'Well! When you\nare old enough, you know, you will share my money, and we shall use it\ntogether.'\n\n'Dombey and Son,' interrupted Paul, who had been tutored early in the\nphrase.\n\n'Dombey and Son,' repeated his father. 'Would you like to begin to be\nDombey and Son, now, and lend this money to young Gay's Uncle?'\n\n'Oh! if you please, Papa!' said Paul: 'and so would Florence.'\n\n'Girls,' said Mr Dombey, 'have nothing to do with Dombey and Son. Would\nyou like it?'\n\n'Yes, Papa, yes!'\n\n'Then you shall do it,' returned his father. 'And you see, Paul,' he\nadded, dropping his voice, 'how powerful money is, and how anxious\npeople are to get it. Young Gay comes all this way to beg for money,\nand you, who are so grand and great, having got it, are going to let him\nhave it, as a great favour and obligation.'\n\nPaul turned up the old face for a moment, in which there was a sharp\nunderstanding of the reference conveyed in these words: but it was a\nyoung and childish face immediately afterwards, when he slipped down\nfrom his father's knee, and ran to tell Florence not to cry any more,\nfor he was going to let young Gay have the money.\n\nMr Dombey then turned to a side-table, and wrote a note and sealed it.\nDuring the interval, Paul and Florence whispered to Walter, and\nCaptain Cuttle beamed on the three, with such aspiring and ineffably\npresumptuous thoughts as Mr Dombey never could have believed in. The\nnote being finished, Mr Dombey turned round to his former place, and\nheld it out to Walter.\n\n'Give that,' he said, 'the first thing to-morrow morning, to Mr Carker.\nHe will immediately take care that one of my people releases your Uncle\nfrom his present position, by paying the amount at issue; and that such\narrangements are made for its repayment as may be consistent with your\nUncle's circumstances. You will consider that this is done for you by\nMaster Paul.'\n\nWalter, in the emotion of holding in his hand the means of releasing his\ngood Uncle from his trouble, would have endeavoured to express something\nof his gratitude and joy. But Mr Dombey stopped him short.\n\n'You will consider that it is done,' he repeated, 'by Master Paul. I\nhave explained that to him, and he understands it. I wish no more to be\nsaid.'\n\nAs he motioned towards the door, Walter could only bow his head and\nretire. Miss Tox, seeing that the Captain appeared about to do the same,\ninterposed.\n\n'My dear Sir,' she said, addressing Mr Dombey, at whose munificence\nboth she and Mrs Chick were shedding tears copiously; 'I think you have\noverlooked something. Pardon me, Mr Dombey, I think, in the nobility\nof your character, and its exalted scope, you have omitted a matter of\ndetail.'\n\n'Indeed, Miss Tox!' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'The gentleman with the--Instrument,' pursued Miss Tox, glancing at\nCaptain Cuttle, 'has left upon the table, at your elbow--'\n\n'Good Heaven!' said Mr Dombey, sweeping the Captain's property from\nhim, as if it were so much crumb indeed. 'Take these things away. I am\nobliged to you, Miss Tox; it is like your usual discretion. Have the\ngoodness to take these things away, Sir!'\n\nCaptain Cuttle felt he had no alternative but to comply. But he was so\nmuch struck by the magnanimity of Mr Dombey, in refusing treasures lying\nheaped up to his hand, that when he had deposited the teaspoons and\nsugar-tongs in one pocket, and the ready money in another, and had\nlowered the great watch down slowly into its proper vault, he could not\nrefrain from seizing that gentleman's right hand in his own solitary\nleft, and while he held it open with his powerful fingers, bringing the\nhook down upon its palm in a transport of admiration. At this touch of\nwarm feeling and cold iron, Mr Dombey shivered all over.\n\nCaptain Cuttle then kissed his hook to the ladies several times, with\ngreat elegance and gallantry; and having taken a particular leave of\nPaul and Florence, accompanied Walter out of the room. Florence was\nrunning after them in the earnestness of her heart, to send some message\nto old Sol, when Mr Dombey called her back, and bade her stay where she\nwas.\n\n'Will you never be a Dombey, my dear child!' said Mrs Chick, with\npathetic reproachfulness.\n\n'Dear aunt,' said Florence. 'Don't be angry with me. I am so thankful to\nPapa!'\n\nShe would have run and thrown her arms about his neck if she had dared;\nbut as she did not dare, she glanced with thankful eyes towards him, as\nhe sat musing; sometimes bestowing an uneasy glance on her, but, for the\nmost part, watching Paul, who walked about the room with the new-blown\ndignity of having let young Gay have the money.\n\nAnd young Gay--Walter--what of him?\n\nHe was overjoyed to purge the old man's hearth from bailiffs and\nbrokers, and to hurry back to his Uncle with the good tidings. He was\noverjoyed to have it all arranged and settled next day before noon;\nand to sit down at evening in the little back parlour with old Sol and\nCaptain Cuttle; and to see the Instrument-maker already reviving, and\nhopeful for the future, and feeling that the wooden Midshipman was his\nown again. But without the least impeachment of his gratitude to Mr\nDombey, it must be confessed that Walter was humbled and cast down. It\nis when our budding hopes are nipped beyond recovery by some rough wind,\nthat we are the most disposed to picture to ourselves what flowers they\nmight have borne, if they had flourished; and now, when Walter found\nhimself cut off from that great Dombey height, by the depth of a new\nand terrible tumble, and felt that all his old wild fancies had been\nscattered to the winds in the fall, he began to suspect that they might\nhave led him on to harmless visions of aspiring to Florence in the\nremote distance of time.\n\nThe Captain viewed the subject in quite a different light. He appeared\nto entertain a belief that the interview at which he had assisted was so\nvery satisfactory and encouraging, as to be only a step or two removed\nfrom a regular betrothal of Florence to Walter; and that the late\ntransaction had immensely forwarded, if not thoroughly established,\nthe Whittingtonian hopes. Stimulated by this conviction, and by the\nimprovement in the spirits of his old friend, and by his own consequent\ngaiety, he even attempted, in favouring them with the ballad of 'Lovely\nPeg' for the third time in one evening, to make an extemporaneous\nsubstitution of the name 'Florence;' but finding this difficult, on\naccount of the word Peg invariably rhyming to leg (in which personal\nbeauty the original was described as having excelled all competitors),\nhe hit upon the happy thought of changing it to Fle-e-eg; which he\naccordingly did, with an archness almost supernatural, and a voice quite\nvociferous, notwithstanding that the time was close at hand when he must\nseek the abode of the dreadful Mrs MacStinger.\n\nThat same evening the Major was diffuse at his club, on the subject of\nhis friend Dombey in the City. 'Damme, Sir,' said the Major, 'he's a\nprince, is my friend Dombey in the City. I tell you what, Sir. If you\nhad a few more men among you like old Joe Bagstock and my friend Dombey\nin the City, Sir, you'd do!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11. Paul's Introduction to a New Scene\n\n\nMrs Pipchin's constitution was made of such hard metal, in spite of its\nliability to the fleshly weaknesses of standing in need of repose after\nchops, and of requiring to be coaxed to sleep by the soporific agency\nof sweet-breads, that it utterly set at naught the predictions of Mrs\nWickam, and showed no symptoms of decline. Yet, as Paul's rapt interest\nin the old lady continued unbated, Mrs Wickam would not budge an inch\nfrom the position she had taken up. Fortifying and entrenching herself\non the strong ground of her Uncle's Betsey Jane, she advised Miss Berry,\nas a friend, to prepare herself for the worst; and forewarned her that\nher aunt might, at any time, be expected to go off suddenly, like a\npowder-mill.\n\n'I hope, Miss Berry,' Mrs Wickam would observe, 'that you'll come into\nwhatever little property there may be to leave. You deserve it, I am\nsure, for yours is a trying life. Though there don't seem much worth\ncoming into--you'll excuse my being so open--in this dismal den.'\n\nPoor Berry took it all in good part, and drudged and slaved away\nas usual; perfectly convinced that Mrs Pipchin was one of the most\nmeritorious persons in the world, and making every day innumerable\nsacrifices of herself upon the altar of that noble old woman. But all\nthese immolations of Berry were somehow carried to the credit of\nMrs Pipchin by Mrs Pipchin's friends and admirers; and were made to\nharmonise with, and carry out, that melancholy fact of the deceased Mr\nPipchin having broken his heart in the Peruvian mines.\n\nFor example, there was an honest grocer and general dealer in the\nretail line of business, between whom and Mrs Pipchin there was a small\nmemorandum book, with a greasy red cover, perpetually in question, and\nconcerning which divers secret councils and conferences were continually\nbeing held between the parties to that register, on the mat in the\npassage, and with closed doors in the parlour. Nor were there wanting\ndark hints from Master Bitherstone (whose temper had been made\nrevengeful by the solar heats of India acting on his blood), of balances\nunsettled, and of a failure, on one occasion within his memory, in the\nsupply of moist sugar at tea-time. This grocer being a bachelor and not\na man who looked upon the surface for beauty, had once made honourable\noffers for the hand of Berry, which Mrs Pipchin had, with contumely and\nscorn, rejected. Everybody said how laudable this was in Mrs Pipchin,\nrelict of a man who had died of the Peruvian mines; and what a staunch,\nhigh, independent spirit the old lady had. But nobody said anything\nabout poor Berry, who cried for six weeks (being soundly rated by\nher good aunt all the time), and lapsed into a state of hopeless\nspinsterhood.\n\n'Berry's very fond of you, ain't she?' Paul once asked Mrs Pipchin when\nthey were sitting by the fire with the cat.\n\n'Yes,' said Mrs Pipchin.\n\n'Why?' asked Paul.\n\n'Why!' returned the disconcerted old lady. 'How can you ask such things,\nSir! why are you fond of your sister Florence?'\n\n'Because she's very good,' said Paul. 'There's nobody like Florence.'\n\n'Well!' retorted Mrs Pipchin, shortly, 'and there's nobody like me, I\nsuppose.'\n\n'Ain't there really though?' asked Paul, leaning forward in his chair,\nand looking at her very hard.\n\n'No,' said the old lady.\n\n'I am glad of that,' observed Paul, rubbing his hands thoughtfully.\n'That's a very good thing.'\n\nMrs Pipchin didn't dare to ask him why, lest she should receive some\nperfectly annihilating answer. But as a compensation to her wounded\nfeelings, she harassed Master Bitherstone to that extent until bed-time,\nthat he began that very night to make arrangements for an overland\nreturn to India, by secreting from his supper a quarter of a round of\nbread and a fragment of moist Dutch cheese, as the beginning of a stock\nof provision to support him on the voyage.\n\nMrs Pipchin had kept watch and ward over little Paul and his sister for\nnearly twelve months. They had been home twice, but only for a few days;\nand had been constant in their weekly visits to Mr Dombey at the hotel.\nBy little and little Paul had grown stronger, and had become able to\ndispense with his carriage; though he still looked thin and delicate;\nand still remained the same old, quiet, dreamy child that he had been\nwhen first consigned to Mrs Pipchin's care. One Saturday afternoon,\nat dusk, great consternation was occasioned in the Castle by the\nunlooked-for announcement of Mr Dombey as a visitor to Mrs Pipchin. The\npopulation of the parlour was immediately swept upstairs as on the wings\nof a whirlwind, and after much slamming of bedroom doors, and trampling\noverhead, and some knocking about of Master Bitherstone by Mrs Pipchin,\nas a relief to the perturbation of her spirits, the black bombazeen\ngarments of the worthy old lady darkened the audience-chamber where Mr\nDombey was contemplating the vacant arm-chair of his son and heir.\n\n'Mrs Pipchin,' said Mr Dombey, 'How do you do?'\n\n'Thank you, Sir,' said Mrs Pipchin, 'I am pretty well, considering.'\n\nMrs Pipchin always used that form of words. It meant, considering her\nvirtues, sacrifices, and so forth.\n\n'I can't expect, Sir, to be very well,' said Mrs Pipchin, taking a chair\nand fetching her breath; 'but such health as I have, I am grateful for.'\n\nMr Dombey inclined his head with the satisfied air of a patron, who felt\nthat this was the sort of thing for which he paid so much a quarter.\nAfter a moment's silence he went on to say:\n\n'Mrs Pipchin, I have taken the liberty of calling, to consult you in\nreference to my son. I have had it in my mind to do so for some time\npast; but have deferred it from time to time, in order that his health\nmight be thoroughly re-established. You have no misgivings on that\nsubject, Mrs Pipchin?'\n\n'Brighton has proved very beneficial, Sir,' returned Mrs Pipchin. 'Very\nbeneficial, indeed.'\n\n'I purpose,' said Mr Dombey, 'his remaining at Brighton.'\n\nMrs Pipchin rubbed her hands, and bent her grey eyes on the fire.\n\n'But,' pursued Mr Dombey, stretching out his forefinger, 'but possibly\nthat he should now make a change, and lead a different kind of life\nhere. In short, Mrs Pipchin, that is the object of my visit. My son is\ngetting on, Mrs Pipchin. Really, he is getting on.'\n\nThere was something melancholy in the triumphant air with which Mr\nDombey said this. It showed how long Paul's childish life had been to\nhim, and how his hopes were set upon a later stage of his existence.\nPity may appear a strange word to connect with anyone so haughty and so\ncold, and yet he seemed a worthy subject for it at that moment.\n\n'Six years old!' said Mr Dombey, settling his neckcloth--perhaps to hide\nan irrepressible smile that rather seemed to strike upon the surface\nof his face and glance away, as finding no resting-place, than to play\nthere for an instant. 'Dear me, six will be changed to sixteen, before\nwe have time to look about us.'\n\n'Ten years,' croaked the unsympathetic Pipchin, with a frosty glistening\nof her hard grey eye, and a dreary shaking of her bent head, 'is a long\ntime.'\n\n'It depends on circumstances, returned Mr Dombey; 'at all events, Mrs\nPipchin, my son is six years old, and there is no doubt, I fear, that in\nhis studies he is behind many children of his age--or his youth,' said\nMr Dombey, quickly answering what he mistrusted was a shrewd twinkle of\nthe frosty eye, 'his youth is a more appropriate expression. Now, Mrs\nPipchin, instead of being behind his peers, my son ought to be before\nthem; far before them. There is an eminence ready for him to mount upon.\nThere is nothing of chance or doubt in the course before my son. His way\nin life was clear and prepared, and marked out before he existed. The\neducation of such a young gentleman must not be delayed. It must not be\nleft imperfect. It must be very steadily and seriously undertaken, Mrs\nPipchin.'\n\n'Well, Sir,' said Mrs Pipchin, 'I can say nothing to the contrary.'\n\n'I was quite sure, Mrs Pipchin,' returned Mr Dombey, approvingly, 'that\na person of your good sense could not, and would not.'\n\n'There is a great deal of nonsense--and worse--talked about young people\nnot being pressed too hard at first, and being tempted on, and all the\nrest of it, Sir,' said Mrs Pipchin, impatiently rubbing her hooked\nnose. 'It never was thought of in my time, and it has no business to be\nthought of now. My opinion is \"keep 'em at it\".'\n\n'My good madam,' returned Mr Dombey, 'you have not acquired your\nreputation undeservedly; and I beg you to believe, Mrs Pipchin, that\nI am more than satisfied with your excellent system of management,\nand shall have the greatest pleasure in commending it whenever my poor\ncommendation--' Mr Dombey's loftiness when he affected to disparage his\nown importance, passed all bounds--'can be of any service. I have been\nthinking of Doctor Blimber's, Mrs Pipchin.'\n\n'My neighbour, Sir?' said Mrs Pipchin. 'I believe the Doctor's is an\nexcellent establishment. I've heard that it's very strictly conducted,\nand there is nothing but learning going on from morning to night.'\n\n'And it's very expensive,' added Mr Dombey.\n\n'And it's very expensive, Sir,' returned Mrs Pipchin, catching at the\nfact, as if in omitting that, she had omitted one of its leading merits.\n\n'I have had some communication with the Doctor, Mrs Pipchin,' said Mr\nDombey, hitching his chair anxiously a little nearer to the fire, 'and\nhe does not consider Paul at all too young for his purpose. He mentioned\nseveral instances of boys in Greek at about the same age. If I have any\nlittle uneasiness in my own mind, Mrs Pipchin, on the subject of this\nchange, it is not on that head. My son not having known a mother has\ngradually concentrated much--too much--of his childish affection on\nhis sister. Whether their separation--' Mr Dombey said no more, but sat\nsilent.\n\n'Hoity-toity!' exclaimed Mrs Pipchin, shaking out her black bombazeen\nskirts, and plucking up all the ogress within her. 'If she don't like\nit, Mr Dombey, she must be taught to lump it.' The good lady apologised\nimmediately afterwards for using so common a figure of speech, but said\n(and truly) that that was the way she reasoned with 'em.\n\nMr Dombey waited until Mrs Pipchin had done bridling and shaking her\nhead, and frowning down a legion of Bitherstones and Pankeys; and then\nsaid quietly, but correctively, 'He, my good madam, he.'\n\nMrs Pipchin's system would have applied very much the same mode of cure\nto any uneasiness on the part of Paul, too; but as the hard grey eye was\nsharp enough to see that the recipe, however Mr Dombey might admit its\nefficacy in the case of the daughter, was not a sovereign remedy for the\nson, she argued the point; and contended that change, and new society,\nand the different form of life he would lead at Doctor Blimber's, and\nthe studies he would have to master, would very soon prove sufficient\nalienations. As this chimed in with Mr Dombey's own hope and belief,\nit gave that gentleman a still higher opinion of Mrs Pipchin's\nunderstanding; and as Mrs Pipchin, at the same time, bewailed the loss\nof her dear little friend (which was not an overwhelming shock to her,\nas she had long expected it, and had not looked, in the beginning, for\nhis remaining with her longer than three months), he formed an equally\ngood opinion of Mrs Pipchin's disinterestedness. It was plain that he\nhad given the subject anxious consideration, for he had formed a plan,\nwhich he announced to the ogress, of sending Paul to the Doctor's as a\nweekly boarder for the first half year, during which time Florence\nwould remain at the Castle, that she might receive her brother there, on\nSaturdays. This would wean him by degrees, Mr Dombey said; possibly\nwith a recollection of his not having been weaned by degrees on a former\noccasion.\n\nMr Dombey finished the interview by expressing his hope that Mrs Pipchin\nwould still remain in office as general superintendent and overseer of\nhis son, pending his studies at Brighton; and having kissed Paul, and\nshaken hands with Florence, and beheld Master Bitherstone in his collar\nof state, and made Miss Pankey cry by patting her on the head (in which\nregion she was uncommonly tender, on account of a habit Mrs Pipchin had\nof sounding it with her knuckles, like a cask), he withdrew to his hotel\nand dinner: resolved that Paul, now that he was getting so old and well,\nshould begin a vigorous course of education forthwith, to qualify him\nfor the position in which he was to shine; and that Doctor Blimber\nshould take him in hand immediately.\n\nWhenever a young gentleman was taken in hand by Doctor Blimber, he\nmight consider himself sure of a pretty tight squeeze. The Doctor only\nundertook the charge of ten young gentlemen, but he had, always ready, a\nsupply of learning for a hundred, on the lowest estimate; and it was at\nonce the business and delight of his life to gorge the unhappy ten with\nit.\n\nIn fact, Doctor Blimber's establishment was a great hot-house, in which\nthere was a forcing apparatus incessantly at work. All the boys blew\nbefore their time. Mental green-peas were produced at Christmas, and\nintellectual asparagus all the year round. Mathematical gooseberries\n(very sour ones too) were common at untimely seasons, and from mere\nsprouts of bushes, under Doctor Blimber's cultivation. Every description\nof Greek and Latin vegetable was got off the driest twigs of boys, under\nthe frostiest circumstances. Nature was of no consequence at all. No\nmatter what a young gentleman was intended to bear, Doctor Blimber made\nhim bear to pattern, somehow or other.\n\nThis was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the system of forcing was\nattended with its usual disadvantages. There was not the right taste\nabout the premature productions, and they didn't keep well. Moreover,\none young gentleman, with a swollen nose and an excessively large head\n(the oldest of the ten who had 'gone through' everything), suddenly left\noff blowing one day, and remained in the establishment a mere stalk. And\npeople did say that the Doctor had rather overdone it with young Toots,\nand that when he began to have whiskers he left off having brains.\n\nThere young Toots was, at any rate; possessed of the gruffest of voices\nand the shrillest of minds; sticking ornamental pins into his shirt, and\nkeeping a ring in his waistcoat pocket to put on his little finger by\nstealth, when the pupils went out walking; constantly falling in love by\nsight with nurserymaids, who had no idea of his existence; and looking\nat the gas-lighted world over the little iron bars in the left-hand\ncorner window of the front three pairs of stairs, after bed-time, like a\ngreatly overgrown cherub who had sat up aloft much too long.\n\nThe Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black, with strings\nat his knees, and stockings below them. He had a bald head, highly\npolished; a deep voice; and a chin so very double, that it was a wonder\nhow he ever managed to shave into the creases. He had likewise a pair of\nlittle eyes that were always half shut up, and a mouth that was always\nhalf expanded into a grin, as if he had, that moment, posed a boy, and\nwere waiting to convict him from his own lips. Insomuch, that when the\nDoctor put his right hand into the breast of his coat, and with his\nother hand behind him, and a scarcely perceptible wag of his head, made\nthe commonest observation to a nervous stranger, it was like a sentiment\nfrom the sphynx, and settled his business.\n\nThe Doctor's was a mighty fine house, fronting the sea. Not a joyful\nstyle of house within, but quite the contrary. Sad-coloured curtains,\nwhose proportions were spare and lean, hid themselves despondently\nbehind the windows. The tables and chairs were put away in rows, like\nfigures in a sum; fires were so rarely lighted in the rooms of ceremony,\nthat they felt like wells, and a visitor represented the bucket; the\ndining-room seemed the last place in the world where any eating or\ndrinking was likely to occur; there was no sound through all the house\nbut the ticking of a great clock in the hall, which made itself audible\nin the very garrets; and sometimes a dull cooing of young gentlemen\nat their lessons, like the murmurings of an assemblage of melancholy\npigeons.\n\nMiss Blimber, too, although a slim and graceful maid, did no soft\nviolence to the gravity of the house. There was no light nonsense about\nMiss Blimber. She kept her hair short and crisp, and wore spectacles.\nShe was dry and sandy with working in the graves of deceased languages.\nNone of your live languages for Miss Blimber. They must be dead--stone\ndead--and then Miss Blimber dug them up like a Ghoul.\n\nMrs Blimber, her Mama, was not learned herself, but she pretended to\nbe, and that did quite as well. She said at evening parties, that if she\ncould have known Cicero, she thought she could have died contented. It\nwas the steady joy of her life to see the Doctor's young gentlemen go\nout walking, unlike all other young gentlemen, in the largest possible\nshirt-collars, and the stiffest possible cravats. It was so classical,\nshe said.\n\nAs to Mr Feeder, B.A., Doctor Blimber's assistant, he was a kind\nof human barrel-organ, with a little list of tunes at which he was\ncontinually working, over and over again, without any variation. He\nmight have been fitted up with a change of barrels, perhaps, in early\nlife, if his destiny had been favourable; but it had not been; and he\nhad only one, with which, in a monotonous round, it was his occupation\nto bewilder the young ideas of Doctor Blimber's young gentlemen. The\nyoung gentlemen were prematurely full of carking anxieties. They knew no\nrest from the pursuit of stony-hearted verbs, savage noun-substantives,\ninflexible syntactic passages, and ghosts of exercises that appeared\nto them in their dreams. Under the forcing system, a young gentleman\nusually took leave of his spirits in three weeks. He had all the cares\nof the world on his head in three months. He conceived bitter sentiments\nagainst his parents or guardians in four; he was an old misanthrope, in\nfive; envied Curtius that blessed refuge in the earth, in six; and at\nthe end of the first twelvemonth had arrived at the conclusion, from\nwhich he never afterwards departed, that all the fancies of the poets,\nand lessons of the sages, were a mere collection of words and grammar,\nand had no other meaning in the world.\n\nBut he went on blow, blow, blowing, in the Doctor's hothouse, all the\ntime; and the Doctor's glory and reputation were great, when he took his\nwintry growth home to his relations and friends.\n\nUpon the Doctor's door-steps one day, Paul stood with a fluttering\nheart, and with his small right hand in his father's. His other hand was\nlocked in that of Florence. How tight the tiny pressure of that one; and\nhow loose and cold the other!\n\nMrs Pipchin hovered behind the victim, with her sable plumage and her\nhooked beak, like a bird of ill-omen. She was out of breath--for\nMr Dombey, full of great thoughts, had walked fast--and she croaked\nhoarsely as she waited for the opening of the door.\n\n'Now, Paul,' said Mr Dombey, exultingly. 'This is the way indeed to be\nDombey and Son, and have money. You are almost a man already.'\n\n'Almost,' returned the child.\n\nEven his childish agitation could not master the sly and quaint yet\ntouching look, with which he accompanied the reply.\n\nIt brought a vague expression of dissatisfaction into Mr Dombey's face;\nbut the door being opened, it was quickly gone.\n\n'Doctor Blimber is at home, I believe?' said Mr Dombey.\n\nThe man said yes; and as they passed in, looked at Paul as if he were a\nlittle mouse, and the house were a trap. He was a weak-eyed young man,\nwith the first faint streaks or early dawn of a grin on his countenance.\nIt was mere imbecility; but Mrs Pipchin took it into her head that it\nwas impudence, and made a snap at him directly.\n\n'How dare you laugh behind the gentleman's back?' said Mrs Pipchin. 'And\nwhat do you take me for?'\n\n'I ain't a laughing at nobody, and I'm sure I don't take you for\nnothing, Ma'am,' returned the young man, in consternation.\n\n'A pack of idle dogs!' said Mrs Pipchin, 'only fit to be turnspits. Go\nand tell your master that Mr Dombey's here, or it'll be worse for you!'\n\nThe weak-eyed young man went, very meekly, to discharge himself of this\ncommission; and soon came back to invite them to the Doctor's study.\n\n'You're laughing again, Sir,' said Mrs Pipchin, when it came to her\nturn, bringing up the rear, to pass him in the hall.\n\n'I ain't,' returned the young man, grievously oppressed. 'I never see\nsuch a thing as this!'\n\n'What is the matter, Mrs Pipchin?' said Mr Dombey, looking round.\n'Softly! Pray!'\n\nMrs Pipchin, in her deference, merely muttered at the young man as she\npassed on, and said, 'Oh! he was a precious fellow'--leaving the young\nman, who was all meekness and incapacity, affected even to tears by the\nincident. But Mrs Pipchin had a way of falling foul of all meek people;\nand her friends said who could wonder at it, after the Peruvian mines!\n\nThe Doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a globe at each\nknee, books all round him, Homer over the door, and Minerva on the\nmantel-shelf. 'And how do you do, Sir?' he said to Mr Dombey, 'and how\nis my little friend?' Grave as an organ was the Doctor's speech; and\nwhen he ceased, the great clock in the hall seemed (to Paul at least) to\ntake him up, and to go on saying, 'how, is, my, lit, tle, friend? how,\nis, my, lit, tle, friend?' over and over and over again.\n\nThe little friend being something too small to be seen at all from where\nthe Doctor sat, over the books on his table, the Doctor made several\nfutile attempts to get a view of him round the legs; which Mr Dombey\nperceiving, relieved the Doctor from his embarrassment by taking Paul up\nin his arms, and sitting him on another little table, over against the\nDoctor, in the middle of the room.\n\n'Ha!' said the Doctor, leaning back in his chair with his hand in his\nbreast. 'Now I see my little friend. How do you do, my little friend?'\n\nThe clock in the hall wouldn't subscribe to this alteration in the form\nof words, but continued to repeat how, is, my, lit, tle, friend? how,\nis, my, lit, tle, friend?'\n\n'Very well, I thank you, Sir,' returned Paul, answering the clock quite\nas much as the Doctor.\n\n'Ha!' said Doctor Blimber. 'Shall we make a man of him?'\n\n'Do you hear, Paul?' added Mr Dombey; Paul being silent.\n\n'Shall we make a man of him?' repeated the Doctor.\n\n'I had rather be a child,' replied Paul.\n\n'Indeed!' said the Doctor. 'Why?'\n\nThe child sat on the table looking at him, with a curious expression of\nsuppressed emotion in his face, and beating one hand proudly on his\nknee as if he had the rising tears beneath it, and crushed them. But\nhis other hand strayed a little way the while, a little farther--farther\nfrom him yet--until it lighted on the neck of Florence. 'This is why,'\nit seemed to say, and then the steady look was broken up and gone; the\nworking lip was loosened; and the tears came streaming forth.\n\n'Mrs Pipchin,' said his father, in a querulous manner, 'I am really very\nsorry to see this.'\n\n'Come away from him, do, Miss Dombey,' quoth the matron.\n\n'Never mind,' said the Doctor, blandly nodding his head, to keep\nMrs Pipchin back. 'Never mind; we shall substitute new cares and new\nimpressions, Mr Dombey, very shortly. You would still wish my little\nfriend to acquire--'\n\n'Everything, if you please, Doctor,' returned Mr Dombey, firmly.\n\n'Yes,' said the Doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes, and his usual\nsmile, seemed to survey Paul with the sort of interest that might attach\nto some choice little animal he was going to stuff. 'Yes, exactly. Ha!\nWe shall impart a great variety of information to our little friend, and\nbring him quickly forward, I daresay. I daresay. Quite a virgin soil, I\nbelieve you said, Mr Dombey?'\n\n'Except some ordinary preparation at home, and from this lady,' replied\nMr Dombey, introducing Mrs Pipchin, who instantly communicated a\nrigidity to her whole muscular system, and snorted defiance beforehand,\nin case the Doctor should disparage her; 'except so far, Paul has, as\nyet, applied himself to no studies at all.'\n\nDoctor Blimber inclined his head, in gentle tolerance of such\ninsignificant poaching as Mrs Pipchin's, and said he was glad to hear\nit. It was much more satisfactory, he observed, rubbing his hands, to\nbegin at the foundation. And again he leered at Paul, as if he would\nhave liked to tackle him with the Greek alphabet, on the spot.\n\n'That circumstance, indeed, Doctor Blimber,' pursued Mr Dombey, glancing\nat his little son, 'and the interview I have already had the pleasure of\nholding with you, renders any further explanation, and consequently, any\nfurther intrusion on your valuable time, so unnecessary, that--'\n\n'Now, Miss Dombey!' said the acid Pipchin.\n\n'Permit me,' said the Doctor, 'one moment. Allow me to present Mrs\nBlimber and my daughter; who will be associated with the domestic life\nof our young Pilgrim to Parnassus Mrs Blimber,' for the lady, who had\nperhaps been in waiting, opportunely entered, followed by her daughter,\nthat fair Sexton in spectacles, 'Mr Dombey. My daughter Cornelia, Mr\nDombey. Mr Dombey, my love,' pursued the Doctor, turning to his wife,\n'is so confiding as to--do you see our little friend?'\n\nMrs Blimber, in an excess of politeness, of which Mr Dombey was the\nobject, apparently did not, for she was backing against the little\nfriend, and very much endangering his position on the table. But,\non this hint, she turned to admire his classical and intellectual\nlineaments, and turning again to Mr Dombey, said, with a sigh, that she\nenvied his dear son.\n\n'Like a bee, Sir,' said Mrs Blimber, with uplifted eyes, 'about to\nplunge into a garden of the choicest flowers, and sip the sweets for the\nfirst time Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Terence, Plautus, Cicero. What a world\nof honey have we here. It may appear remarkable, Mr Dombey, in one who\nis a wife--the wife of such a husband--'\n\n'Hush, hush,' said Doctor Blimber. 'Fie for shame.'\n\n'Mr Dombey will forgive the partiality of a wife,' said Mrs Blimber,\nwith an engaging smile.\n\nMr Dombey answered 'Not at all:' applying those words, it is to be\npresumed, to the partiality, and not to the forgiveness.\n\n'And it may seem remarkable in one who is a mother also,' resumed Mrs\nBlimber.\n\n'And such a mother,' observed Mr Dombey, bowing with some confused idea\nof being complimentary to Cornelia.\n\n'But really,' pursued Mrs Blimber, 'I think if I could have known\nCicero, and been his friend, and talked with him in his retirement at\nTusculum (beau-ti-ful Tusculum!), I could have died contented.'\n\nA learned enthusiasm is so very contagious, that Mr Dombey half believed\nthis was exactly his case; and even Mrs Pipchin, who was not, as we have\nseen, of an accommodating disposition generally, gave utterance to a\nlittle sound between a groan and a sigh, as if she would have said that\nnobody but Cicero could have proved a lasting consolation under that\nfailure of the Peruvian Mines, but that he indeed would have been a very\nDavy-lamp of refuge.\n\nCornelia looked at Mr Dombey through her spectacles, as if she would\nhave liked to crack a few quotations with him from the authority in\nquestion. But this design, if she entertained it, was frustrated by a\nknock at the room-door.\n\n'Who is that?' said the Doctor. 'Oh! Come in, Toots; come in. Mr Dombey,\nSir.' Toots bowed. 'Quite a coincidence!' said Doctor Blimber. 'Here\nwe have the beginning and the end. Alpha and Omega. Our head boy, Mr\nDombey.'\n\nThe Doctor might have called him their head and shoulders boy, for he\nwas at least that much taller than any of the rest. He blushed very much\nat finding himself among strangers, and chuckled aloud.\n\n'An addition to our little Portico, Toots,' said the Doctor; 'Mr\nDombey's son.'\n\nYoung Toots blushed again; and finding, from a solemn silence which\nprevailed, that he was expected to say something, said to Paul, 'How are\nyou?' in a voice so deep, and a manner so sheepish, that if a lamb had\nroared it couldn't have been more surprising.\n\n'Ask Mr Feeder, if you please, Toots,' said the Doctor, 'to prepare\na few introductory volumes for Mr Dombey's son, and to allot him a\nconvenient seat for study. My dear, I believe Mr Dombey has not seen the\ndormitories.'\n\n'If Mr Dombey will walk upstairs,' said Mrs Blimber, 'I shall be more\nthan proud to show him the dominions of the drowsy god.'\n\nWith that, Mrs Blimber, who was a lady of great suavity, and a wiry\nfigure, and who wore a cap composed of sky-blue materials, proceeded\nupstairs with Mr Dombey and Cornelia; Mrs Pipchin following, and looking\nout sharp for her enemy the footman.\n\nWhile they were gone, Paul sat upon the table, holding Florence by the\nhand, and glancing timidly from the Doctor round and round the room,\nwhile the Doctor, leaning back in his chair, with his hand in his breast\nas usual, held a book from him at arm's length, and read. There\nwas something very awful in this manner of reading. It was such a\ndetermined, unimpassioned, inflexible, cold-blooded way of going to\nwork. It left the Doctor's countenance exposed to view; and when the\nDoctor smiled suspiciously at his author, or knit his brows, or shook\nhis head and made wry faces at him, as much as to say, 'Don't tell me,\nSir; I know better,' it was terrific.\n\nToots, too, had no business to be outside the door, ostentatiously\nexamining the wheels in his watch, and counting his half-crowns. But\nthat didn't last long; for Doctor Blimber, happening to change the\nposition of his tight plump legs, as if he were going to get up, Toots\nswiftly vanished, and appeared no more.\n\nMr Dombey and his conductress were soon heard coming downstairs again,\ntalking all the way; and presently they re-entered the Doctor's study.\n\n'I hope, Mr Dombey,' said the Doctor, laying down his book, 'that the\narrangements meet your approval.'\n\n'They are excellent, Sir,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Very fair, indeed,' said Mrs Pipchin, in a low voice; never disposed to\ngive too much encouragement.\n\n'Mrs Pipchin,' said Mr Dombey, wheeling round, 'will, with your\npermission, Doctor and Mrs Blimber, visit Paul now and then.'\n\n'Whenever Mrs Pipchin pleases,' observed the Doctor.\n\n'Always happy to see her,' said Mrs Blimber.\n\n'I think,' said Mr Dombey, 'I have given all the trouble I need, and may\ntake my leave. Paul, my child,' he went close to him, as he sat upon the\ntable. 'Good-bye.'\n\n'Good-bye, Papa.'\n\nThe limp and careless little hand that Mr Dombey took in his, was\nsingularly out of keeping with the wistful face. But he had no part\nin its sorrowful expression. It was not addressed to him. No, no. To\nFlorence--all to Florence.\n\nIf Mr Dombey in his insolence of wealth, had ever made an enemy, hard\nto appease and cruelly vindictive in his hate, even such an enemy might\nhave received the pang that wrung his proud heart then, as compensation\nfor his injury.\n\nHe bent down, over his boy, and kissed him. If his sight were dimmed as\nhe did so, by something that for a moment blurred the little face, and\nmade it indistinct to him, his mental vision may have been, for that\nshort time, the clearer perhaps.\n\n'I shall see you soon, Paul. You are free on Saturdays and Sundays, you\nknow.'\n\n'Yes, Papa,' returned Paul: looking at his sister. 'On Saturdays and\nSundays.'\n\n'And you'll try and learn a great deal here, and be a clever man,' said\nMr Dombey; 'won't you?'\n\n'I'll try,' returned the child, wearily.\n\n'And you'll soon be grown up now!' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Oh! very soon!' replied the child. Once more the old, old look passed\nrapidly across his features like a strange light. It fell on Mrs\nPipchin, and extinguished itself in her black dress. That excellent\nogress stepped forward to take leave and to bear off Florence, which she\nhad long been thirsting to do. The move on her part roused Mr Dombey,\nwhose eyes were fixed on Paul. After patting him on the head, and\npressing his small hand again, he took leave of Doctor Blimber, Mrs\nBlimber, and Miss Blimber, with his usual polite frigidity, and walked\nout of the study.\n\nDespite his entreaty that they would not think of stirring, Doctor\nBlimber, Mrs Blimber, and Miss Blimber all pressed forward to attend him\nto the hall; and thus Mrs Pipchin got into a state of entanglement with\nMiss Blimber and the Doctor, and was crowded out of the study before\nshe could clutch Florence. To which happy accident Paul stood afterwards\nindebted for the dear remembrance, that Florence ran back to throw her\narms round his neck, and that hers was the last face in the doorway:\nturned towards him with a smile of encouragement, the brighter for the\ntears through which it beamed.\n\nIt made his childish bosom heave and swell when it was gone; and sent\nthe globes, the books, blind Homer and Minerva, swimming round the room.\nBut they stopped, all of a sudden; and then he heard the loud clock in\nthe hall still gravely inquiring 'how, is, my, lit, tle, friend? how,\nis, my, lit, tle, friend?' as it had done before.\n\nHe sat, with folded hands, upon his pedestal, silently listening. But\nhe might have answered 'weary, weary! very lonely, very sad!' And there,\nwith an aching void in his young heart, and all outside so cold, and\nbare, and strange, Paul sat as if he had taken life unfurnished, and the\nupholsterer were never coming.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12. Paul's Education\n\n\nAfter the lapse of some minutes, which appeared an immense time to\nlittle Paul Dombey on the table, Doctor Blimber came back. The Doctor's\nwalk was stately, and calculated to impress the juvenile mind with\nsolemn feelings. It was a sort of march; but when the Doctor put out his\nright foot, he gravely turned upon his axis, with a semi-circular sweep\ntowards the left; and when he put out his left foot, he turned in the\nsame manner towards the right. So that he seemed, at every stride he\ntook, to look about him as though he were saying, 'Can anybody have\nthe goodness to indicate any subject, in any direction, on which I am\nuninformed? I rather think not.'\n\nMrs Blimber and Miss Blimber came back in the Doctor's company; and the\nDoctor, lifting his new pupil off the table, delivered him over to Miss\nBlimber.\n\n'Cornelia,' said the Doctor, 'Dombey will be your charge at first. Bring\nhim on, Cornelia, bring him on.'\n\nMiss Blimber received her young ward from the Doctor's hands; and Paul,\nfeeling that the spectacles were surveying him, cast down his eyes.\n\n'How old are you, Dombey?' said Miss Blimber.\n\n'Six,' answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance at the young lady,\nwhy her hair didn't grow long like Florence's, and why she was like a\nboy.\n\n'How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, Dombey?' said Miss Blimber.\n\n'None of it,' answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a shock to Miss\nBlimber's sensibility, he looked up at the three faces that were looking\ndown at him, and said:\n\n'I haven't been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn't learn a\nLatin Grammar when I was out, every day, with old Glubb. I wish you'd\ntell old Glubb to come and see me, if you please.'\n\n'What a dreadfully low name' said Mrs Blimber. 'Unclassical to a degree!\nWho is the monster, child?'\n\n'What monster?' inquired Paul.\n\n'Glubb,' said Mrs Blimber, with a great disrelish.\n\n'He's no more a monster than you are,' returned Paul.\n\n'What!' cried the Doctor, in a terrible voice. 'Ay, ay, ay? Aha! What's\nthat?'\n\nPaul was dreadfully frightened; but still he made a stand for the absent\nGlubb, though he did it trembling.\n\n'He's a very nice old man, Ma'am,' he said. 'He used to draw my couch.\nHe knows all about the deep sea, and the fish that are in it, and the\ngreat monsters that come and lie on rocks in the sun, and dive into the\nwater again when they're startled, blowing and splashing so, that they\ncan be heard for miles. There are some creatures, said Paul, warming\nwith his subject, 'I don't know how many yards long, and I forget their\nnames, but Florence knows, that pretend to be in distress; and when a\nman goes near them, out of compassion, they open their great jaws, and\nattack him. But all he has got to do,' said Paul, boldly tendering this\ninformation to the very Doctor himself, 'is to keep on turning as he\nruns away, and then, as they turn slowly, because they are so long, and\ncan't bend, he's sure to beat them. And though old Glubb don't know why\nthe sea should make me think of my Mama that's dead, or what it is that\nit is always saying--always saying! he knows a great deal about it. And\nI wish,' the child concluded, with a sudden falling of his countenance,\nand failing in his animation, as he looked like one forlorn, upon the\nthree strange faces, 'that you'd let old Glubb come here to see me, for\nI know him very well, and he knows me.'\n\n'Ha!' said the Doctor, shaking his head; 'this is bad, but study will do\nmuch.'\n\nMrs Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, that he was an\nunaccountable child; and, allowing for the difference of visage, looked\nat him pretty much as Mrs Pipchin had been used to do.\n\n'Take him round the house, Cornelia,' said the Doctor, 'and familiarise\nhim with his new sphere. Go with that young lady, Dombey.'\n\nDombey obeyed; giving his hand to the abstruse Cornelia, and looking at\nher sideways, with timid curiosity, as they went away together. For\nher spectacles, by reason of the glistening of the glasses, made her\nso mysterious, that he didn't know where she was looking, and was not\nindeed quite sure that she had any eyes at all behind them.\n\nCornelia took him first to the schoolroom, which was situated at the\nback of the hall, and was approached through two baize doors, which\ndeadened and muffled the young gentlemen's voices. Here, there were\neight young gentlemen in various stages of mental prostration, all very\nhard at work, and very grave indeed. Toots, as an old hand, had a desk\nto himself in one corner: and a magnificent man, of immense age, he\nlooked, in Paul's young eyes, behind it.\n\nMr Feeder, B.A., who sat at another little desk, had his Virgil stop\non, and was slowly grinding that tune to four young gentlemen. Of the\nremaining four, two, who grasped their foreheads convulsively, were\nengaged in solving mathematical problems; one with his face like a\ndirty window, from much crying, was endeavouring to flounder through a\nhopeless number of lines before dinner; and one sat looking at his\ntask in stony stupefaction and despair--which it seemed had been his\ncondition ever since breakfast time.\n\nThe appearance of a new boy did not create the sensation that might have\nbeen expected. Mr Feeder, B.A. (who was in the habit of shaving his head\nfor coolness, and had nothing but little bristles on it), gave him a\nbony hand, and told him he was glad to see him--which Paul would have\nbeen very glad to have told him, if he could have done so with the least\nsincerity. Then Paul, instructed by Cornelia, shook hands with the four\nyoung gentlemen at Mr Feeder's desk; then with the two young gentlemen\nat work on the problems, who were very feverish; then with the young\ngentleman at work against time, who was very inky; and lastly with the\nyoung gentleman in a state of stupefaction, who was flabby and quite\ncold.\n\nPaul having been already introduced to Toots, that pupil merely chuckled\nand breathed hard, as his custom was, and pursued the occupation in\nwhich he was engaged. It was not a severe one; for on account of his\nhaving 'gone through' so much (in more senses than one), and also of his\nhaving, as before hinted, left off blowing in his prime, Toots now had\nlicence to pursue his own course of study: which was chiefly to write\nlong letters to himself from persons of distinction, adds 'P. Toots,\nEsquire, Brighton, Sussex,' and to preserve them in his desk with great\ncare.\n\nThese ceremonies passed, Cornelia led Paul upstairs to the top of the\nhouse; which was rather a slow journey, on account of Paul being obliged\nto land both feet on every stair, before he mounted another. But they\nreached their journey's end at last; and there, in a front room, looking\nover the wild sea, Cornelia showed him a nice little bed with white\nhangings, close to the window, on which there was already beautifully\nwritten on a card in round text--down strokes very thick, and up strokes\nvery fine--DOMBEY; while two other little bedsteads in the same room\nwere announced, through like means, as respectively appertaining unto\nBRIGGS and TOZER.\n\nJust as they got downstairs again into the hall, Paul saw the weak-eyed\nyoung man who had given that mortal offence to Mrs Pipchin, suddenly\nseize a very large drumstick, and fly at a gong that was hanging up, as\nif he had gone mad, or wanted vengeance. Instead of receiving warning,\nhowever, or being instantly taken into custody, the young man left off\nunchecked, after having made a dreadful noise. Then Cornelia Blimber\nsaid to Dombey that dinner would be ready in a quarter of an hour, and\nperhaps he had better go into the schoolroom among his 'friends.'\n\nSo Dombey, deferentially passing the great clock which was still as\nanxious as ever to know how he found himself, opened the schoolroom door\na very little way, and strayed in like a lost boy: shutting it after\nhim with some difficulty. His friends were all dispersed about the\nroom except the stony friend, who remained immoveable. Mr Feeder was\nstretching himself in his grey gown, as if, regardless of expense, he\nwere resolved to pull the sleeves off.\n\n'Heigh ho hum!' cried Mr Feeder, shaking himself like a cart-horse. 'Oh\ndear me, dear me! Ya-a-a-ah!'\n\nPaul was quite alarmed by Mr Feeder's yawning; it was done on such a\ngreat scale, and he was so terribly in earnest. All the boys too (Toots\nexcepted) seemed knocked up, and were getting ready for dinner--some\nnewly tying their neckcloths, which were very stiff indeed; and\nothers washing their hands or brushing their hair, in an adjoining\nante-chamber--as if they didn't think they should enjoy it at all.\n\nYoung Toots who was ready beforehand, and had therefore nothing to do,\nand had leisure to bestow upon Paul, said, with heavy good nature:\n\n'Sit down, Dombey.'\n\n'Thank you, Sir,' said Paul.\n\nHis endeavouring to hoist himself on to a very high window-seat, and his\nslipping down again, appeared to prepare Toots's mind for the reception\nof a discovery.\n\n'You're a very small chap;' said Mr Toots.\n\n'Yes, Sir, I'm small,' returned Paul. 'Thank you, Sir.'\n\nFor Toots had lifted him into the seat, and done it kindly too.\n\n'Who's your tailor?' inquired Toots, after looking at him for some\nmoments.\n\n'It's a woman that has made my clothes as yet,' said Paul. 'My sister's\ndressmaker.'\n\n'My tailor's Burgess and Co.,' said Toots. 'Fash'nable. But very dear.'\n\nPaul had wit enough to shake his head, as if he would have said it was\neasy to see that; and indeed he thought so.\n\n'Your father's regularly rich, ain't he?' inquired Mr Toots.\n\n'Yes, Sir,' said Paul. 'He's Dombey and Son.'\n\n'And which?' demanded Toots.\n\n'And Son, Sir,' replied Paul.\n\nMr Toots made one or two attempts, in a low voice, to fix the Firm in\nhis mind; but not quite succeeding, said he would get Paul to mention\nthe name again to-morrow morning, as it was rather important. And indeed\nhe purposed nothing less than writing himself a private and confidential\nletter from Dombey and Son immediately.\n\nBy this time the other pupils (always excepting the stony boy) gathered\nround. They were polite, but pale; and spoke low; and they were so\ndepressed in their spirits, that in comparison with the general tone of\nthat company, Master Bitherstone was a perfect Miller, or complete Jest\nBook.' And yet he had a sense of injury upon him, too, had Bitherstone.\n\n'You sleep in my room, don't you?' asked a solemn young gentleman, whose\nshirt-collar curled up the lobes of his ears.\n\n'Master Briggs?' inquired Paul.\n\n'Tozer,' said the young gentleman.\n\nPaul answered yes; and Tozer pointing out the stony pupil, said that was\nBriggs. Paul had already felt certain that it must be either Briggs or\nTozer, though he didn't know why.\n\n'Is yours a strong constitution?' inquired Tozer.\n\nPaul said he thought not. Tozer replied that he thought not also,\njudging from Paul's looks, and that it was a pity, for it need be. He\nthen asked Paul if he were going to begin with Cornelia; and on Paul\nsaying 'yes,' all the young gentlemen (Briggs excepted) gave a low\ngroan.\n\nIt was drowned in the tintinnabulation of the gong, which sounding again\nwith great fury, there was a general move towards the dining-room; still\nexcepting Briggs the stony boy, who remained where he was, and as he\nwas; and on its way to whom Paul presently encountered a round of bread,\ngenteelly served on a plate and napkin, and with a silver fork lying\ncrosswise on the top of it. Doctor Blimber was already in his place in\nthe dining-room, at the top of the table, with Miss Blimber and Mrs\nBlimber on either side of him.  Mr Feeder in a black coat was at the\nbottom. Paul's chair was next to Miss Blimber; but it being found, when\nhe sat in it, that his eyebrows were not much above the level of the\ntable-cloth, some books were brought in from the Doctor's study, on\nwhich he was elevated, and on which he always sat from that time--\ncarrying them in and out himself on after occasions, like a little\nelephant and castle.\n\nGrace having been said by the Doctor, dinner began. There was some nice\nsoup; also roast meat, boiled meat, vegetables, pie, and cheese. Every\nyoung gentleman had a massive silver fork, and a napkin; and all the\narrangements were stately and handsome. In particular, there was a\nbutler in a blue coat and bright buttons, who gave quite a winey flavour\nto the table beer; he poured it out so superbly.\n\nNobody spoke, unless spoken to, except Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and\nMiss Blimber, who conversed occasionally. Whenever a young gentleman was\nnot actually engaged with his knife and fork or spoon, his eye, with an\nirresistible attraction, sought the eye of Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber,\nor Miss Blimber, and modestly rested there. Toots appeared to be the\nonly exception to this rule. He sat next Mr Feeder on Paul's side of the\ntable, and frequently looked behind and before the intervening boys to\ncatch a glimpse of Paul.\n\nOnly once during dinner was there any conversation that included the\nyoung gentlemen. It happened at the epoch of the cheese, when the\nDoctor, having taken a glass of port wine, and hemmed twice or thrice,\nsaid:\n\n'It is remarkable, Mr Feeder, that the Romans--'\n\nAt the mention of this terrible people, their implacable enemies, every\nyoung gentleman fastened his gaze upon the Doctor, with an assumption of\nthe deepest interest. One of the number who happened to be drinking,\nand who caught the Doctor's eye glaring at him through the side of his\ntumbler, left off so hastily that he was convulsed for some moments, and\nin the sequel ruined Doctor Blimber's point.\n\n'It is remarkable, Mr Feeder,' said the Doctor, beginning again slowly,\n'that the Romans, in those gorgeous and profuse entertainments of which\nwe read in the days of the Emperors, when luxury had attained a height\nunknown before or since, and when whole provinces were ravaged to supply\nthe splendid means of one Imperial Banquet--'\n\nHere the offender, who had been swelling and straining, and waiting in\nvain for a full stop, broke out violently.\n\n'Johnson,' said Mr Feeder, in a low reproachful voice, 'take some\nwater.'\n\nThe Doctor, looking very stern, made a pause until the water was\nbrought, and then resumed:\n\n'And when, Mr Feeder--'\n\nBut Mr Feeder, who saw that Johnson must break out again, and who knew\nthat the Doctor would never come to a period before the young gentlemen\nuntil he had finished all he meant to say, couldn't keep his eye off\nJohnson; and thus was caught in the fact of not looking at the Doctor,\nwho consequently stopped.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Mr Feeder, reddening. 'I beg your pardon,\nDoctor Blimber.'\n\n'And when,' said the Doctor, raising his voice, 'when, Sir, as we\nread, and have no reason to doubt--incredible as it may appear to the\nvulgar--of our time--the brother of Vitellius prepared for him a feast,\nin which were served, of fish, two thousand dishes--'\n\n'Take some water, Johnson--dishes, Sir,' said Mr Feeder.\n\n'Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes.'\n\n'Or try a crust of bread,' said Mr Feeder.\n\n'And one dish,' pursued Doctor Blimber, raising his voice still higher\nas he looked all round the table, 'called, from its enormous dimensions,\nthe Shield of Minerva, and made, among other costly ingredients, of the\nbrains of pheasants--'\n\n'Ow, ow, ow!' (from Johnson.)\n\n'Woodcocks--'\n\n'Ow, ow, ow!'\n\n'The sounds of the fish called scari--'\n\n'You'll burst some vessel in your head,' said Mr Feeder. 'You had better\nlet it come.'\n\n'And the spawn of the lamprey, brought from the Carpathian Sea,'\npursued the Doctor, in his severest voice; 'when we read of costly\nentertainments such as these, and still remember, that we have a\nTitus--'\n\n'What would be your mother's feelings if you died of apoplexy!' said Mr\nFeeder.\n\n'A Domitian--'\n\n'And you're blue, you know,' said Mr Feeder.\n\n'A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Heliogabalus, and many more, pursued\nthe Doctor; 'it is, Mr Feeder--if you are doing me the honour to\nattend--remarkable; VERY remarkable, Sir--'\n\nBut Johnson, unable to suppress it any longer, burst at that moment into\nsuch an overwhelming fit of coughing, that although both his immediate\nneighbours thumped him on the back, and Mr Feeder himself held a glass\nof water to his lips, and the butler walked him up and down several\ntimes between his own chair and the sideboard, like a sentry, it was a\nfull five minutes before he was moderately composed. Then there was a\nprofound silence.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said Doctor Blimber, 'rise for Grace! Cornelia, lift Dombey\ndown'--nothing of whom but his scalp was accordingly seen above\nthe tablecloth. 'Johnson will repeat to me tomorrow morning before\nbreakfast, without book, and from the Greek Testament, the first chapter\nof the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Ephesians. We will resume our\nstudies, Mr Feeder, in half-an-hour.'\n\nThe young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr Feeder did likewise.\nDuring the half-hour, the young gentlemen, broken into pairs, loitered\narm-in-arm up and down a small piece of ground behind the house, or\nendeavoured to kindle a spark of animation in the breast of Briggs. But\nnothing happened so vulgar as play. Punctually at the appointed time,\nthe gong was sounded, and the studies, under the joint auspices of\nDoctor Blimber and Mr Feeder, were resumed.\n\nAs the Olympic game of lounging up and down had been cut shorter than\nusual that day, on Johnson's account, they all went out for a walk\nbefore tea. Even Briggs (though he hadn't begun yet) partook of this\ndissipation; in the enjoyment of which he looked over the cliff two or\nthree times darkly. Doctor Blimber accompanied them; and Paul had the\nhonour of being taken in tow by the Doctor himself: a distinguished\nstate of things, in which he looked very little and feeble.\n\nTea was served in a style no less polite than the dinner; and after tea,\nthe young gentlemen rising and bowing as before, withdrew to fetch up\nthe unfinished tasks of that day, or to get up the already looming tasks\nof to-morrow. In the meantime Mr Feeder withdrew to his own room; and\nPaul sat in a corner wondering whether Florence was thinking of him, and\nwhat they were all about at Mrs Pipchin's.\n\nMr Toots, who had been detained by an important letter from the Duke of\nWellington, found Paul out after a time; and having looked at him for a\nlong while, as before, inquired if he was fond of waistcoats.\n\nPaul said 'Yes, Sir.'\n\n'So am I,' said Toots.\n\nNo word more spoke Toots that night; but he stood looking at Paul as\nif he liked him; and as there was company in that, and Paul was not\ninclined to talk, it answered his purpose better than conversation.\n\nAt eight o'clock or so, the gong sounded again for prayers in the\ndining-room, where the butler afterwards presided over a side-table, on\nwhich bread and cheese and beer were spread for such young gentlemen as\ndesired to partake of those refreshments. The ceremonies concluded by\nthe Doctor's saying, 'Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven\nto-morrow;' and then, for the first time, Paul saw Cornelia Blimber's\neye, and saw that it was upon him. When the Doctor had said these words,\n'Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven tomorrow,' the pupils\nbowed again, and went to bed.\n\nIn the confidence of their own room upstairs, Briggs said his head ached\nready to split, and that he should wish himself dead if it wasn't for\nhis mother, and a blackbird he had at home. Tozer didn't say much, but he\nsighed a good deal, and told Paul to look out, for his turn would come\nto-morrow. After uttering those prophetic words, he undressed himself\nmoodily, and got into bed. Briggs was in his bed too, and Paul in\nhis bed too, before the weak-eyed young man appeared to take away the\ncandle, when he wished them good-night and pleasant dreams. But\nhis benevolent wishes were in vain, as far as Briggs and Tozer were\nconcerned; for Paul, who lay awake for a long while, and often woke\nafterwards, found that Briggs was ridden by his lesson as a nightmare:\nand that Tozer, whose mind was affected in his sleep by similar causes,\nin a minor degree talked unknown tongues, or scraps of Greek and\nLatin--it was all one to Paul--which, in the silence of night, had an\ninexpressibly wicked and guilty effect.\n\nPaul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that he was walking hand\nin hand with Florence through beautiful gardens, when they came to a\nlarge sunflower which suddenly expanded itself into a gong, and began\nto sound. Opening his eyes, he found that it was a dark, windy morning,\nwith a drizzling rain: and that the real gong was giving dreadful note\nof preparation, down in the hall.\n\nSo he got up directly, and found Briggs with hardly any eyes, for\nnightmare and grief had made his face puffy, putting his boots on: while\nTozer stood shivering and rubbing his shoulders in a very bad humour.\nPoor Paul couldn't dress himself easily, not being used to it, and asked\nthem if they would have the goodness to tie some strings for him; but as\nBriggs merely said 'Bother!' and Tozer, 'Oh yes!' he went down when he\nwas otherwise ready, to the next storey, where he saw a pretty young\nwoman in leather gloves, cleaning a stove. The young woman seemed\nsurprised at his appearance, and asked him where his mother was. When\nPaul told her she was dead, she took her gloves off, and did what he\nwanted; and furthermore rubbed his hands to warm them; and gave him a\nkiss; and told him whenever he wanted anything of that sort--meaning in\nthe dressing way--to ask for 'Melia; which Paul, thanking her very\nmuch, said he certainly would. He then proceeded softly on his journey\ndownstairs, towards the room in which the young gentlemen resumed their\nstudies, when, passing by a door that stood ajar, a voice from within\ncried, 'Is that Dombey?' On Paul replying, 'Yes, Ma'am:' for he knew the\nvoice to be Miss Blimber's: Miss Blimber said, 'Come in, Dombey.' And in\nhe went.\n\nMiss Blimber presented exactly the appearance she had presented\nyesterday, except that she wore a shawl. Her little light curls were as\ncrisp as ever, and she had already her spectacles on, which made\nPaul wonder whether she went to bed in them. She had a cool little\nsitting-room of her own up there, with some books in it, and no fire But\nMiss Blimber was never cold, and never sleepy.\n\nNow, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber, 'I am going out for a constitutional.'\n\nPaul wondered what that was, and why she didn't send the footman out to\nget it in such unfavourable weather. But he made no observation on the\nsubject: his attention being devoted to a little pile of new books, on\nwhich Miss Blimber appeared to have been recently engaged.\n\n'These are yours, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber.\n\n'All of 'em, Ma'am?' said Paul.\n\n'Yes,' returned Miss Blimber; 'and Mr Feeder will look you out some more\nvery soon, if you are as studious as I expect you will be, Dombey.'\n\n'Thank you, Ma'am,' said Paul.\n\n'I am going out for a constitutional,' resumed Miss Blimber; 'and while\nI am gone, that is to say in the interval between this and breakfast,\nDombey, I wish you to read over what I have marked in these books, and\nto tell me if you quite understand what you have got to learn. Don't\nlose time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them downstairs,\nand begin directly.'\n\n'Yes, Ma'am,' answered Paul.\n\nThere were so many of them, that although Paul put one hand under the\nbottom book and his other hand and his chin on the top book, and hugged\nthem all closely, the middle book slipped out before he reached the\ndoor, and then they all tumbled down on the floor. Miss Blimber said,\n'Oh, Dombey, Dombey, this is really very careless!' and piled them up\nafresh for him; and this time, by dint of balancing them with great\nnicety, Paul got out of the room, and down a few stairs before two of\nthem escaped again. But he held the rest so tight, that he only left one\nmore on the first floor, and one in the passage; and when he had got the\nmain body down into the schoolroom, he set off upstairs again to collect\nthe stragglers. Having at last amassed the whole library, and climbed\ninto his place, he fell to work, encouraged by a remark from Tozer to\nthe effect that he 'was in for it now;' which was the only interruption\nhe received till breakfast time. At that meal, for which he had no\nappetite, everything was quite as solemn and genteel as at the others;\nand when it was finished, he followed Miss Blimber upstairs.\n\n'Now, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber. 'How have you got on with those\nbooks?'\n\nThey comprised a little English, and a deal of Latin--names of things,\ndeclensions of articles and substantives, exercises thereon, and\npreliminary rules--a trifle of orthography, a glance at ancient history,\na wink or two at modern ditto, a few tables, two or three weights and\nmeasures, and a little general information. When poor Paul had spelt\nout number two, he found he had no idea of number one; fragments whereof\nafterwards obtruded themselves into number three, which slided into\nnumber four, which grafted itself on to number two. So that whether\ntwenty Romuluses made a Remus, or hic haec hoc was troy weight, or\na verb always agreed with an ancient Briton, or three times four was\nTaurus a bull, were open questions with him.\n\n'Oh, Dombey, Dombey!' said Miss Blimber, 'this is very shocking.'\n\n'If you please,' said Paul, 'I think if I might sometimes talk a little\nto old Glubb, I should be able to do better.'\n\n'Nonsense, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber. 'I couldn't hear of it. This is\nnot the place for Glubbs of any kind. You must take the books down,\nI suppose, Dombey, one by one, and perfect yourself in the day's\ninstalment of subject A, before you turn at all to subject B. I am\nsorry to say, Dombey, that your education appears to have been very much\nneglected.'\n\n'So Papa says,' returned Paul; 'but I told you--I have been a weak\nchild. Florence knows I have. So does Wickam.'\n\n'Who is Wickam?' asked Miss Blimber.\n\n'She has been my nurse,' Paul answered.\n\n'I must beg you not to mention Wickam to me, then,' said Miss Blimber. 'I\ncouldn't allow it'.\n\n'You asked me who she was,' said Paul.\n\n'Very well,' returned Miss Blimber; 'but this is all very different\nindeed from anything of that sort, Dombey, and I couldn't think of\npermitting it. As to having been weak, you must begin to be strong. And\nnow take away the top book, if you please, Dombey, and return when you\nare master of the theme.'\n\nMiss Blimber expressed her opinions on the subject of Paul's\nuninstructed state with a gloomy delight, as if she had expected\nthis result, and were glad to find that they must be in constant\ncommunication. Paul withdrew with the top task, as he was told, and\nlaboured away at it, down below: sometimes remembering every word of it,\nand sometimes forgetting it all, and everything else besides: until at\nlast he ventured upstairs again to repeat the lesson, when it was nearly\nall driven out of his head before he began, by Miss Blimber's shutting\nup the book, and saying, 'Go on, Dombey!' a proceeding so suggestive of\nthe knowledge inside of her, that Paul looked upon the young lady with\nconsternation, as a kind of learned Guy Fawkes, or artificial Bogle,\nstuffed full of scholastic straw.\n\nHe acquitted himself very well, nevertheless; and Miss Blimber,\ncommending him as giving promise of getting on fast, immediately\nprovided him with subject B; from which he passed to C, and even D\nbefore dinner. It was hard work, resuming his studies, soon after\ndinner; and he felt giddy and confused and drowsy and dull. But all the\nother young gentlemen had similar sensations, and were obliged to resume\ntheir studies too, if there were any comfort in that. It was a wonder\nthat the great clock in the hall, instead of being constant to its first\ninquiry, never said, 'Gentlemen, we will now resume our studies,' for\nthat phrase was often enough repeated in its neighbourhood. The studies\nwent round like a mighty wheel, and the young gentlemen were always\nstretched upon it.\n\nAfter tea there were exercises again, and preparations for next day\nby candlelight. And in due course there was bed; where, but for that\nresumption of the studies which took place in dreams, were rest and\nsweet forgetfulness.\n\nOh Saturdays! Oh happy Saturdays, when Florence always came at noon, and\nnever would, in any weather, stay away, though Mrs Pipchin snarled and\ngrowled, and worried her bitterly. Those Saturdays were Sabbaths for at\nleast two little Christians among all the Jews, and did the holy Sabbath\nwork of strengthening and knitting up a brother's and a sister's love.\n\nNot even Sunday nights--the heavy Sunday nights, whose shadow darkened\nthe first waking burst of light on Sunday mornings--could mar those\nprecious Saturdays. Whether it was the great sea-shore, where they sat,\nand strolled together; or whether it was only Mrs Pipchin's dull back\nroom, in which she sang to him so softly, with his drowsy head upon her\narm; Paul never cared. It was Florence. That was all he thought of. So,\non Sunday nights, when the Doctor's dark door stood agape to swallow him\nup for another week, the time was come for taking leave of Florence; no\none else.\n\nMrs Wickam had been drafted home to the house in town, and Miss Nipper,\nnow a smart young woman, had come down. To many a single combat with\nMrs Pipchin, did Miss Nipper gallantly devote herself, and if ever Mrs\nPipchin in all her life had found her match, she had found it now.\nMiss Nipper threw away the scabbard the first morning she arose in Mrs\nPipchin's house. She asked and gave no quarter. She said it must be war,\nand war it was; and Mrs Pipchin lived from that time in the midst of\nsurprises, harassings, and defiances, and skirmishing attacks that came\nbouncing in upon her from the passage, even in unguarded moments of\nchops, and carried desolation to her very toast.\n\nMiss Nipper had returned one Sunday night with Florence, from walking\nback with Paul to the Doctor's, when Florence took from her bosom a\nlittle piece of paper, on which she had pencilled down some words.\n\n'See here, Susan,' she said. 'These are the names of the little books\nthat Paul brings home to do those long exercises with, when he is so\ntired. I copied them last night while he was writing.'\n\n'Don't show 'em to me, Miss Floy, if you please,' returned Nipper, 'I'd\nas soon see Mrs Pipchin.'\n\n'I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you will, tomorrow morning. I\nhave money enough,' said Florence.\n\n'Why, goodness gracious me, Miss Floy,' returned Miss Nipper, 'how\ncan you talk like that, when you have books upon books already, and\nmasterses and mississes a teaching of you everything continual, though\nmy belief is that your Pa, Miss Dombey, never would have learnt you\nnothing, never would have thought of it, unless you'd asked him--when he\ncouldn't well refuse; but giving consent when asked, and offering when\nunasked, Miss, is quite two things; I may not have my objections to a\nyoung man's keeping company with me, and when he puts the question, may\nsay \"yes,\" but that's not saying \"would you be so kind as like me.\"'\n\n'But you can buy me the books, Susan; and you will, when you know why I\nwant them.'\n\n'Well, Miss, and why do you want 'em?' replied Nipper; adding, in\na lower voice, 'If it was to fling at Mrs Pipchin's head, I'd buy a\ncart-load.'\n\n'Paul has a great deal too much to do, Susan,' said Florence, 'I am sure\nof it.'\n\n'And well you may be, Miss,' returned her maid, 'and make your mind\nquite easy that the willing dear is worked and worked away. If those is\nLatin legs,' exclaimed Miss Nipper, with strong feeling--in allusion to\nPaul's; 'give me English ones.'\n\n'I am afraid he feels lonely and lost at Doctor Blimber's, Susan,'\npursued Florence, turning away her face.\n\n'Ah,' said Miss Nipper, with great sharpness, 'Oh, them \"Blimbers\"'\n\n'Don't blame anyone,' said Florence. 'It's a mistake.'\n\n'I say nothing about blame, Miss,' cried Miss Nipper, 'for I know that\nyou object, but I may wish, Miss, that the family was set to work\nto make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front and had the\npickaxe.'\n\nAfter this speech, Miss Nipper, who was perfectly serious, wiped her\neyes.\n\n'I think I could perhaps give Paul some help, Susan, if I had these\nbooks,' said Florence, 'and make the coming week a little easier to\nhim. At least I want to try. So buy them for me, dear, and I will never\nforget how kind it was of you to do it!'\n\nIt must have been a harder heart than Susan Nipper's that could have\nrejected the little purse Florence held out with these words, or the\ngentle look of entreaty with which she seconded her petition. Susan put\nthe purse in her pocket without reply, and trotted out at once upon her\nerrand.\n\nThe books were not easy to procure; and the answer at several shops was,\neither that they were just out of them, or that they never kept them, or\nthat they had had a great many last month, or that they expected a great\nmany next week But Susan was not easily baffled in such an enterprise;\nand having entrapped a white-haired youth, in a black calico apron, from\na library where she was known, to accompany her in her quest, she led\nhim such a life in going up and down, that he exerted himself to the\nutmost, if it were only to get rid of her; and finally enabled her to\nreturn home in triumph.\n\nWith these treasures then, after her own daily lessons were over,\nFlorence sat down at night to track Paul's footsteps through the thorny\nways of learning; and being possessed of a naturally quick and sound\ncapacity, and taught by that most wonderful of masters, love, it was not\nlong before she gained upon Paul's heels, and caught and passed him.\n\nNot a word of this was breathed to Mrs Pipchin: but many a night when\nthey were all in bed, and when Miss Nipper, with her hair in papers and\nherself asleep in some uncomfortable attitude, reposed unconscious by\nher side; and when the chinking ashes in the grate were cold and grey;\nand when the candles were burnt down and guttering out;--Florence tried\nso hard to be a substitute for one small Dombey, that her fortitude and\nperseverance might have almost won her a free right to bear the name\nherself.\n\nAnd high was her reward, when one Saturday evening, as little Paul was\nsitting down as usual to 'resume his studies,' she sat down by his side,\nand showed him all that was so rough, made smooth, and all that was so\ndark, made clear and plain, before him. It was nothing but a startled\nlook in Paul's wan face--a flush--a smile--and then a close embrace--but\nGod knows how her heart leapt up at this rich payment for her trouble.\n\n'Oh, Floy!' cried her brother, 'how I love you! How I love you, Floy!'\n\n'And I you, dear!'\n\n'Oh! I am sure of that, Floy.'\n\nHe said no more about it, but all that evening sat close by her, very\nquiet; and in the night he called out from his little room within hers,\nthree or four times, that he loved her.\n\nRegularly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit down with Paul on\nSaturday night, and patiently assist him through so much as they could\nanticipate together of his next week's work. The cheering thought that\nhe was labouring on where Florence had just toiled before him, would, of\nitself, have been a stimulant to Paul in the perpetual resumption of his\nstudies; but coupled with the actual lightening of his load, consequent\non this assistance, it saved him, possibly, from sinking underneath the\nburden which the fair Cornelia Blimber piled upon his back.\n\nIt was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard upon him, or that\nDoctor Blimber meant to bear too heavily on the young gentlemen in\ngeneral. Cornelia merely held the faith in which she had been bred; and\nthe Doctor, in some partial confusion of his ideas, regarded the young\ngentlemen as if they were all Doctors, and were born grown up. Comforted\nby the applause of the young gentlemen's nearest relations, and urged\non by their blind vanity and ill-considered haste, it would have been\nstrange if Doctor Blimber had discovered his mistake, or trimmed his\nswelling sails to any other tack.\n\nThus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber said he made great\nprogress and was naturally clever, Mr Dombey was more bent than ever on\nhis being forced and crammed. In the case of Briggs, when Doctor Blimber\nreported that he did not make great progress yet, and was not naturally\nclever, Briggs senior was inexorable in the same purpose. In short,\nhowever high and false the temperature at which the Doctor kept his\nhothouse, the owners of the plants were always ready to lend a helping\nhand at the bellows, and to stir the fire.\n\nSuch spirits as he had in the outset, Paul soon lost of course. But he\nretained all that was strange, and old, and thoughtful in his character:\nand under circumstances so favourable to the development of those\ntendencies, became even more strange, and old, and thoughtful, than\nbefore.\n\nThe only difference was, that he kept his character to himself. He grew\nmore thoughtful and reserved, every day; and had no such curiosity\nin any living member of the Doctor's household, as he had had in Mrs\nPipchin. He loved to be alone; and in those short intervals when he was\nnot occupied with his books, liked nothing so well as wandering about\nthe house by himself, or sitting on the stairs, listening to the great\nclock in the hall. He was intimate with all the paperhanging in the\nhouse; saw things that no one else saw in the patterns; found out\nminiature tigers and lions running up the bedroom walls, and squinting\nfaces leering in the squares and diamonds of the floor-cloth.\n\nThe solitary child lived on, surrounded by this arabesque work of his\nmusing fancy, and no one understood him. Mrs Blimber thought him 'odd,'\nand sometimes the servants said among themselves that little Dombey\n'moped;' but that was all.\n\nUnless young Toots had some idea on the subject, to the expression of\nwhich he was wholly unequal. Ideas, like ghosts (according to the common\nnotion of ghosts), must be spoken to a little before they will explain\nthemselves; and Toots had long left off asking any questions of his own\nmind. Some mist there may have been, issuing from that leaden casket,\nhis cranium, which, if it could have taken shape and form, would have\nbecome a genie; but it could not; and it only so far followed the\nexample of the smoke in the Arabian story, as to roll out in a thick\ncloud, and there hang and hover. But it left a little figure visible\nupon a lonely shore, and Toots was always staring at it.\n\n'How are you?' he would say to Paul, fifty times a day. 'Quite well,\nSir, thank you,' Paul would answer. 'Shake hands,' would be Toots's next\nadvance.\n\nWhich Paul, of course, would immediately do. Mr Toots generally said\nagain, after a long interval of staring and hard breathing, 'How are\nyou?' To which Paul again replied, 'Quite well, Sir, thank you.'\n\nOne evening Mr Toots was sitting at his desk, oppressed by\ncorrespondence, when a great purpose seemed to flash upon him. He laid\ndown his pen, and went off to seek Paul, whom he found at last, after a\nlong search, looking through the window of his little bedroom.\n\n'I say!' cried Toots, speaking the moment he entered the room, lest he\nshould forget it; 'what do you think about?'\n\n'Oh! I think about a great many things,' replied Paul.\n\n'Do you, though?' said Toots, appearing to consider that fact in itself\nsurprising. 'If you had to die,' said Paul, looking up into his face--Mr\nToots started, and seemed much disturbed.\n\n'Don't you think you would rather die on a moonlight night, when the sky\nwas quite clear, and the wind blowing, as it did last night?'\n\nMr Toots said, looking doubtfully at Paul, and shaking his head, that he\ndidn't know about that.\n\n'Not blowing, at least,' said Paul, 'but sounding in the air like the\nsea sounds in the shells. It was a beautiful night. When I had listened\nto the water for a long time, I got up and looked out. There was a boat\nover there, in the full light of the moon; a boat with a sail.'\n\nThe child looked at him so steadfastly, and spoke so earnestly, that\nMr Toots, feeling himself called upon to say something about this boat,\nsaid, 'Smugglers.' But with an impartial remembrance of there being two\nsides to every question, he added, 'or Preventive.'\n\n'A boat with a sail,' repeated Paul, 'in the full light of the moon. The\nsail like an arm, all silver. It went away into the distance, and what\ndo you think it seemed to do as it moved with the waves?'\n\n'Pitch,' said Mr Toots.\n\n'It seemed to beckon,' said the child, 'to beckon me to come!--There she\nis! There she is!'\n\nToots was almost beside himself with dismay at this sudden exclamation,\nafter what had gone before, and cried 'Who?'\n\n'My sister Florence!' cried Paul, 'looking up here, and waving her hand.\nShe sees me--she sees me! Good-night, dear, good-night, good-night.'\n\nHis quick transition to a state of unbounded pleasure, as he stood at\nhis window, kissing and clapping his hands: and the way in which the\nlight retreated from his features as she passed out of his view, and\nleft a patient melancholy on the little face: were too remarkable wholly\nto escape even Toots's notice. Their interview being interrupted at this\nmoment by a visit from Mrs Pipchin, who usually brought her black skirts\nto bear upon Paul just before dusk, once or twice a week, Toots had\nno opportunity of improving the occasion: but it left so marked an\nimpression on his mind that he twice returned, after having exchanged\nthe usual salutations, to ask Mrs Pipchin how she did. This the\nirascible old lady conceived to be a deeply devised and long-meditated\ninsult, originating in the diabolical invention of the weak-eyed young\nman downstairs, against whom she accordingly lodged a formal complaint\nwith Doctor Blimber that very night; who mentioned to the young man that\nif he ever did it again, he should be obliged to part with him.\n\nThe evenings being longer now, Paul stole up to his window every evening\nto look out for Florence. She always passed and repassed at a certain\ntime, until she saw him; and their mutual recognition was a gleam of\nsunshine in Paul's daily life. Often after dark, one other figure walked\nalone before the Doctor's house. He rarely joined them on the Saturdays\nnow. He could not bear it. He would rather come unrecognised, and look\nup at the windows where his son was qualifying for a man; and wait, and\nwatch, and plan, and hope.\n\nOh! could he but have seen, or seen as others did, the slight spare boy\nabove, watching the waves and clouds at twilight, with his earnest eyes,\nand breasting the window of his solitary cage when birds flew by, as if\nhe would have emulated them, and soared away!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13. Shipping Intelligence and Office Business\n\n\nMr Dombey's offices were in a court where there was an old-established\nstall of choice fruit at the corner: where perambulating merchants, of\nboth sexes, offered for sale at any time between the hours of ten and\nfive, slippers, pocket-books, sponges, dogs' collars, and Windsor soap;\nand sometimes a pointer or an oil-painting.\n\nThe pointer always came that way, with a view to the Stock Exchange,\nwhere a sporting taste (originating generally in bets of new hats)\nis much in vogue. The other commodities were addressed to the general\npublic; but they were never offered by the vendors to Mr Dombey. When\nhe appeared, the dealers in those wares fell off respectfully. The\nprincipal slipper and dogs' collar man--who considered himself a public\ncharacter, and whose portrait was screwed on to an artist's door in\nCheapside--threw up his forefinger to the brim of his hat as Mr Dombey\nwent by. The ticket-porter, if he were not absent on a job, always ran\nofficiously before, to open Mr Dombey's office door as wide as possible,\nand hold it open, with his hat off, while he entered.\n\nThe clerks within were not a whit behind-hand in their demonstrations of\nrespect. A solemn hush prevailed, as Mr Dombey passed through the outer\noffice. The wit of the Counting-House became in a moment as mute as the\nrow of leathern fire-buckets hanging up behind him. Such vapid and flat\ndaylight as filtered through the ground-glass windows and skylights,\nleaving a black sediment upon the panes, showed the books and papers,\nand the figures bending over them, enveloped in a studious gloom, and as\nmuch abstracted in appearance, from the world without, as if they were\nassembled at the bottom of the sea; while a mouldy little strong room in\nthe obscure perspective, where a shaded lamp was always burning, might\nhave represented the cavern of some ocean monster, looking on with a red\neye at these mysteries of the deep.\n\nWhen Perch the messenger, whose place was on a little bracket, like a\ntimepiece, saw Mr Dombey come in--or rather when he felt that he was\ncoming, for he had usually an instinctive sense of his approach--he\nhurried into Mr Dombey's room, stirred the fire, carried fresh coals\nfrom the bowels of the coal-box, hung the newspaper to air upon the\nfender, put the chair ready, and the screen in its place, and was\nround upon his heel on the instant of Mr Dombey's entrance, to take his\ngreat-coat and hat, and hang them up. Then Perch took the newspaper,\nand gave it a turn or two in his hands before the fire, and laid it,\ndeferentially, at Mr Dombey's elbow. And so little objection had Perch\nto being deferential in the last degree, that if he might have laid\nhimself at Mr Dombey's feet, or might have called him by some such title\nas used to be bestowed upon the Caliph Haroun Alraschid, he would have\nbeen all the better pleased.\n\nAs this honour would have been an innovation and an experiment, Perch\nwas fain to content himself by expressing as well as he could, in his\nmanner, You are the light of my Eyes. You are the Breath of my Soul. You\nare the commander of the Faithful Perch! With this imperfect happiness\nto cheer him, he would shut the door softly, walk away on tiptoe, and\nleave his great chief to be stared at, through a dome-shaped window in\nthe leads, by ugly chimney-pots and backs of houses, and especially by\nthe bold window of a hair-cutting saloon on a first floor, where a waxen\neffigy, bald as a Mussulman in the morning, and covered, after eleven\no'clock in the day, with luxuriant hair and whiskers in the latest\nChristian fashion, showed him the wrong side of its head for ever.\n\nBetween Mr Dombey and the common world, as it was accessible through\nthe medium of the outer office--to which Mr Dombey's presence in his own\nroom may be said to have struck like damp, or cold air--there were two\ndegrees of descent. Mr Carker in his own office was the first step;\nMr Morfin, in his own office, was the second. Each of these gentlemen\noccupied a little chamber like a bath-room, opening from the passage\noutside Mr Dombey's door. Mr Carker, as Grand Vizier, inhabited the room\nthat was nearest to the Sultan. Mr Morfin, as an officer of inferior\nstate, inhabited the room that was nearest to the clerks.\n\nThe gentleman last mentioned was a cheerful-looking, hazel-eyed elderly\nbachelor: gravely attired, as to his upper man, in black; and as to his\nlegs, in pepper-and-salt colour. His dark hair was just touched here and\nthere with specks of gray, as though the tread of Time had splashed\nit; and his whiskers were already white. He had a mighty respect for Mr\nDombey, and rendered him due homage; but as he was of a genial temper\nhimself, and never wholly at his ease in that stately presence, he was\ndisquieted by no jealousy of the many conferences enjoyed by Mr Carker,\nand felt a secret satisfaction in having duties to discharge, which\nrarely exposed him to be singled out for such distinction. He was a\ngreat musical amateur in his way--after business; and had a paternal\naffection for his violoncello, which was once in every week transported\nfrom Islington, his place of abode, to a certain club-room hard by the\nBank, where quartettes of the most tormenting and excruciating nature\nwere executed every Wednesday evening by a private party.\n\nMr Carker was a gentleman thirty-eight or forty years old, of a florid\ncomplexion, and with two unbroken rows of glistening teeth, whose\nregularity and whiteness were quite distressing. It was impossible to\nescape the observation of them, for he showed them whenever he spoke;\nand bore so wide a smile upon his countenance (a smile, however, very\nrarely, indeed, extending beyond his mouth), that there was something in\nit like the snarl of a cat. He affected a stiff white cravat, after the\nexample of his principal, and was always closely buttoned up and tightly\ndressed. His manner towards Mr Dombey was deeply conceived and perfectly\nexpressed. He was familiar with him, in the very extremity of his sense\nof the distance between them. 'Mr Dombey, to a man in your position\nfrom a man in mine, there is no show of subservience compatible with the\ntransaction of business between us, that I should think sufficient. I\nfrankly tell you, Sir, I give it up altogether. I feel that I could\nnot satisfy my own mind; and Heaven knows, Mr Dombey, you can afford to\ndispense with the endeavour.' If he had carried these words about with\nhim printed on a placard, and had constantly offered it to Mr Dombey's\nperusal on the breast of his coat, he could not have been more explicit\nthan he was.\n\nThis was Carker the Manager. Mr Carker the Junior, Walter's friend, was\nhis brother; two or three years older than he, but widely removed in\nstation. The younger brother's post was on the top of the official\nladder; the elder brother's at the bottom. The elder brother never\ngained a stave, or raised his foot to mount one. Young men passed above\nhis head, and rose and rose; but he was always at the bottom. He was\nquite resigned to occupy that low condition: never complained of it: and\ncertainly never hoped to escape from it.\n\n'How do you do this morning?' said Mr Carker the Manager, entering Mr\nDombey's room soon after his arrival one day: with a bundle of papers in\nhis hand.\n\n'How do you do, Carker?' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Coolish!' observed Carker, stirring the fire.\n\n'Rather,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Any news of the young gentleman who is so important to us all?' asked\nCarker, with his whole regiment of teeth on parade.\n\n'Yes--not direct news--I hear he's very well,' said Mr Dombey. Who had\ncome from Brighton over-night. But no one knew It.\n\n'Very well, and becoming a great scholar, no doubt?' observed the\nManager.\n\n'I hope so,' returned Mr Dombey.\n\n'Egad!' said Mr Carker, shaking his head, 'Time flies!'\n\n'I think so, sometimes,' returned Mr Dombey, glancing at his newspaper.\n\n'Oh! You! You have no reason to think so,' observed Carker. 'One who\nsits on such an elevation as yours, and can sit there, unmoved, in all\nseasons--hasn't much reason to know anything about the flight of\ntime. It's men like myself, who are low down and are not superior in\ncircumstances, and who inherit new masters in the course of Time, that\nhave cause to look about us. I shall have a rising sun to worship,\nsoon.'\n\n'Time enough, time enough, Carker!' said Mr Dombey, rising from his\nchair, and standing with his back to the fire. 'Have you anything there\nfor me?'\n\n'I don't know that I need trouble you,' returned Carker, turning over\nthe papers in his hand. 'You have a committee today at three, you know.'\n\n'And one at three, three-quarters,' added Mr Dombey.\n\n'Catch you forgetting anything!' exclaimed Carker, still turning over\nhis papers. 'If Mr Paul inherits your memory, he'll be a troublesome\ncustomer in the House. One of you is enough.'\n\n'You have an accurate memory of your own,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Oh! I!' returned the manager. 'It's the only capital of a man like me.'\n\nMr Dombey did not look less pompous or at all displeased, as he stood\nleaning against the chimney-piece, surveying his (of course unconscious)\nclerk, from head to foot. The stiffness and nicety of Mr Carker's dress,\nand a certain arrogance of manner, either natural to him or imitated\nfrom a pattern not far off, gave great additional effect to his\nhumility. He seemed a man who would contend against the power that\nvanquished him, if he could, but who was utterly borne down by the\ngreatness and superiority of Mr Dombey.\n\n'Is Morfin here?' asked Mr Dombey after a short pause, during which Mr\nCarker had been fluttering his papers, and muttering little abstracts of\ntheir contents to himself.\n\n'Morfin's here,' he answered, looking up with his widest and almost\nsudden smile; 'humming musical recollections--of his last night's\nquartette party, I suppose--through the walls between us, and driving\nme half mad. I wish he'd make a bonfire of his violoncello, and burn his\nmusic-books in it.'\n\n'You respect nobody, Carker, I think,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'No?' inquired Carker, with another wide and most feline show of his\nteeth. 'Well! Not many people, I believe. I wouldn't answer perhaps,' he\nmurmured, as if he were only thinking it, 'for more than one.'\n\nA dangerous quality, if real; and a not less dangerous one, if feigned.\nBut Mr Dombey hardly seemed to think so, as he still stood with his back\nto the fire, drawn up to his full height, and looking at his head-clerk\nwith a dignified composure, in which there seemed to lurk a stronger\nlatent sense of power than usual.\n\n'Talking of Morfin,' resumed Mr Carker, taking out one paper from the\nrest, 'he reports a junior dead in the agency at Barbados, and proposes\nto reserve a passage in the Son and Heir--she'll sail in a month or\nso--for the successor. You don't care who goes, I suppose? We have\nnobody of that sort here.'\n\nMr Dombey shook his head with supreme indifference.\n\n'It's no very precious appointment,' observed Mr Carker, taking up a\npen, with which to endorse a memorandum on the back of the paper. 'I\nhope he may bestow it on some orphan nephew of a musical friend. It may\nperhaps stop his fiddle-playing, if he has a gift that way. Who's that?\nCome in!'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Mr Carker. I didn't know you were here, Sir,'\nanswered Walter; appearing with some letters in his hand, unopened, and\nnewly arrived. 'Mr Carker the junior, Sir--'\n\nAt the mention of this name, Mr Carker the Manager was or affected to\nbe, touched to the quick with shame and humiliation. He cast his eyes\nfull on Mr Dombey with an altered and apologetic look, abased them on\nthe ground, and remained for a moment without speaking.\n\n'I thought, Sir,' he said suddenly and angrily, turning on Walter, 'that\nyou had been before requested not to drag Mr Carker the Junior into your\nconversation.'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' returned Walter. 'I was only going to say that Mr\nCarker the Junior had told me he believed you were gone out, or I should\nnot have knocked at the door when you were engaged with Mr Dombey. These\nare letters for Mr Dombey, Sir.'\n\n'Very well, Sir,' returned Mr Carker the Manager, plucking them sharply\nfrom his hand. 'Go about your business.'\n\nBut in taking them with so little ceremony, Mr Carker dropped one on the\nfloor, and did not see what he had done; neither did Mr Dombey observe\nthe letter lying near his feet. Walter hesitated for a moment, thinking\nthat one or other of them would notice it; but finding that neither did,\nhe stopped, came back, picked it up, and laid it himself on Mr Dombey's\ndesk. The letters were post-letters; and it happened that the one in\nquestion was Mrs Pipchin's regular report, directed as usual--for Mrs\nPipchin was but an indifferent penwoman--by Florence. Mr Dombey, having\nhis attention silently called to this letter by Walter, started, and\nlooked fiercely at him, as if he believed that he had purposely selected\nit from all the rest.\n\n'You can leave the room, Sir!' said Mr Dombey, haughtily.\n\nHe crushed the letter in his hand; and having watched Walter out at the\ndoor, put it in his pocket without breaking the seal.\n\n'These continual references to Mr Carker the Junior,' Mr Carker\nthe Manager began, as soon as they were alone, 'are, to a man in my\nposition, uttered before one in yours, so unspeakably distressing--'\n\n'Nonsense, Carker,' Mr Dombey interrupted. 'You are too sensitive.'\n\n'I am sensitive,' he returned. 'If one in your position could by any\npossibility imagine yourself in my place: which you cannot: you would be\nso too.'\n\nAs Mr Dombey's thoughts were evidently pursuing some other subject, his\ndiscreet ally broke off here, and stood with his teeth ready to present\nto him, when he should look up.\n\n'You want somebody to send to the West Indies, you were saying,'\nobserved Mr Dombey, hurriedly.\n\n'Yes,' replied Carker.\n\n'Send young Gay.'\n\n'Good, very good indeed. Nothing easier,' said Mr Carker, without any\nshow of surprise, and taking up the pen to re-endorse the letter, as\ncoolly as he had done before. '\"Send young Gay.\"'\n\n'Call him back,' said Mr Dombey.\n\nMr Carker was quick to do so, and Walter was quick to return.\n\n'Gay,' said Mr Dombey, turning a little to look at him over his\nshoulder. 'Here is a--'\n\n'An opening,' said Mr Carker, with his mouth stretched to the utmost.\n\n'In the West Indies. At Barbados. I am going to send you,' said\nMr Dombey, scorning to embellish the bare truth, 'to fill a junior\nsituation in the counting-house at Barbados. Let your Uncle know from\nme, that I have chosen you to go to the West Indies.'\n\nWalter's breath was so completely taken away by his astonishment,\nthat he could hardly find enough for the repetition of the words 'West\nIndies.'\n\n'Somebody must go,' said Mr Dombey, 'and you are young and healthy, and\nyour Uncle's circumstances are not good. Tell your Uncle that you are\nappointed. You will not go yet. There will be an interval of a month--or\ntwo perhaps.'\n\n'Shall I remain there, Sir?' inquired Walter.\n\n'Will you remain there, Sir!' repeated Mr Dombey, turning a little more\nround towards him. 'What do you mean? What does he mean, Carker?'\n\n'Live there, Sir,' faltered Walter.\n\n'Certainly,' returned Mr Dombey.\n\nWalter bowed.\n\n'That's all,' said Mr Dombey, resuming his letters. 'You will explain to\nhim in good time about the usual outfit and so forth, Carker, of course.\nHe needn't wait, Carker.'\n\n'You needn't wait, Gay,' observed Mr Carker: bare to the gums.\n\n'Unless,' said Mr Dombey, stopping in his reading without looking off\nthe letter, and seeming to listen. 'Unless he has anything to say.'\n\n'No, Sir,' returned Walter, agitated and confused, and almost stunned,\nas an infinite variety of pictures presented themselves to his\nmind; among which Captain Cuttle, in his glazed hat, transfixed with\nastonishment at Mrs MacStinger's, and his uncle bemoaning his loss in\nthe little back parlour, held prominent places. 'I hardly know--I--I am\nmuch obliged, Sir.'\n\n'He needn't wait, Carker,' said Mr Dombey.\n\nAnd as Mr Carker again echoed the words, and also collected his papers\nas if he were going away too, Walter felt that his lingering any longer\nwould be an unpardonable intrusion--especially as he had nothing to\nsay--and therefore walked out quite confounded.\n\nGoing along the passage, with the mingled consciousness and helplessness\nof a dream, he heard Mr Dombey's door shut again, as Mr Carker came out:\nand immediately afterwards that gentleman called to him.\n\n'Bring your friend Mr Carker the Junior to my room, Sir, if you please.'\n\nWalter went to the outer office and apprised Mr Carker the Junior of his\nerrand, who accordingly came out from behind a partition where he sat\nalone in one corner, and returned with him to the room of Mr Carker the\nManager.\n\nThat gentleman was standing with his back to the fire, and his hands\nunder his coat-tails, looking over his white cravat, as unpromisingly as\nMr Dombey himself could have looked. He received them without any change\nin his attitude or softening of his harsh and black expression: merely\nsigning to Walter to close the door.\n\n'John Carker,' said the Manager, when this was done, turning suddenly\nupon his brother, with his two rows of teeth bristling as if he would\nhave bitten him, 'what is the league between you and this young man, in\nvirtue of which I am haunted and hunted by the mention of your name? Is\nit not enough for you, John Carker, that I am your near relation, and\ncan't detach myself from that--'\n\n'Say disgrace, James,' interposed the other in a low voice, finding that\nhe stammered for a word. 'You mean it, and have reason, say disgrace.'\n\n'From that disgrace,' assented his brother with keen emphasis, 'but is\nthe fact to be blurted out and trumpeted, and proclaimed continually\nin the presence of the very House! In moments of confidence too? Do you\nthink your name is calculated to harmonise in this place with trust and\nconfidence, John Carker?'\n\n'No,' returned the other. 'No, James. God knows I have no such thought.'\n\n'What is your thought, then?' said his brother, 'and why do you thrust\nyourself in my way? Haven't you injured me enough already?'\n\n'I have never injured you, James, wilfully.'\n\n'You are my brother,' said the Manager. 'That's injury enough.'\n\n'I wish I could undo it, James.'\n\n'I wish you could and would.'\n\nDuring this conversation, Walter had looked from one brother to the\nother, with pain and amazement. He who was the Senior in years, and\nJunior in the House, stood, with his eyes cast upon the ground, and\nhis head bowed, humbly listening to the reproaches of the other. Though\nthese were rendered very bitter by the tone and look with which they\nwere accompanied, and by the presence of Walter whom they so much\nsurprised and shocked, he entered no other protest against them than by\nslightly raising his right hand in a deprecatory manner, as if he would\nhave said, 'Spare me!' So, had they been blows, and he a brave man,\nunder strong constraint, and weakened by bodily suffering, he might have\nstood before the executioner.\n\nGenerous and quick in all his emotions, and regarding himself as the\ninnocent occasion of these taunts, Walter now struck in, with all the\nearnestness he felt.\n\n'Mr Carker,' he said, addressing himself to the Manager. 'Indeed,\nindeed, this is my fault solely. In a kind of heedlessness, for which I\ncannot blame myself enough, I have, I have no doubt, mentioned Mr Carker\nthe Junior much oftener than was necessary; and have allowed his name\nsometimes to slip through my lips, when it was against your expressed\nwish. But it has been my own mistake, Sir. We have never exchanged one\nword upon the subject--very few, indeed, on any subject. And it has not\nbeen,' added Walter, after a moment's pause, 'all heedlessness on my\npart, Sir; for I have felt an interest in Mr Carker ever since I have\nbeen here, and have hardly been able to help speaking of him sometimes,\nwhen I have thought of him so much!'\n\nWalter said this from his soul, and with the very breath of honour. For\nhe looked upon the bowed head, and the downcast eyes, and upraised hand,\nand thought, 'I have felt it; and why should I not avow it in behalf of\nthis unfriended, broken man!'\n\nMr Carker the Manager looked at him, as he spoke, and when he had\nfinished speaking, with a smile that seemed to divide his face into two\nparts.\n\n'You are an excitable youth, Gay,' he said; 'and should endeavour to\ncool down a little now, for it would be unwise to encourage feverish\npredispositions. Be as cool as you can, Gay. Be as cool as you can.\nYou might have asked Mr John Carker himself (if you have not done so)\nwhether he claims to be, or is, an object of such strong interest.'\n\n'James, do me justice,' said his brother. 'I have claimed nothing; and I\nclaim nothing. Believe me, on my--'\n\n'Honour?' said his brother, with another smile, as he warmed himself\nbefore the fire.\n\n'On my Me--on my fallen life!' returned the other, in the same low\nvoice, but with a deeper stress on his words than he had yet seemed\ncapable of giving them. 'Believe me, I have held myself aloof, and kept\nalone. This has been unsought by me. I have avoided him and everyone.\n\n'Indeed, you have avoided me, Mr Carker,' said Walter, with the tears\nrising to his eyes; so true was his compassion. 'I know it, to my\ndisappointment and regret. When I first came here, and ever since, I\nam sure I have tried to be as much your friend, as one of my age could\npresume to be; but it has been of no use.\n\n'And observe,' said the Manager, taking him up quickly, 'it will be of\nstill less use, Gay, if you persist in forcing Mr John Carker's name on\npeople's attention. That is not the way to befriend Mr John Carker. Ask\nhim if he thinks it is.'\n\n'It is no service to me,' said the brother. 'It only leads to such a\nconversation as the present, which I need not say I could have well\nspared. No one can be a better friend to me:' he spoke here very\ndistinctly, as if he would impress it upon Walter: 'than in forgetting\nme, and leaving me to go my way, unquestioned and unnoticed.'\n\n'Your memory not being retentive, Gay, of what you are told by others,'\nsaid Mr Carker the Manager, warming himself with great and increased\nsatisfaction, 'I thought it well that you should be told this from the\nbest authority,' nodding towards his brother. 'You are not likely to\nforget it now, I hope. That's all, Gay. You can go.'\n\nWalter passed out at the door, and was about to close it after him,\nwhen, hearing the voices of the brothers again, and also the mention of\nhis own name, he stood irresolutely, with his hand upon the lock, and\nthe door ajar, uncertain whether to return or go away. In this position\nhe could not help overhearing what followed.\n\n'Think of me more leniently, if you can, James,' said John Carker, 'when\nI tell you I have had--how could I help having, with my history, written\nhere'--striking himself upon the breast--'my whole heart awakened by\nmy observation of that boy, Walter Gay. I saw in him when he first came\nhere, almost my other self.'\n\n'Your other self!' repeated the Manager, disdainfully.\n\n'Not as I am, but as I was when I first came here too; as sanguine,\ngiddy, youthful, inexperienced; flushed with the same restless and\nadventurous fancies; and full of the same qualities, fraught with the\nsame capacity of leading on to good or evil.'\n\n'I hope not,' said his brother, with some hidden and sarcastic meaning\nin his tone.\n\n'You strike me sharply; and your hand is steady, and your thrust is very\ndeep,' returned the other, speaking (or so Walter thought) as if some\ncruel weapon actually stabbed him as he spoke. 'I imagined all this when\nhe was a boy. I believed it. It was a truth to me. I saw him lightly\nwalking on the edge of an unseen gulf where so many others walk with\nequal gaiety, and from which--'\n\n'The old excuse,' interrupted his brother, as he stirred the fire. 'So\nmany. Go on. Say, so many fall.'\n\n'From which ONE traveller fell,' returned the other, 'who set forward,\non his way, a boy like him, and missed his footing more and more, and\nslipped a little and a little lower; and went on stumbling still, until\nhe fell headlong and found himself below a shattered man. Think what I\nsuffered, when I watched that boy.'\n\n'You have only yourself to thank for it,' returned the brother.\n\n'Only myself,' he assented with a sigh. 'I don't seek to divide the\nblame or shame.'\n\n'You have divided the shame,' James Carker muttered through his teeth.\nAnd, through so many and such close teeth, he could mutter well.\n\n'Ah, James,' returned his brother, speaking for the first time in an\naccent of reproach, and seeming, by the sound of his voice, to have\ncovered his face with his hands, 'I have been, since then, a useful foil\nto you. You have trodden on me freely in your climbing up. Don't spurn\nme with your heel!'\n\nA silence ensued. After a time, Mr Carker the Manager was heard rustling\namong his papers, as if he had resolved to bring the interview to a\nconclusion. At the same time his brother withdrew nearer to the door.\n\n'That's all,' he said. 'I watched him with such trembling and such fear,\nas was some little punishment to me, until he passed the place where I\nfirst fell; and then, though I had been his father, I believe I never\ncould have thanked God more devoutly. I didn't dare to warn him, and\nadvise him; but if I had seen direct cause, I would have shown him my\nexample. I was afraid to be seen speaking with him, lest it should be\nthought I did him harm, and tempted him to evil, and corrupted him: or\nlest I really should. There may be such contagion in me; I don't know.\nPiece out my history, in connexion with young Walter Gay, and what he\nhas made me feel; and think of me more leniently, James, if you can.'\n\nWith these words he came out to where Walter was standing. He turned a\nlittle paler when he saw him there, and paler yet when Walter caught him\nby the hand, and said in a whisper:\n\n'Mr Carker, pray let me thank you! Let me say how much I feel for you!\nHow sorry I am, to have been the unhappy cause of all this! How I almost\nlook upon you now as my protector and guardian! How very, very much,\nI feel obliged to you and pity you!' said Walter, squeezing both his\nhands, and hardly knowing, in his agitation, what he did or said.\n\nMr Morfin's room being close at hand and empty, and the door wide open,\nthey moved thither by one accord: the passage being seldom free from\nsomeone passing to or fro. When they were there, and Walter saw in Mr\nCarker's face some traces of the emotion within, he almost felt as if he\nhad never seen the face before; it was so greatly changed.\n\n'Walter,' he said, laying his hand on his shoulder. 'I am far removed\nfrom you, and may I ever be. Do you know what I am?'\n\n'What you are!' appeared to hang on Walter's lips, as he regarded him\nattentively.\n\n'It was begun,' said Carker, 'before my twenty-first birthday--led up\nto, long before, but not begun till near that time. I had robbed them\nwhen I came of age. I robbed them afterwards. Before my twenty-second\nbirthday, it was all found out; and then, Walter, from all men's\nsociety, I died.'\n\nAgain his last few words hung trembling upon Walter's lips, but he could\nneither utter them, nor any of his own.\n\n'The House was very good to me. May Heaven reward the old man for his\nforbearance! This one, too, his son, who was then newly in the Firm,\nwhere I had held great trust! I was called into that room which is now\nhis--I have never entered it since--and came out, what you know me. For\nmany years I sat in my present seat, alone as now, but then a known\nand recognised example to the rest. They were all merciful to me, and\nI lived. Time has altered that part of my poor expiation; and I think,\nexcept the three heads of the House, there is no one here who knows my\nstory rightly. Before the little boy grows up, and has it told to him,\nmy corner may be vacant. I would rather that it might be so! This is the\nonly change to me since that day, when I left all youth, and hope, and\ngood men's company, behind me in that room. God bless you, Walter! Keep\nyou, and all dear to you, in honesty, or strike them dead!'\n\nSome recollection of his trembling from head to foot, as if with\nexcessive cold, and of his bursting into tears, was all that Walter\ncould add to this, when he tried to recall exactly what had passed\nbetween them.\n\nWhen Walter saw him next, he was bending over his desk in his old\nsilent, drooping, humbled way. Then, observing him at his work, and\nfeeling how resolved he evidently was that no further intercourse should\narise between them, and thinking again and again on all he had seen and\nheard that morning in so short a time, in connexion with the history of\nboth the Carkers, Walter could hardly believe that he was under orders\nfor the West Indies, and would soon be lost to Uncle Sol, and Captain\nCuttle, and to glimpses few and far between of Florence Dombey--no, he\nmeant Paul--and to all he loved, and liked, and looked for, in his daily\nlife.\n\nBut it was true, and the news had already penetrated to the outer\noffice; for while he sat with a heavy heart, pondering on these things,\nand resting his head upon his arm, Perch the messenger, descending from\nhis mahogany bracket, and jogging his elbow, begged his pardon, but\nwished to say in his ear, Did he think he could arrange to send home to\nEngland a jar of preserved Ginger, cheap, for Mrs Perch's own eating, in\nthe course of her recovery from her next confinement?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14. Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home for\nthe Holidays\n\n\nWhen the Midsummer vacation approached, no indecent manifestations\nof joy were exhibited by the leaden-eyed young gentlemen assembled at\nDoctor Blimber's. Any such violent expression as 'breaking up,' would\nhave been quite inapplicable to that polite establishment. The young\ngentlemen oozed away, semi-annually, to their own homes; but they never\nbroke up. They would have scorned the action.\n\nTozer, who was constantly galled and tormented by a starched white\ncambric neckerchief, which he wore at the express desire of Mrs Tozer,\nhis parent, who, designing him for the Church, was of opinion that he\ncouldn't be in that forward state of preparation too soon--Tozer said,\nindeed, that choosing between two evils, he thought he would rather stay\nwhere he was, than go home. However inconsistent this declaration might\nappear with that passage in Tozer's Essay on the subject, wherein he had\nobserved 'that the thoughts of home and all its recollections, awakened\nin his mind the most pleasing emotions of anticipation and delight,'\nand had also likened himself to a Roman General, flushed with a recent\nvictory over the Iceni, or laden with Carthaginian spoil, advancing\nwithin a few hours' march of the Capitol, presupposed, for the purposes\nof the simile, to be the dwelling-place of Mrs Tozer, still it was very\nsincerely made. For it seemed that Tozer had a dreadful Uncle, who\nnot only volunteered examinations of him, in the holidays, on abstruse\npoints, but twisted innocent events and things, and wrenched them to the\nsame fell purpose. So that if this Uncle took him to the Play, or, on a\nsimilar pretence of kindness, carried him to see a Giant, or a Dwarf,\nor a Conjuror, or anything, Tozer knew he had read up some classical\nallusion to the subject beforehand, and was thrown into a state of\nmortal apprehension: not foreseeing where he might break out, or what\nauthority he might not quote against him.\n\nAs to Briggs, his father made no show of artifice about it. He never\nwould leave him alone. So numerous and severe were the mental trials of\nthat unfortunate youth in vacation time, that the friends of the family\n(then resident near Bayswater, London) seldom approached the ornamental\npiece of water in Kensington Gardens, without a vague expectation of\nseeing Master Briggs's hat floating on the surface, and an unfinished\nexercise lying on the bank. Briggs, therefore, was not at all sanguine\non the subject of holidays; and these two sharers of little Paul's\nbedroom were so fair a sample of the young gentlemen in general, that\nthe most elastic among them contemplated the arrival of those festive\nperiods with genteel resignation.\n\nIt was far otherwise with little Paul. The end of these first holidays\nwas to witness his separation from Florence, but who ever looked forward\nto the end of holidays whose beginning was not yet come! Not Paul,\nassuredly. As the happy time drew near, the lions and tigers climbing up\nthe bedroom walls became quite tame and frolicsome. The grim sly faces\nin the squares and diamonds of the floor-cloth, relaxed and peeped out\nat him with less wicked eyes. The grave old clock had more of personal\ninterest in the tone of its formal inquiry; and the restless sea went\nrolling on all night, to the sounding of a melancholy strain--yet it was\npleasant too--that rose and fell with the waves, and rocked him, as it\nwere, to sleep.\n\nMr Feeder, B.A., seemed to think that he, too, would enjoy the holidays\nvery much. Mr Toots projected a life of holidays from that time forth;\nfor, as he regularly informed Paul every day, it was his 'last half' at\nDoctor Blimber's, and he was going to begin to come into his property\ndirectly.\n\nIt was perfectly understood between Paul and Mr Toots, that they were\nintimate friends, notwithstanding their distance in point of years and\nstation. As the vacation approached, and Mr Toots breathed harder and\nstared oftener in Paul's society, than he had done before, Paul knew\nthat he meant he was sorry they were going to lose sight of each other,\nand felt very much obliged to him for his patronage and good opinion.\n\nIt was even understood by Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and Miss Blimber,\nas well as by the young gentlemen in general, that Toots had somehow\nconstituted himself protector and guardian of Dombey, and the\ncircumstance became so notorious, even to Mrs Pipchin, that the good old\ncreature cherished feelings of bitterness and jealousy against Toots;\nand, in the sanctuary of her own home, repeatedly denounced him as a\n'chuckle-headed noodle.' Whereas the innocent Toots had no more idea\nof awakening Mrs Pipchin's wrath, than he had of any other definite\npossibility or proposition. On the contrary, he was disposed to consider\nher rather a remarkable character, with many points of interest about\nher. For this reason he smiled on her with so much urbanity, and asked\nher how she did, so often, in the course of her visits to little Paul,\nthat at last she one night told him plainly, she wasn't used to it,\nwhatever he might think; and she could not, and she would not bear\nit, either from himself or any other puppy then existing: at which\nunexpected acknowledgment of his civilities, Mr Toots was so alarmed\nthat he secreted himself in a retired spot until she had gone. Nor did\nhe ever again face the doughty Mrs Pipchin, under Doctor Blimber's roof.\n\nThey were within two or three weeks of the holidays, when, one day,\nCornelia Blimber called Paul into her room, and said, 'Dombey, I am\ngoing to send home your analysis.'\n\n'Thank you, Ma'am,' returned Paul.\n\n'You know what I mean, do you, Dombey?' inquired Miss Blimber, looking\nhard at him, through the spectacles.\n\n'No, Ma'am,' said Paul.\n\n'Dombey, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber, 'I begin to be afraid you are a\nsad boy. When you don't know the meaning of an expression, why don't you\nseek for information?'\n\n'Mrs Pipchin told me I wasn't to ask questions,' returned Paul.\n\n'I must beg you not to mention Mrs Pipchin to me, on any account,\nDombey,' returned Miss Blimber. 'I couldn't think of allowing it. The\ncourse of study here, is very far removed from anything of that sort. A\nrepetition of such allusions would make it necessary for me to request\nto hear, without a mistake, before breakfast-time to-morrow morning,\nfrom Verbum personale down to simillimia cygno.'\n\n'I didn't mean, Ma'am--' began little Paul.\n\n'I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn't mean, if you please,\nDombey,' said Miss Blimber, who preserved an awful politeness in\nher admonitions. 'That is a line of argument I couldn't dream of\npermitting.'\n\nPaul felt it safest to say nothing at all, so he only looked at Miss\nBlimber's spectacles. Miss Blimber having shaken her head at him\ngravely, referred to a paper lying before her.\n\n'\"Analysis of the character of P. Dombey.\" If my recollection serves\nme,' said Miss Blimber breaking off, 'the word analysis as opposed to\nsynthesis, is thus defined by Walker. \"The resolution of an object,\nwhether of the senses or of the intellect, into its first elements.\"\nAs opposed to synthesis, you observe. Now you know what analysis is,\nDombey.'\n\nDombey didn't seem to be absolutely blinded by the light let in upon his\nintellect, but he made Miss Blimber a little bow.\n\n'\"Analysis,\"' resumed Miss Blimber, casting her eye over the paper, '\"of\nthe character of P. Dombey.\" I find that the natural capacity of Dombey\nis extremely good; and that his general disposition to study may be\nstated in an equal ratio. Thus, taking eight as our standard and\nhighest number, I find these qualities in Dombey stated each at six\nthree-fourths!'\n\nMiss Blimber paused to see how Paul received this news. Being undecided\nwhether six three-fourths meant six pounds fifteen, or sixpence three\nfarthings, or six foot three, or three quarters past six, or six\nsomethings that he hadn't learnt yet, with three unknown something elses\nover, Paul rubbed his hands and looked straight at Miss Blimber. It\nhappened to answer as well as anything else he could have done; and\nCornelia proceeded.\n\n'\"Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low company, as evinced\nin the case of a person named Glubb, originally seven, but since\nreduced. Gentlemanly demeanour four, and improving with advancing\nyears.\" Now what I particularly wish to call your attention to, Dombey,\nis the general observation at the close of this analysis.'\n\nPaul set himself to follow it with great care.\n\n'\"It may be generally observed of Dombey,\"' said Miss Blimber, reading\nin a loud voice, and at every second word directing her spectacles\ntowards the little figure before her: '\"that his abilities and\ninclinations are good, and that he has made as much progress as under\nthe circumstances could have been expected. But it is to be lamented\nof this young gentleman that he is singular (what is usually termed\nold-fashioned) in his character and conduct, and that, without\npresenting anything in either which distinctly calls for reprobation,\nhe is often very unlike other young gentlemen of his age and social\nposition.\" Now, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber, laying down the paper, 'do\nyou understand that?'\n\n'I think I do, Ma'am,' said Paul.\n\n'This analysis, you see, Dombey,' Miss Blimber continued, 'is going to\nbe sent home to your respected parent. It will naturally be very painful\nto him to find that you are singular in your character and conduct. It\nis naturally painful to us; for we can't like you, you know, Dombey, as\nwell as we could wish.'\n\nShe touched the child upon a tender point. He had secretly become more\nand more solicitous from day to day, as the time of his departure drew\nmore near, that all the house should like him. From some hidden reason,\nvery imperfectly understood by himself--if understood at all--he felt a\ngradually increasing impulse of affection, towards almost everything and\neverybody in the place. He could not bear to think that they would be\nquite indifferent to him when he was gone. He wanted them to remember\nhim kindly; and he had made it his business even to conciliate a\ngreat hoarse shaggy dog, chained up at the back of the house, who had\npreviously been the terror of his life: that even he might miss him when\nhe was no longer there.\n\nLittle thinking that in this, he only showed again the difference\nbetween himself and his compeers, poor tiny Paul set it forth to Miss\nBlimber as well as he could, and begged her, in despite of the official\nanalysis, to have the goodness to try and like him. To Mrs Blimber,\nwho had joined them, he preferred the same petition: and when that lady\ncould not forbear, even in his presence, from giving utterance to her\noften-repeated opinion, that he was an odd child, Paul told her that he\nwas sure she was quite right; that he thought it must be his bones, but\nhe didn't know; and that he hoped she would overlook it, for he was fond\nof them all.\n\n'Not so fond,' said Paul, with a mixture of timidity and perfect\nfrankness, which was one of the most peculiar and most engaging\nqualities of the child, 'not so fond as I am of Florence, of course;\nthat could never be. You couldn't expect that, could you, Ma'am?'\n\n'Oh! the old-fashioned little soul!' cried Mrs Blimber, in a whisper.\n\n'But I like everybody here very much,' pursued Paul, 'and I should\ngrieve to go away, and think that anyone was glad that I was gone, or\ndidn't care.'\n\nMrs Blimber was now quite sure that Paul was the oddest child in the\nworld; and when she told the Doctor what had passed, the Doctor did not\ncontrovert his wife's opinion. But he said, as he had said before, when\nPaul first came, that study would do much; and he also said, as he had\nsaid on that occasion, 'Bring him on, Cornelia! Bring him on!'\n\nCornelia had always brought him on as vigorously as she could; and Paul\nhad had a hard life of it. But over and above the getting through his\ntasks, he had long had another purpose always present to him, and to\nwhich he still held fast. It was, to be a gentle, useful, quiet little\nfellow, always striving to secure the love and attachment of the rest;\nand though he was yet often to be seen at his old post on the stairs, or\nwatching the waves and clouds from his solitary window, he was oftener\nfound, too, among the other boys, modestly rendering them some little\nvoluntary service. Thus it came to pass, that even among those rigid and\nabsorbed young anchorites, who mortified themselves beneath the roof of\nDoctor Blimber, Paul was an object of general interest; a fragile little\nplaything that they all liked, and that no one would have thought of\ntreating roughly. But he could not change his nature, or rewrite the\nanalysis; and so they all agreed that Dombey was old-fashioned.\n\nThere were some immunities, however, attaching to the character enjoyed\nby no one else. They could have better spared a newer-fashioned child,\nand that alone was much. When the others only bowed to Doctor Blimber\nand family on retiring for the night, Paul would stretch out his morsel\nof a hand, and boldly shake the Doctor's; also Mrs Blimber's; also\nCornelia's. If anybody was to be begged off from impending punishment,\nPaul was always the delegate. The weak-eyed young man himself had once\nconsulted him, in reference to a little breakage of glass and china. And\nit was darkly rumoured that the butler, regarding him with favour such\nas that stern man had never shown before to mortal boy, had sometimes\nmingled porter with his table-beer to make him strong.\n\nOver and above these extensive privileges, Paul had free right of entry\nto Mr Feeder's room, from which apartment he had twice led Mr Toots\ninto the open air in a state of faintness, consequent on an unsuccessful\nattempt to smoke a very blunt cigar: one of a bundle which that young\ngentleman had covertly purchased on the shingle from a most desperate\nsmuggler, who had acknowledged, in confidence, that two hundred pounds\nwas the price set upon his head, dead or alive, by the Custom House. It\nwas a snug room, Mr Feeder's, with his bed in another little room inside\nof it; and a flute, which Mr Feeder couldn't play yet, but was going to\nmake a point of learning, he said, hanging up over the fireplace. There\nwere some books in it, too, and a fishing-rod; for Mr Feeder said he\nshould certainly make a point of learning to fish, when he could find\ntime. Mr Feeder had amassed, with similar intentions, a beautiful little\ncurly secondhand key-bugle, a chess-board and men, a Spanish Grammar,\na set of sketching materials, and a pair of boxing-gloves. The art\nof self-defence Mr Feeder said he should undoubtedly make a point of\nlearning, as he considered it the duty of every man to do; for it might\nlead to the protection of a female in distress.\n\nBut Mr Feeder's great possession was a large green jar of snuff, which Mr\nToots had brought down as a present, at the close of the last vacation;\nand for which he had paid a high price, having been the genuine property\nof the Prince Regent. Neither Mr Toots nor Mr Feeder could partake of\nthis or any other snuff, even in the most stinted and moderate degree,\nwithout being seized with convulsions of sneezing. Nevertheless it was\ntheir great delight to moisten a box-full with cold tea, stir it up on a\npiece of parchment with a paper-knife, and devote themselves to its\nconsumption then and there. In the course of which cramming of their\nnoses, they endured surprising torments with the constancy of martyrs:\nand, drinking table-beer at intervals, felt all the glories of\ndissipation.\n\nTo little Paul sitting silent in their company, and by the side of\nhis chief patron, Mr Toots, there was a dread charm in these reckless\noccasions: and when Mr Feeder spoke of the dark mysteries of London, and\ntold Mr Toots that he was going to observe it himself closely in all its\nramifications in the approaching holidays, and for that purpose had\nmade arrangements to board with two old maiden ladies at Peckham, Paul\nregarded him as if he were the hero of some book of travels or wild\nadventure, and was almost afraid of such a slashing person.\n\nGoing into this room one evening, when the holidays were very near, Paul\nfound Mr Feeder filling up the blanks in some printed letters, while\nsome others, already filled up and strewn before him, were being folded\nand sealed by Mr Toots. Mr Feeder said, 'Aha, Dombey, there you are, are\nyou?'--for they were always kind to him, and glad to see him--and then\nsaid, tossing one of the letters towards him, 'And there you are, too,\nDombey. That's yours.'\n\n'Mine, Sir?' said Paul.\n\n'Your invitation,' returned Mr Feeder.\n\nPaul, looking at it, found, in copper-plate print, with the exception\nof his own name and the date, which were in Mr Feeder's penmanship, that\nDoctor and Mrs Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr P. Dombey's company\nat an early party on Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth Instant; and\nthat the hour was half-past seven o'clock; and that the object was\nQuadrilles. Mr Toots also showed him, by holding up a companion sheet of\npaper, that Doctor and Mrs Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr Toots's\ncompany at an early party on Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth Instant,\nwhen the hour was half-past seven o'clock, and when the object was\nQuadrilles. He also found, on glancing at the table where Mr Feeder sat,\nthat the pleasure of Mr Briggs's company, and of Mr Tozer's company,\nand of every young gentleman's company, was requested by Doctor and Mrs\nBlimber on the same genteel Occasion.\n\nMr Feeder then told him, to his great joy, that his sister was invited,\nand that it was a half-yearly event, and that, as the holidays began\nthat day, he could go away with his sister after the party, if he liked,\nwhich Paul interrupted him to say he would like, very much. Mr Feeder\nthen gave him to understand that he would be expected to inform Doctor\nand Mrs Blimber, in superfine small-hand, that Mr P. Dombey would be\nhappy to have the honour of waiting on them, in accordance with their\npolite invitation. Lastly, Mr Feeder said, he had better not refer to\nthe festive occasion, in the hearing of Doctor and Mrs Blimber; as these\npreliminaries, and the whole of the arrangements, were conducted on\nprinciples of classicality and high breeding; and that Doctor and Mrs\nBlimber on the one hand, and the young gentlemen on the other, were\nsupposed, in their scholastic capacities, not to have the least idea of\nwhat was in the wind.\n\nPaul thanked Mr Feeder for these hints, and pocketing his invitation,\nsat down on a stool by the side of Mr Toots, as usual. But Paul's head,\nwhich had long been ailing more or less, and was sometimes very heavy\nand painful, felt so uneasy that night, that he was obliged to support\nit on his hand. And yet it dropped so, that by little and little it sunk\non Mr Toots's knee, and rested there, as if it had no care to be ever\nlifted up again.\n\nThat was no reason why he should be deaf; but he must have been, he\nthought, for, by and by, he heard Mr Feeder calling in his ear, and\ngently shaking him to rouse his attention. And when he raised his head,\nquite scared, and looked about him, he found that Doctor Blimber had\ncome into the room; and that the window was open, and that his forehead\nwas wet with sprinkled water; though how all this had been done without\nhis knowledge, was very curious indeed.\n\n'Ah! Come, come! That's well! How is my little friend now?' said Doctor\nBlimber, encouragingly.\n\n'Oh, quite well, thank you, Sir,' said Paul.\n\nBut there seemed to be something the matter with the floor, for he\ncouldn't stand upon it steadily; and with the walls too, for they were\ninclined to turn round and round, and could only be stopped by being\nlooked at very hard indeed. Mr Toots's head had the appearance of being\nat once bigger and farther off than was quite natural; and when he took\nPaul in his arms, to carry him upstairs, Paul observed with astonishment\nthat the door was in quite a different place from that in which he had\nexpected to find it, and almost thought, at first, that Mr Toots was\ngoing to walk straight up the chimney.\n\nIt was very kind of Mr Toots to carry him to the top of the house so\ntenderly; and Paul told him that it was. But Mr Toots said he would do\na great deal more than that, if he could; and indeed he did more as\nit was: for he helped Paul to undress, and helped him to bed, in the\nkindest manner possible, and then sat down by the bedside and chuckled\nvery much; while Mr Feeder, B.A., leaning over the bottom of the\nbedstead, set all the little bristles on his head bolt upright with his\nbony hands, and then made believe to spar at Paul with great science, on\naccount of his being all right again, which was so uncommonly facetious,\nand kind too in Mr Feeder, that Paul, not being able to make up his mind\nwhether it was best to laugh or cry at him, did both at once.\n\nHow Mr Toots melted away, and Mr Feeder changed into Mrs Pipchin, Paul\nnever thought of asking; neither was he at all curious to know; but\nwhen he saw Mrs Pipchin standing at the bottom of the bed, instead of Mr\nFeeder, he cried out, 'Mrs Pipchin, don't tell Florence!'\n\n'Don't tell Florence what, my little Paul?' said Mrs Pipchin, coming\nround to the bedside, and sitting down in the chair.\n\n'About me,' said Paul.\n\n'No, no,' said Mrs Pipchin.\n\n'What do you think I mean to do when I grow up, Mrs Pipchin?' inquired\nPaul, turning his face towards her on his pillow, and resting his chin\nwistfully on his folded hands.\n\nMrs Pipchin couldn't guess.\n\n'I mean,' said Paul, 'to put my money all together in one Bank, never\ntry to get any more, go away into the country with my darling Florence,\nhave a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and live there with her all\nmy life!'\n\n'Indeed!' cried Mrs Pipchin.\n\n'Yes,' said Paul. 'That's what I mean to do, when I--' He stopped, and\npondered for a moment.\n\nMrs Pipchin's grey eye scanned his thoughtful face.\n\n'If I grow up,' said Paul. Then he went on immediately to tell Mrs\nPipchin all about the party, about Florence's invitation, about the\npride he would have in the admiration that would be felt for her by all\nthe boys, about their being so kind to him and fond of him, about his\nbeing so fond of them, and about his being so glad of it. Then he\ntold Mrs Pipchin about the analysis, and about his being certainly\nold-fashioned, and took Mrs Pipchin's opinion on that point, and whether\nshe knew why it was, and what it meant. Mrs Pipchin denied the fact\naltogether, as the shortest way of getting out of the difficulty; but\nPaul was far from satisfied with that reply, and looked so searchingly\nat Mrs Pipchin for a truer answer, that she was obliged to get up and\nlook out of the window to avoid his eyes.\n\nThere was a certain calm Apothecary, who attended at the establishment\nwhen any of the young gentlemen were ill, and somehow he got into the\nroom and appeared at the bedside, with Mrs Blimber. How they came there,\nor how long they had been there, Paul didn't know; but when he saw them,\nhe sat up in bed, and answered all the Apothecary's questions at full\nlength, and whispered to him that Florence was not to know anything\nabout it, if he pleased, and that he had set his mind upon her coming\nto the party. He was very chatty with the Apothecary, and they parted\nexcellent friends. Lying down again with his eyes shut, he heard the\nApothecary say, out of the room and quite a long way off--or he dreamed\nit--that there was a want of vital power (what was that, Paul wondered!)\nand great constitutional weakness. That as the little fellow had set his\nheart on parting with his school-mates on the seventeenth, it would be\nbetter to indulge the fancy if he grew no worse. That he was glad to\nhear from Mrs Pipchin, that the little fellow would go to his friends\nin London on the eighteenth. That he would write to Mr Dombey, when he\nshould have gained a better knowledge of the case, and before that day.\nThat there was no immediate cause for--what? Paul lost that word. And\nthat the little fellow had a fine mind, but was an old-fashioned boy.\n\nWhat old fashion could that be, Paul wondered with a palpitating heart,\nthat was so visibly expressed in him; so plainly seen by so many people!\n\nHe could neither make it out, nor trouble himself long with the effort.\nMrs Pipchin was again beside him, if she had ever been away (he thought\nshe had gone out with the Doctor, but it was all a dream perhaps),\nand presently a bottle and glass got into her hands magically, and\nshe poured out the contents for him. After that, he had some real good\njelly, which Mrs Blimber brought to him herself; and then he was so\nwell, that Mrs Pipchin went home, at his urgent solicitation, and Briggs\nand Tozer came to bed. Poor Briggs grumbled terribly about his own\nanalysis, which could hardly have discomposed him more if it had been a\nchemical process; but he was very good to Paul, and so was Tozer, and so\nwere all the rest, for they every one looked in before going to bed,\nand said, 'How are you now, Dombey?' 'Cheer up, little Dombey!' and\nso forth. After Briggs had got into bed, he lay awake for a long time,\nstill bemoaning his analysis, and saying he knew it was all wrong, and\nthey couldn't have analysed a murderer worse, and--how would Doctor\nBlimber like it if his pocket-money depended on it? It was very easy,\nBriggs said, to make a galley-slave of a boy all the half-year, and then\nscore him up idle; and to crib two dinners a-week out of his board, and\nthen score him up greedy; but that wasn't going to be submitted to, he\nbelieved, was it? Oh! Ah!\n\nBefore the weak-eyed young man performed on the gong next morning, he\ncame upstairs to Paul and told him he was to lie still, which Paul very\ngladly did. Mrs Pipchin reappeared a little before the Apothecary, and a\nlittle after the good young woman whom Paul had seen cleaning the stove\non that first morning (how long ago it seemed now!) had brought him his\nbreakfast. There was another consultation a long way off, or else Paul\ndreamed it again; and then the Apothecary, coming back with Doctor and\nMrs Blimber, said:\n\n'Yes, I think, Doctor Blimber, we may release this young gentleman from\nhis books just now; the vacation being so very near at hand.'\n\n'By all means,' said Doctor Blimber. 'My love, you will inform Cornelia,\nif you please.'\n\n'Assuredly,' said Mrs Blimber.\n\nThe Apothecary bending down, looked closely into Paul's eyes, and felt\nhis head, and his pulse, and his heart, with so much interest and care,\nthat Paul said, 'Thank you, Sir.'\n\n'Our little friend,' observed Doctor Blimber, 'has never complained.'\n\n'Oh no!' replied the Apothecary. 'He was not likely to complain.'\n\n'You find him greatly better?' said Doctor Blimber.\n\n'Oh! he is greatly better, Sir,' returned the Apothecary.\n\nPaul had begun to speculate, in his own odd way, on the subject that\nmight occupy the Apothecary's mind just at that moment; so musingly\nhad he answered the two questions of Doctor Blimber. But the Apothecary\nhappening to meet his little patient's eyes, as the latter set off on\nthat mental expedition, and coming instantly out of his abstraction with\na cheerful smile, Paul smiled in return and abandoned it.\n\nHe lay in bed all that day, dozing and dreaming, and looking at Mr\nToots; but got up on the next, and went downstairs. Lo and behold, there\nwas something the matter with the great clock; and a workman on a pair\nof steps had taken its face off, and was poking instruments into the\nworks by the light of a candle! This was a great event for Paul, who sat\ndown on the bottom stair, and watched the operation attentively: now\nand then glancing at the clock face, leaning all askew, against the wall\nhard by, and feeling a little confused by a suspicion that it was ogling\nhim.\n\nThe workman on the steps was very civil; and as he said, when he\nobserved Paul, 'How do you do, Sir?' Paul got into conversation with\nhim, and told him he hadn't been quite well lately. The ice being thus\nbroken, Paul asked him a multitude of questions about chimes and clocks:\nas, whether people watched up in the lonely church steeples by night\nto make them strike, and how the bells were rung when people died, and\nwhether those were different bells from wedding bells, or only sounded\ndismal in the fancies of the living. Finding that his new acquaintance\nwas not very well informed on the subject of the Curfew Bell of ancient\ndays, Paul gave him an account of that institution; and also asked\nhim, as a practical man, what he thought about King Alfred's idea of\nmeasuring time by the burning of candles; to which the workman replied,\nthat he thought it would be the ruin of the clock trade if it was\nto come up again. In fine, Paul looked on, until the clock had quite\nrecovered its familiar aspect, and resumed its sedate inquiry; when the\nworkman, putting away his tools in a long basket, bade him good day,\nand went away. Though not before he had whispered something, on\nthe door-mat, to the footman, in which there was the phrase\n'old-fashioned'--for Paul heard it.\n\nWhat could that old fashion be, that seemed to make the people sorry!\nWhat could it be!\n\nHaving nothing to learn now, he thought of this frequently; though not\nso often as he might have done, if he had had fewer things to think of.\nBut he had a great many; and was always thinking, all day long.\n\nFirst, there was Florence coming to the party. Florence would see that\nthe boys were fond of him; and that would make her happy. This was his\ngreat theme. Let Florence once be sure that they were gentle and good to\nhim, and that he had become a little favourite among them, and then the\nwould always think of the time he had passed there, without being very\nsorry. Florence might be all the happier too for that, perhaps, when he\ncame back.\n\nWhen he came back! Fifty times a day, his noiseless little feet went up\nthe stairs to his own room, as he collected every book, and scrap, and\ntrifle that belonged to him, and put them all together there, down to\nthe minutest thing, for taking home! There was no shade of coming back\non little Paul; no preparation for it, or other reference to it, grew\nout of anything he thought or did, except this slight one in connexion\nwith his sister. On the contrary, he had to think of everything familiar\nto him, in his contemplative moods and in his wanderings about the\nhouse, as being to be parted with; and hence the many things he had to\nthink of, all day long.\n\nHe had to peep into those rooms upstairs, and think how solitary they\nwould be when he was gone, and wonder through how many silent days,\nweeks, months, and years, they would continue just as grave and\nundisturbed. He had to think--would any other child (old-fashioned, like\nhimself) stray there at any time, to whom the same grotesque distortions\nof pattern and furniture would manifest themselves; and would anybody\ntell that boy of little Dombey, who had been there once?\n\nHe had to think of a portrait on the stairs, which always looked\nearnestly after him as he went away, eyeing it over his shoulder; and\nwhich, when he passed it in the company of anyone, still seemed to gaze\nat him, and not at his companion. He had much to think of, in\nassociation with a print that hung up in another place, where, in the\ncentre of a wondering group, one figure that he knew, a figure with a\nlight about its head--benignant, mild, and merciful--stood pointing\nupward.\n\nAt his own bedroom window, there were crowds of thoughts that mixed\nwith these, and came on, one upon another, like the rolling waves. Where\nthose wild birds lived, that were always hovering out at sea in troubled\nweather; where the clouds rose and first began; whence the wind issued\non its rushing flight, and where it stopped; whether the spot where\nhe and Florence had so often sat, and watched, and talked about these\nthings, could ever be exactly as it used to be without them; whether it\ncould ever be the same to Florence, if he were in some distant place,\nand she were sitting there alone.\n\nHe had to think, too, of Mr Toots, and Mr Feeder, B.A., of all the boys;\nand of Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and Miss Blimber; of home, and of\nhis aunt and Miss Tox; of his father; Dombey and Son, Walter with the\npoor old Uncle who had got the money he wanted, and that gruff-voiced\nCaptain with the iron hand. Besides all this, he had a number of little\nvisits to pay, in the course of the day; to the schoolroom, to Doctor\nBlimber's study, to Mrs Blimber's private apartment, to Miss Blimber's,\nand to the dog. For he was free of the whole house now, to range it\nas he chose; and, in his desire to part with everybody on affectionate\nterms, he attended, in his way, to them all. Sometimes he found places\nin books for Briggs, who was always losing them; sometimes he looked up\nwords in dictionaries for other young gentlemen who were in extremity;\nsometimes he held skeins of silk for Mrs Blimber to wind; sometimes he\nput Cornelia's desk to rights; sometimes he would even creep into the\nDoctor's study, and, sitting on the carpet near his learned feet, turn\nthe globes softly, and go round the world, or take a flight among the\nfar-off stars.\n\nIn those days immediately before the holidays, in short, when the\nother young gentlemen were labouring for dear life through a general\nresumption of the studies of the whole half-year, Paul was such a\nprivileged pupil as had never been seen in that house before. He could\nhardly believe it himself; but his liberty lasted from hour to hour,\nand from day to day; and little Dombey was caressed by everyone. Doctor\nBlimber was so particular about him, that he requested Johnson to retire\nfrom the dinner-table one day, for having thoughtlessly spoken to him as\n'poor little Dombey;' which Paul thought rather hard and severe, though\nhe had flushed at the moment, and wondered why Johnson should pity him.\nIt was the more questionable justice, Paul thought, in the Doctor, from\nhis having certainly overheard that great authority give his assent on\nthe previous evening, to the proposition (stated by Mrs Blimber) that\npoor dear little Dombey was more old-fashioned than ever. And now it\nwas that Paul began to think it must surely be old-fashioned to be\nvery thin, and light, and easily tired, and soon disposed to lie down\nanywhere and rest; for he couldn't help feeling that these were more and\nmore his habits every day.\n\nAt last the party-day arrived; and Doctor Blimber said at breakfast,\n'Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next\nmonth.' Mr Toots immediately threw off his allegiance, and put on\nhis ring: and mentioning the Doctor in casual conversation shortly\nafterwards, spoke of him as 'Blimber'! This act of freedom inspired\nthe older pupils with admiration and envy; but the younger spirits were\nappalled, and seemed to marvel that no beam fell down and crushed him.\n\nNot the least allusion was made to the ceremonies of the evening, either\nat breakfast or at dinner; but there was a bustle in the house all day,\nand in the course of his perambulations, Paul made acquaintance with\nvarious strange benches and candlesticks, and met a harp in a green\ngreatcoat standing on the landing outside the drawing-room door. There\nwas something queer, too, about Mrs Blimber's head at dinner-time, as if\nshe had screwed her hair up too tight; and though Miss Blimber showed\na graceful bunch of plaited hair on each temple, she seemed to have her\nown little curls in paper underneath, and in a play-bill too; for\nPaul read 'Theatre Royal' over one of her sparkling spectacles, and\n'Brighton' over the other.\n\nThere was a grand array of white waistcoats and cravats in the young\ngentlemen's bedrooms as evening approached; and such a smell of singed\nhair, that Doctor Blimber sent up the footman with his compliments, and\nwished to know if the house was on fire. But it was only the hairdresser\ncurling the young gentlemen, and over-heating his tongs in the ardour of\nbusiness.\n\nWhen Paul was dressed--which was very soon done, for he felt unwell and\ndrowsy, and was not able to stand about it very long--he went down into\nthe drawing-room; where he found Doctor Blimber pacing up and down the\nroom full dressed, but with a dignified and unconcerned demeanour, as\nif he thought it barely possible that one or two people might drop in by\nand by. Shortly afterwards, Mrs Blimber appeared, looking lovely, Paul\nthought; and attired in such a number of skirts that it was quite an\nexcursion to walk round her. Miss Blimber came down soon after her Mama;\na little squeezed in appearance, but very charming.\n\nMr Toots and Mr Feeder were the next arrivals. Each of these gentlemen\nbrought his hat in his hand, as if he lived somewhere else; and when\nthey were announced by the butler, Doctor Blimber said, 'Ay, ay, ay! God\nbless my soul!' and seemed extremely glad to see them. Mr Toots was\none blaze of jewellery and buttons; and he felt the circumstance so\nstrongly, that when he had shaken hands with the Doctor, and had bowed\nto Mrs Blimber and Miss Blimber, he took Paul aside, and said, 'What do\nyou think of this, Dombey?'\n\nBut notwithstanding this modest confidence in himself, Mr Toots appeared\nto be involved in a good deal of uncertainty whether, on the whole, it\nwas judicious to button the bottom button of his waistcoat, and whether,\non a calm revision of all the circumstances, it was best to wear his\nwaistbands turned up or turned down. Observing that Mr Feeder's were\nturned up, Mr Toots turned his up; but the waistbands of the next\narrival being turned down, Mr Toots turned his down. The differences\nin point of waistcoat-buttoning, not only at the bottom, but at the top\ntoo, became so numerous and complicated as the arrivals thickened, that\nMr Toots was continually fingering that article of dress, as if he\nwere performing on some instrument; and appeared to find the incessant\nexecution it demanded, quite bewildering.\n\nAll the young gentlemen, tightly cravatted, curled, and pumped, and with\ntheir best hats in their hands, having been at different times announced\nand introduced, Mr Baps, the dancing-master, came, accompanied by Mrs\nBaps, to whom Mrs Blimber was extremely kind and condescending. Mr Baps\nwas a very grave gentleman, with a slow and measured manner of speaking;\nand before he had stood under the lamp five minutes, he began to talk to\nToots (who had been silently comparing pumps with him) about what you\nwere to do with your raw materials when they came into your ports in\nreturn for your drain of gold. Mr Toots, to whom the question seemed\nperplexing, suggested 'Cook 'em.' But Mr Baps did not appear to think\nthat would do.\n\nPaul now slipped away from the cushioned corner of a sofa, which had\nbeen his post of observation, and went downstairs into the tea-room to\nbe ready for Florence, whom he had not seen for nearly a fortnight, as\nhe had remained at Doctor Blimber's on the previous Saturday and Sunday,\nlest he should take cold. Presently she came: looking so beautiful in\nher simple ball dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand, that when she\nknelt down on the ground to take Paul round the neck and kiss him (for\nthere was no one there, but his friend and another young woman waiting\nto serve out the tea), he could hardly make up his mind to let her go\nagain, or to take away her bright and loving eyes from his face.\n\n'But what is the matter, Floy?' asked Paul, almost sure that he saw a\ntear there.\n\n'Nothing, darling; nothing,' returned Florence.\n\nPaul touched her cheek gently with his finger--and it was a tear! 'Why,\nFloy!' said he.\n\n'We'll go home together, and I'll nurse you, love,' said Florence.\n\n'Nurse me!' echoed Paul.\n\nPaul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the two\nyoung women looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her\nface for a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with\nsmiles.\n\n'Floy,' said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand. 'Tell\nme, dear, Do you think I have grown old-fashioned?'\n\nHis sister laughed, and fondled him, and told him 'No.'\n\n'Because I know they say so,' returned Paul, 'and I want to know what\nthey mean, Floy.'\n\nBut a loud double knock coming at the door, and Florence hurrying to the\ntable, there was no more said between them.  Paul wondered again when he\nsaw his friend whisper to Florence, as if she were comforting her; but a\nnew arrival put that out of his head speedily.\n\nIt was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Master Skettles. Master\nSkettles was to be a new boy after the vacation, and Fame had been busy,\nin Mr Feeder's room, with his father, who was in the House of Commons,\nand of whom Mr Feeder had said that when he did catch the Speaker's\neye (which he had been expected to do for three or four years), it was\nanticipated that he would rather touch up the Radicals.\n\n'And what room is this now, for instance?' said Lady Skettles to Paul's\nfriend, 'Melia.\n\n'Doctor Blimber's study, Ma'am,' was the reply.\n\nLady Skettles took a panoramic survey of it through her glass, and said\nto Sir Barnet Skettles, with a nod of approval, 'Very good.' Sir Barnet\nassented, but Master Skettles looked suspicious and doubtful.\n\n'And this little creature, now,' said Lady Skettles, turning to Paul.\n'Is he one of the--'\n\n'Young gentlemen, Ma'am; yes, Ma'am,' said Paul's friend.\n\n'And what is your name, my pale child?' said Lady Skettles.\n\n'Dombey,' answered Paul.\n\nSir Barnet Skettles immediately interposed, and said that he had had the\nhonour of meeting Paul's father at a public dinner, and that he hoped\nhe was very well. Then Paul heard him say to Lady Skettles, 'City--very\nrich--most respectable--Doctor mentioned it.' And then he said to Paul,\n'Will you tell your good Papa that Sir Barnet Skettles rejoiced to hear\nthat he was very well, and sent him his best compliments?'\n\n'Yes, Sir,' answered Paul.\n\n'That is my brave boy,' said Sir Barnet Skettles. 'Barnet,' to Master\nSkettles, who was revenging himself for the studies to come, on the\nplum-cake, 'this is a young gentleman you ought to know. This is a\nyoung gentleman you may know, Barnet,' said Sir Barnet Skettles, with an\nemphasis on the permission.\n\n'What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!' exclaimed Lady Skettles\nsoftly, as she looked at Florence through her glass.\n\n'My sister,' said Paul, presenting her.\n\nThe satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complete. And as Lady Skettles\nhad conceived, at first sight, a liking for Paul, they all went upstairs\ntogether: Sir Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence, and young Barnet\nfollowing.\n\nYoung Barnet did not remain long in the background after they had\nreached the drawing-room, for Dr Blimber had him out in no time, dancing\nwith Florence. He did not appear to Paul to be particularly happy, or\nparticularly anything but sulky, or to care much what he was about; but\nas Paul heard Lady Skettles say to Mrs Blimber, while she beat time with\nher fan, that her dear boy was evidently smitten to death by that angel\nof a child, Miss Dombey, it would seem that Skettles Junior was in a\nstate of bliss, without showing it.\n\nLittle Paul thought it a singular coincidence that nobody had occupied\nhis place among the pillows; and that when he came into the room again,\nthey should all make way for him to go back to it, remembering it was\nhis. Nobody stood before him either, when they observed that he liked to\nsee Florence dancing, but they left the space in front quite clear, so\nthat he might follow her with his eyes. They were so kind, too, even\nthe strangers, of whom there were soon a great many, that they came and\nspoke to him every now and then, and asked him how he was, and if his\nhead ached, and whether he was tired. He was very much obliged to them\nfor all their kindness and attention, and reclining propped up in\nhis corner, with Mrs Blimber and Lady Skettles on the same sofa, and\nFlorence coming and sitting by his side as soon as every dance was\nended, he looked on very happily indeed.\n\nFlorence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced at\nall of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much\nit pleased him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heart\nswelled, and his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her,\nand how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room.\n\nFrom his nest among the pillows, Paul could see and hear almost\neverything that passed as if the whole were being done for his\namusement. Among other little incidents that he observed, he observed Mr\nBaps the dancing-master get into conversation with Sir Barnet Skettles,\nand very soon ask him, as he had asked Mr Toots, what you were to do\nwith your raw materials, when they came into your ports in return for\nyour drain of gold--which was such a mystery to Paul that he was quite\ndesirous to know what ought to be done with them. Sir Barnet Skettles\nhad much to say upon the question, and said it; but it did not appear\nto solve the question, for Mr Baps retorted, Yes, but supposing Russia\nstepped in with her tallows; which struck Sir Barnet almost dumb, for\nhe could only shake his head after that, and say, Why then you must fall\nback upon your cottons, he supposed.\n\nSir Barnet Skettles looked after Mr Baps when he went to cheer up\nMrs Baps (who, being quite deserted, was pretending to look over the\nmusic-book of the gentleman who played the harp), as if he thought him a\nremarkable kind of man; and shortly afterwards he said so in those words\nto Doctor Blimber, and inquired if he might take the liberty of asking\nwho he was, and whether he had ever been in the Board of Trade.\nDoctor Blimber answered no, he believed not; and that in fact he was a\nProfessor of--'\n\n'Of something connected with statistics, I'll swear?' observed Sir\nBarnet Skettles.\n\n'Why no, Sir Barnet,' replied Doctor Blimber, rubbing his chin. 'No, not\nexactly.'\n\n'Figures of some sort, I would venture a bet,' said Sir Barnet Skettles.\n\n'Why yes,' said Doctor Blimber, yes, but not of that sort. Mr Baps is a\nvery worthy sort of man, Sir Barnet, and--in fact he's our Professor of\ndancing.'\n\nPaul was amazed to see that this piece of information quite altered Sir\nBarnet Skettles's opinion of Mr Baps, and that Sir Barnet flew into\na perfect rage, and glowered at Mr Baps over on the other side of the\nroom. He even went so far as to D-- Mr Baps to Lady Skettles, in telling\nher what had happened, and to say that it was like his most con-sum-mate\nand con-foun-ded impudence.\n\nThere was another thing that Paul observed. Mr Feeder, after imbibing\nseveral custard-cups of negus, began to enjoy himself. The dancing in\ngeneral was ceremonious, and the music rather solemn--a little like\nchurch music in fact--but after the custard-cups, Mr Feeder told Mr\nToots that he was going to throw a little spirit into the thing. After\nthat, Mr Feeder not only began to dance as if he meant dancing and\nnothing else, but secretly to stimulate the music to perform wild tunes.\nFurther, he became particular in his attentions to the ladies; and\ndancing with Miss Blimber, whispered to her--whispered to her!--though\nnot so softly but that Paul heard him say this remarkable poetry,\n\n             'Had I a heart for falsehood framed,\n              I ne'er could injure You!'\n\nThis, Paul heard him repeat to four young ladies, in succession. Well\nmight Mr Feeder say to Mr Toots, that he was afraid he should be the\nworse for it to-morrow!\n\nMrs Blimber was a little alarmed by this--comparatively\nspeaking--profligate behaviour; and especially by the alteration in the\ncharacter of the music, which, beginning to comprehend low melodies that\nwere popular in the streets, might not unnaturally be supposed to give\noffence to Lady Skettles. But Lady Skettles was so very kind as to beg\nMrs Blimber not to mention it; and to receive her explanation that\nMr Feeder's spirits sometimes betrayed him into excesses on these\noccasions, with the greatest courtesy and politeness; observing, that\nhe seemed a very nice sort of person for his situation, and that she\nparticularly liked the unassuming style of his hair--which (as already\nhinted) was about a quarter of an inch long.\n\nOnce, when there was a pause in the dancing, Lady Skettles told Paul\nthat he seemed very fond of music. Paul replied, that he was; and if\nshe was too, she ought to hear his sister, Florence, sing. Lady Skettles\npresently discovered that she was dying with anxiety to have that\ngratification; and though Florence was at first very much frightened at\nbeing asked to sing before so many people, and begged earnestly to be\nexcused, yet, on Paul calling her to him, and saying, 'Do, Floy! Please!\nFor me, my dear!' she went straight to the piano, and began. When they\nall drew a little away, that Paul might see her; and when he saw her\nsitting there all alone, so young, and good, and beautiful, and kind\nto him; and heard her thrilling voice, so natural and sweet, and such\na golden link between him and all his life's love and happiness, rising\nout of the silence; he turned his face away, and hid his tears. Not,\nas he told them when they spoke to him, not that the music was too\nplaintive or too sorrowful, but it was so dear to him.\n\nThey all loved Florence. How could they help it! Paul had known\nbeforehand that they must and would; and sitting in his cushioned\ncorner, with calmly folded hands; and one leg loosely doubled under him,\nfew would have thought what triumph and delight expanded his childish\nbosom while he watched her, or what a sweet tranquillity he felt. Lavish\nencomiums on 'Dombey's sister' reached his ears from all the boys:\nadmiration of the self-possessed and modest little beauty was on every\nlip: reports of her intelligence and accomplishments floated past him,\nconstantly; and, as if borne in upon the air of the summer night, there\nwas a half intelligible sentiment diffused around, referring to Florence\nand himself, and breathing sympathy for both, that soothed and touched\nhim.\n\nHe did not know why. For all that the child observed, and felt, and\nthought, that night--the present and the absent; what was then and\nwhat had been--were blended like the colours in the rainbow, or in\nthe plumage of rich birds when the sun is shining on them, or in the\nsoftening sky when the same sun is setting. The many things he had had\nto think of lately, passed before him in the music; not as claiming\nhis attention over again, or as likely evermore to occupy it, but as\npeacefully disposed of and gone. A solitary window, gazed through years\nago, looked out upon an ocean, miles and miles away; upon its waters,\nfancies, busy with him only yesterday, were hushed and lulled to rest\nlike broken waves. The same mysterious murmur he had wondered at, when\nlying on his couch upon the beach, he thought he still heard sounding\nthrough his sister's song, and through the hum of voices, and the tread\nof feet, and having some part in the faces flitting by, and even in the\nheavy gentleness of Mr Toots, who frequently came up to shake him by\nthe hand. Through the universal kindness he still thought he heard it,\nspeaking to him; and even his old-fashioned reputation seemed to be\nallied to it, he knew not how. Thus little Paul sat musing, listening,\nlooking on, and dreaming; and was very happy.\n\nUntil the time arrived for taking leave: and then, indeed, there was a\nsensation in the party. Sir Barnet Skettles brought up Skettles Junior\nto shake hands with him, and asked him if he would remember to tell his\ngood Papa, with his best compliments, that he, Sir Barnet Skettles,\nhad said he hoped the two young gentlemen would become intimately\nacquainted. Lady Skettles kissed him, and patted his hair upon his brow,\nand held him in her arms; and even Mrs Baps--poor Mrs Baps! Paul was\nglad of that--came over from beside the music-book of the gentleman who\nplayed the harp, and took leave of him quite as heartily as anybody in\nthe room.\n\n'Good-bye, Doctor Blimber,' said Paul, stretching out his hand.\n\n'Good-bye, my little friend,' returned the Doctor.\n\n'I'm very much obliged to you, Sir,' said Paul, looking innocently up\ninto his awful face. 'Ask them to take care of Diogenes, if you please.'\n\nDiogenes was the dog: who had never in his life received a friend into\nhis confidence, before Paul. The Doctor promised that every attention\nshould be paid to Diogenes in Paul's absence, and Paul having again\nthanked him, and shaken hands with him, bade adieu to Mrs Blimber and\nCornelia with such heartfelt earnestness that Mrs Blimber forgot from\nthat moment to mention Cicero to Lady Skettles, though she had fully\nintended it all the evening. Cornelia, taking both Paul's hands in hers,\nsaid, 'Dombey, Dombey, you have always been my favourite pupil. God bless\nyou!' And it showed, Paul thought, how easily one might do injustice to\na person; for Miss Blimber meant it--though she was a Forcer--and felt\nit.\n\nA buzz then went round among the young gentlemen, of 'Dombey's going!'\n'Little Dombey's going!' and there was a general move after Paul and\nFlorence down the staircase and into the hall, in which the whole\nBlimber family were included. Such a circumstance, Mr Feeder said aloud,\nas had never happened in the case of any former young gentleman within\nhis experience; but it would be difficult to say if this were sober fact\nor custard-cups. The servants, with the butler at their head, had all an\ninterest in seeing Little Dombey go; and even the weak-eyed young man,\ntaking out his books and trunks to the coach that was to carry him and\nFlorence to Mrs Pipchin's for the night, melted visibly.\n\nNot even the influence of the softer passion on the young gentlemen--and\nthey all, to a boy, doted on Florence--could restrain them from taking\nquite a noisy leave of Paul; waving hats after him, pressing downstairs\nto shake hands with him, crying individually 'Dombey, don't forget me!'\nand indulging in many such ebullitions of feeling, uncommon among those\nyoung Chesterfields. Paul whispered Florence, as she wrapped him up\nbefore the door was opened, Did she hear them? Would she ever forget\nit? Was she glad to know it? And a lively delight was in his eyes as he\nspoke to her.\n\nOnce, for a last look, he turned and gazed upon the faces thus addressed\nto him, surprised to see how shining and how bright, and numerous they\nwere, and how they were all piled and heaped up, as faces are at crowded\ntheatres. They swam before him as he looked, like faces in an agitated\nglass; and next moment he was in the dark coach outside, holding close\nto Florence. From that time, whenever he thought of Doctor Blimber's, it\ncame back as he had seen it in this last view; and it never seemed to be\na real place again, but always a dream, full of eyes.\n\nThis was not quite the last of Doctor Blimber's, however. There was\nsomething else. There was Mr Toots. Who, unexpectedly letting down\none of the coach-windows, and looking in, said, with a most egregious\nchuckle, 'Is Dombey there?' and immediately put it up again, without\nwaiting for an answer. Nor was this quite the last of Mr Toots, even;\nfor before the coachman could drive off, he as suddenly let down the\nother window, and looking in with a precisely similar chuckle, said in\na precisely similar tone of voice, 'Is Dombey there?' and disappeared\nprecisely as before.\n\nHow Florence laughed! Paul often remembered it, and laughed himself\nwhenever he did so.\n\nBut there was much, soon afterwards--next day, and after that--which\nPaul could only recollect confusedly. As, why they stayed at Mrs\nPipchin's days and nights, instead of going home; why he lay in bed,\nwith Florence sitting by his side; whether that had been his father in\nthe room, or only a tall shadow on the wall; whether he had heard his\ndoctor say, of someone, that if they had removed him before the occasion\non which he had built up fancies, strong in proportion to his own\nweakness, it was very possible he might have pined away.\n\nHe could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, 'Oh\nFloy, take me home, and never leave me!' but he thought he had. He\nfancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, 'Take me home, Floy!\ntake me home!'\n\nBut he could remember, when he got home, and was carried up the\nwell-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach for\nmany hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still\nbeside him, and old Mrs Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his old\nbed too, when they laid him down in it: his aunt, Miss Tox, and Susan:\nbut there was something else, and recent too, that still perplexed him.\n\n'I want to speak to Florence, if you please,' he said. 'To Florence by\nherself, for a moment!'\n\nShe bent down over him, and the others stood away.\n\n'Floy, my pet, wasn't that Papa in the hall, when they brought me from\nthe coach?'\n\n'Yes, dear.'\n\n'He didn't cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me\ncoming in?'\n\nFlorence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek.\n\n'I'm very glad he didn't cry,' said little Paul. 'I thought he did.\nDon't tell them that I asked.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15. Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for\nWalter Gay\n\n\nWalter could not, for several days, decide what to do in the Barbados\nbusiness; and even cherished some faint hope that Mr Dombey might not\nhave meant what he had said, or that he might change his mind, and tell\nhim he was not to go. But as nothing occurred to give this idea (which\nwas sufficiently improbable in itself) any touch of confirmation, and as\ntime was slipping by, and he had none to lose, he felt that he must act,\nwithout hesitating any longer.\n\nWalter's chief difficulty was, how to break the change in his affairs to\nUncle Sol, to whom he was sensible it would be a terrible blow. He\nhad the greater difficulty in dashing Uncle Sol's spirits with such an\nastounding piece of intelligence, because they had lately recovered\nvery much, and the old man had become so cheerful, that the little back\nparlour was itself again. Uncle Sol had paid the first appointed portion\nof the debt to Mr Dombey, and was hopeful of working his way through\nthe rest; and to cast him down afresh, when he had sprung up so manfully\nfrom his troubles, was a very distressing necessity.\n\nYet it would never do to run away from him. He must know of it\nbeforehand; and how to tell him was the point. As to the question of\ngoing or not going, Walter did not consider that he had any power of\nchoice in the matter. Mr Dombey had truly told him that he was young,\nand that his Uncle's circumstances were not good; and Mr Dombey had\nplainly expressed, in the glance with which he had accompanied that\nreminder, that if he declined to go he might stay at home if he chose,\nbut not in his counting-house. His Uncle and he lay under a great\nobligation to Mr Dombey, which was of Walter's own soliciting. He might\nhave begun in secret to despair of ever winning that gentleman's favour,\nand might have thought that he was now and then disposed to put a slight\nupon him, which was hardly just. But what would have been duty without\nthat, was still duty with it--or Walter thought so--and duty must be\ndone.\n\nWhen Mr Dombey had looked at him, and told him he was young, and that\nhis Uncle's circumstances were not good, there had been an expression of\ndisdain in his face; a contemptuous and disparaging assumption that he\nwould be quite content to live idly on a reduced old man, which stung\nthe boy's generous soul. Determined to assure Mr Dombey, in so far as it\nwas possible to give him the assurance without expressing it in words,\nthat indeed he mistook his nature, Walter had been anxious to show even\nmore cheerfulness and activity after the West Indian interview than he\nhad shown before: if that were possible, in one of his quick and zealous\ndisposition. He was too young and inexperienced to think, that possibly\nthis very quality in him was not agreeable to Mr Dombey, and that it\nwas no stepping-stone to his good opinion to be elastic and hopeful of\npleasing under the shadow of his powerful displeasure, whether it were\nright or wrong. But it may have been--it may have been--that the great\nman thought himself defied in this new exposition of an honest spirit,\nand purposed to bring it down.\n\n'Well! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,' thought Walter,\nwith a sigh. And as Walter was apprehensive that his voice might perhaps\nquaver a little, and that his countenance might not be quite as hopeful\nas he could wish it to be, if he told the old man himself, and saw the\nfirst effects of his communication on his wrinkled face, he resolved to\navail himself of the services of that powerful mediator, Captain Cuttle.\nSunday coming round, he set off therefore, after breakfast, once more to\nbeat up Captain Cuttle's quarters.\n\nIt was not unpleasant to remember, on the way thither, that Mrs\nMacStinger resorted to a great distance every Sunday morning, to attend\nthe ministry of the Reverend Melchisedech Howler, who, having been one\nday discharged from the West India Docks on a false suspicion (got up\nexpressly against him by the general enemy) of screwing gimlets into\npuncheons, and applying his lips to the orifice, had announced the\ndestruction of the world for that day two years, at ten in the morning,\nand opened a front parlour for the reception of ladies and gentlemen\nof the Ranting persuasion, upon whom, on the first occasion of their\nassemblage, the admonitions of the Reverend Melchisedech had produced\nso powerful an effect, that, in their rapturous performance of a sacred\njig, which closed the service, the whole flock broke through into a\nkitchen below, and disabled a mangle belonging to one of the fold.\n\nThis the Captain, in a moment of uncommon conviviality, had confided\nto Walter and his Uncle, between the repetitions of lovely Peg, on the\nnight when Brogley the broker was paid out. The Captain himself was\npunctual in his attendance at a church in his own neighbourhood, which\nhoisted the Union Jack every Sunday morning; and where he was good\nenough--the lawful beadle being infirm--to keep an eye upon the boys,\nover whom he exercised great power, in virtue of his mysterious hook.\nKnowing the regularity of the Captain's habits, Walter made all the\nhaste he could, that he might anticipate his going out; and he made such\ngood speed, that he had the pleasure, on turning into Brig Place, to\nbehold the broad blue coat and waistcoat hanging out of the Captain's\nopen window, to air in the sun.\n\nIt appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat could be seen by\nmortal eyes without the Captain; but he certainly was not in them,\notherwise his legs--the houses in Brig Place not being lofty--would have\nobstructed the street door, which was perfectly clear. Quite wondering\nat this discovery, Walter gave a single knock.\n\n'Stinger,' he distinctly heard the Captain say, up in his room, as if\nthat were no business of his. Therefore Walter gave two knocks.\n\n'Cuttle,' he heard the Captain say upon that; and immediately afterwards\nthe Captain, in his clean shirt and braces, with his neckerchief hanging\nloosely round his throat like a coil of rope, and his glazed hat\non, appeared at the window, leaning out over the broad blue coat and\nwaistcoat.\n\n'Wal'r!' cried the Captain, looking down upon him in amazement.\n\n'Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, 'only me'\n\n'What's the matter, my lad?' inquired the Captain, with great concern.\n'Gills an't been and sprung nothing again?'\n\n'No, no,' said Walter. 'My Uncle's all right, Captain Cuttle.'\n\nThe Captain expressed his gratification, and said he would come down\nbelow and open the door, which he did.\n\n'Though you're early, Wal'r,' said the Captain, eyeing him still\ndoubtfully, when they got upstairs:\n\n'Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, sitting down, 'I was\nafraid you would have gone out, and I want to benefit by your friendly\ncounsel.'\n\n'So you shall,' said the Captain; 'what'll you take?'\n\n'I want to take your opinion, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, smiling.\n'That's the only thing for me.'\n\n'Come on then,' said the Captain. 'With a will, my lad!'\n\nWalter related to him what had happened; and the difficulty in which he\nfelt respecting his Uncle, and the relief it would be to him if Captain\nCuttle, in his kindness, would help him to smooth it away; Captain\nCuttle's infinite consternation and astonishment at the prospect\nunfolded to him, gradually swallowing that gentleman up, until it left\nhis face quite vacant, and the suit of blue, the glazed hat, and the\nhook, apparently without an owner.\n\n'You see, Captain Cuttle,' pursued Walter, 'for myself, I am young, as\nMr Dombey said, and not to be considered. I am to fight my way through\nthe world, I know; but there are two points I was thinking, as I came\nalong, that I should be very particular about, in respect to my Uncle.\nI don't mean to say that I deserve to be the pride and delight of his\nlife--you believe me, I know--but I am. Now, don't you think I am?'\n\nThe Captain seemed to make an endeavour to rise from the depths of\nhis astonishment, and get back to his face; but the effort being\nineffectual, the glazed hat merely nodded with a mute, unutterable\nmeaning.\n\n'If I live and have my health,' said Walter, 'and I am not afraid of\nthat, still, when I leave England I can hardly hope to see my Uncle\nagain. He is old, Captain Cuttle; and besides, his life is a life of\ncustom--'\n\n'Steady, Wal'r! Of a want of custom?' said the Captain, suddenly\nreappearing.\n\n'Too true,' returned Walter, shaking his head: 'but I meant a life of\nhabit, Captain Cuttle--that sort of custom. And if (as you very truly\nsaid, I am sure) he would have died the sooner for the loss of the\nstock, and all those objects to which he has been accustomed for so many\nyears, don't you think he might die a little sooner for the loss of--'\n\n'Of his Nevy,' interposed the Captain. 'Right!'\n\n'Well then,' said Walter, trying to speak gaily, 'we must do our best to\nmake him believe that the separation is but a temporary one, after all;\nbut as I know better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle, and\nas I have so many reasons for regarding him with affection, and duty,\nand honour, I am afraid I should make but a very poor hand at that, if\nI tried to persuade him of it. That's my great reason for wishing you to\nbreak it out to him; and that's the first point.'\n\n'Keep her off a point or so!' observed the Captain, in a comtemplative\nvoice.\n\n'What did you say, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter.\n\n'Stand by!' returned the Captain, thoughtfully.\n\nWalter paused to ascertain if the Captain had any particular information\nto add to this, but as he said no more, went on.\n\n'Now, the second point, Captain Cuttle. I am sorry to say, I am not a\nfavourite with Mr Dombey. I have always tried to do my best, and I have\nalways done it; but he does not like me. He can't help his likings and\ndislikings, perhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say that I am certain\nhe does not like me. He does not send me to this post as a good one; he\ndisclaims to represent it as being better than it is; and I doubt very\nmuch if it will ever lead me to advancement in the House--whether it\ndoes not, on the contrary, dispose of me for ever, and put me out of the\nway. Now, we must say nothing of this to my Uncle, Captain Cuttle, but\nmust make it out to be as favourable and promising as we can; and when I\ntell you what it really is, I only do so, that in case any means should\never arise of lending me a hand, so far off, I may have one friend at\nhome who knows my real situation.\n\n'Wal'r, my boy,' replied the Captain, 'in the Proverbs of Solomon you\nwill find the following words, \"May we never want a friend in need, nor\na bottle to give him!\" When found, make a note of.'\n\nHere the Captain stretched out his hand to Walter, with an air of\ndownright good faith that spoke volumes; at the same time repeating (for\nhe felt proud of the accuracy and pointed application of his quotation),\n'When found, make a note of.'\n\n'Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, taking the immense fist extended to him\nby the Captain in both his hands, which it completely filled, next to\nmy Uncle Sol, I love you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more\nsafely trust, I am sure. As to the mere going away, Captain Cuttle, I\ndon't care for that; why should I care for that! If I were free to seek\nmy own fortune--if I were free to go as a common sailor--if I were free\nto venture on my own account to the farthest end of the world--I would\ngladly go! I would have gladly gone, years ago, and taken my chance of\nwhat might come of it. But it was against my Uncle's wishes, and against\nthe plans he had formed for me; and there was an end of that. But what I\nfeel, Captain Cuttle, is that we have been a little mistaken all along,\nand that, so far as any improvement in my prospects is concerned, I\nam no better off now than I was when I first entered Dombey's\nHouse--perhaps a little worse, for the House may have been kindly\ninclined towards me then, and it certainly is not now.'\n\n'Turn again, Whittington,' muttered the disconsolate Captain, after\nlooking at Walter for some time.\n\n'Ay,' replied Walter, laughing, 'and turn a great many times, too,\nCaptain Cuttle, I'm afraid, before such fortune as his ever turns\nup again. Not that I complain,' he added, in his lively, animated,\nenergetic way. 'I have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I can\nlive. When I leave my Uncle, I leave him to you; and I can leave him\nto no one better, Captain Cuttle. I haven't told you all this because\nI despair, not I; it's to convince you that I can't pick and choose in\nDombey's House, and that where I am sent, there I must go, and what I\nam offered, that I must take. It's better for my Uncle that I should\nbe sent away; for Mr Dombey is a valuable friend to him, as he proved\nhimself, you know when, Captain Cuttle; and I am persuaded he won't be\nless valuable when he hasn't me there, every day, to awaken his dislike.\nSo hurrah for the West Indies, Captain Cuttle! How does that tune go\nthat the sailors sing?\n\n              'For the Port of Barbados, Boys!\n\n                                            Cheerily!\n\n              Leaving old England behind us, Boys!\n\n                                            Cheerily!'\nHere the Captain roared in chorus--\n\n              'Oh cheerily, cheerily!\n\n                                            Oh cheer-i-ly!'\n\nThe last line reaching the quick ears of an ardent skipper not quite\nsober, who lodged opposite, and who instantly sprung out of bed, threw\nup his window, and joined in, across the street, at the top of his\nvoice, produced a fine effect. When it was impossible to sustain the\nconcluding note any longer, the skipper bellowed forth a terrific\n'ahoy!' intended in part as a friendly greeting, and in part to show\nthat he was not at all breathed. That done, he shut down his window, and\nwent to bed again.\n\n'And now, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, handing him the blue coat and\nwaistcoat, and bustling very much, 'if you'll come and break the news to\nUncle Sol (which he ought to have known, days upon days ago, by\nrights), I'll leave you at the door, you know, and walk about until the\nafternoon.'\n\nThe Captain, however, scarcely appeared to relish the commission, or to\nbe by any means confident of his powers of executing it. He had arranged\nthe future life and adventures of Walter so very differently, and so\nentirely to his own satisfaction; he had felicitated himself so often on\nthe sagacity and foresight displayed in that arrangement, and had found\nit so complete and perfect in all its parts; that to suffer it to go\nto pieces all at once, and even to assist in breaking it up, required a\ngreat effort of his resolution. The Captain, too, found it difficult to\nunload his old ideas upon the subject, and to take a perfectly new\ncargo on board, with that rapidity which the circumstances required,\nor without jumbling and confounding the two. Consequently, instead of\nputting on his coat and waistcoat with anything like the impetuosity\nthat could alone have kept pace with Walter's mood, he declined to\ninvest himself with those garments at all at present; and informed\nWalter that on such a serious matter, he must be allowed to 'bite his\nnails a bit'.\n\n'It's an old habit of mine, Wal'r,' said the Captain, 'any time these\nfifty year. When you see Ned Cuttle bite his nails, Wal'r, then you may\nknow that Ned Cuttle's aground.'\n\nThereupon the Captain put his iron hook between his teeth, as if it\nwere a hand; and with an air of wisdom and profundity that was the very\nconcentration and sublimation of all philosophical reflection and grave\ninquiry, applied himself to the consideration of the subject in its\nvarious branches.\n\n'There's a friend of mine,' murmured the Captain, in an absent manner,\n'but he's at present coasting round to Whitby, that would deliver such\nan opinion on this subject, or any other that could be named, as would\ngive Parliament six and beat 'em. Been knocked overboard, that man,'\nsaid the Captain, 'twice, and none the worse for it. Was beat in his\napprenticeship, for three weeks (off and on), about the head with a\nring-bolt. And yet a clearer-minded man don't walk.'\n\nIn spite of his respect for Captain Cuttle, Walter could not help\ninwardly rejoicing at the absence of this sage, and devoutly hoping that\nhis limpid intellect might not be brought to bear on his difficulties\nuntil they were quite settled.\n\n'If you was to take and show that man the buoy at the Nore,' said\nCaptain Cuttle in the same tone, 'and ask him his opinion of it, Wal'r,\nhe'd give you an opinion that was no more like that buoy than your\nUncle's buttons are. There ain't a man that walks--certainly not on two\nlegs--that can come near him. Not near him!'\n\n'What's his name, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter, determined to be\ninterested in the Captain's friend.\n\n'His name's Bunsby,' said the Captain. 'But Lord, it might be anything\nfor the matter of that, with such a mind as his!'\n\nThe exact idea which the Captain attached to this concluding piece of\npraise, he did not further elucidate; neither did Walter seek to draw\nit forth. For on his beginning to review, with the vivacity natural to\nhimself and to his situation, the leading points in his own affairs, he\nsoon discovered that the Captain had relapsed into his former profound\nstate of mind; and that while he eyed him steadfastly from beneath his\nbushy eyebrows, he evidently neither saw nor heard him, but remained\nimmersed in cogitation.\n\nIn fact, Captain Cuttle was labouring with such great designs, that far\nfrom being aground, he soon got off into the deepest of water, and could\nfind no bottom to his penetration. By degrees it became perfectly plain\nto the Captain that there was some mistake here; that it was undoubtedly\nmuch more likely to be Walter's mistake than his; that if there were\nreally any West India scheme afoot, it was a very different one from\nwhat Walter, who was young and rash, supposed; and could only be some\nnew device for making his fortune with unusual celerity. 'Or if there\nshould be any little hitch between 'em,' thought the Captain, meaning\nbetween Walter and Mr Dombey, 'it only wants a word in season from a\nfriend of both parties, to set it right and smooth, and make all taut\nagain.' Captain Cuttle's deduction from these considerations was, that\nas he already enjoyed the pleasure of knowing Mr Dombey, from having\nspent a very agreeable half-hour in his company at Brighton (on the\nmorning when they borrowed the money); and that, as a couple of men of\nthe world, who understood each other, and were mutually disposed to make\nthings comfortable, could easily arrange any little difficulty of this\nsort, and come at the real facts; the friendly thing for him to do would\nbe, without saying anything about it to Walter at present, just to step\nup to Mr Dombey's house--say to the servant 'Would ye be so good, my\nlad, as report Cap'en Cuttle here?'--meet Mr Dombey in a confidential\nspirit--hook him by the button-hole--talk it over--make it all\nright--and come away triumphant!\n\nAs these reflections presented themselves to the Captain's mind, and\nby slow degrees assumed this shape and form, his visage cleared like\na doubtful morning when it gives place to a bright noon. His eyebrows,\nwhich had been in the highest degree portentous, smoothed their rugged\nbristling aspect, and became serene; his eyes, which had been nearly\nclosed in the severity of his mental exercise, opened freely; a smile\nwhich had been at first but three specks--one at the right-hand corner\nof his mouth, and one at the corner of each eye--gradually overspread\nhis whole face, and, rippling up into his forehead, lifted the glazed\nhat: as if that too had been aground with Captain Cuttle, and were now,\nlike him, happily afloat again.\n\nFinally, the Captain left off biting his nails, and said, 'Now, Wal'r,\nmy boy, you may help me on with them slops.' By which the Captain meant\nhis coat and waistcoat.\n\nWalter little imagined why the Captain was so particular in the\narrangement of his cravat, as to twist the pendent ends into a sort of\npigtail, and pass them through a massive gold ring with a picture of\na tomb upon it, and a neat iron railing, and a tree, in memory of some\ndeceased friend. Nor why the Captain pulled up his shirt-collar to\nthe utmost limits allowed by the Irish linen below, and by so doing\ndecorated himself with a complete pair of blinkers; nor why he changed\nhis shoes, and put on an unparalleled pair of ankle-jacks, which he only\nwore on extraordinary occasions. The Captain being at length attired to\nhis own complete satisfaction, and having glanced at himself from\nhead to foot in a shaving-glass which he removed from a nail for that\npurpose, took up his knotted stick, and said he was ready.\n\nThe Captain's walk was more complacent than usual when they got out\ninto the street; but this Walter supposed to be the effect of the\nankle-jacks, and took little heed of. Before they had gone very far,\nthey encountered a woman selling flowers; when the Captain stopping\nshort, as if struck by a happy idea, made a purchase of the largest\nbundle in her basket: a most glorious nosegay, fan-shaped, some two feet\nand a half round, and composed of all the jolliest-looking flowers that\nblow.\n\nArmed with this little token which he designed for Mr Dombey, Captain\nCuttle walked on with Walter until they reached the Instrument-maker's\ndoor, before which they both paused.\n\n'You're going in?' said Walter.\n\n'Yes,' returned the Captain, who felt that Walter must be got rid\nof before he proceeded any further, and that he had better time his\nprojected visit somewhat later in the day.\n\n'And you won't forget anything?'\n\n'No,' returned the Captain.\n\n'I'll go upon my walk at once,' said Walter, 'and then I shall be out of\nthe way, Captain Cuttle.'\n\n'Take a good long 'un, my lad!' replied the Captain, calling after him.\nWalter waved his hand in assent, and went his way.\n\nHis way was nowhere in particular; but he thought he would go out into\nthe fields, where he could reflect upon the unknown life before him, and\nresting under some tree, ponder quietly. He knew no better fields than\nthose near Hampstead, and no better means of getting at them than by\npassing Mr Dombey's house.\n\nIt was as stately and as dark as ever, when he went by and glanced up\nat its frowning front. The blinds were all pulled down, but the upper\nwindows stood wide open, and the pleasant air stirring those curtains\nand waving them to and fro was the only sign of animation in the whole\nexterior. Walter walked softly as he passed, and was glad when he had\nleft the house a door or two behind.\n\nHe looked back then; with the interest he had always felt for the place\nsince the adventure of the lost child, years ago; and looked especially\nat those upper windows. While he was thus engaged, a chariot drove to\nthe door, and a portly gentleman in black, with a heavy watch-chain,\nalighted, and went in. When he afterwards remembered this gentleman and\nhis equipage together, Walter had no doubt he was a physician; and then\nhe wondered who was ill; but the discovery did not occur to him until he\nhad walked some distance, thinking listlessly of other things.\n\nThough still, of what the house had suggested to him; for Walter\npleased himself with thinking that perhaps the time might come, when the\nbeautiful child who was his old friend and had always been so grateful\nto him and so glad to see him since, might interest her brother in his\nbehalf and influence his fortunes for the better. He liked to imagine\nthis--more, at that moment, for the pleasure of imagining her continued\nremembrance of him, than for any worldly profit he might gain: but\nanother and more sober fancy whispered to him that if he were alive\nthen, he would be beyond the sea and forgotten; she married, rich,\nproud, happy. There was no more reason why she should remember him with\nany interest in such an altered state of things, than any plaything she\never had. No, not so much.\n\nYet Walter so idealised the pretty child whom he had found wandering in\nthe rough streets, and so identified her with her innocent gratitude\nof that night and the simplicity and truth of its expression, that he\nblushed for himself as a libeller when he argued that she could ever\ngrow proud. On the other hand, his meditations were of that fantastic\norder that it seemed hardly less libellous in him to imagine her grown a\nwoman: to think of her as anything but the same artless, gentle, winning\nlittle creature, that she had been in the days of Good Mrs Brown. In\na word, Walter found out that to reason with himself about Florence at\nall, was to become very unreasonable indeed; and that he could do\nno better than preserve her image in his mind as something precious,\nunattainable, unchangeable, and indefinite--indefinite in all but its\npower of giving him pleasure, and restraining him like an angel's hand\nfrom anything unworthy.\n\nIt was a long stroll in the fields that Walter took that day, listening\nto the birds, and the Sunday bells, and the softened murmur of the\ntown--breathing sweet scents; glancing sometimes at the dim horizon\nbeyond which his voyage and his place of destination lay; then looking\nround on the green English grass and the home landscape. But he hardly\nonce thought, even of going away, distinctly; and seemed to put off\nreflection idly, from hour to hour, and from minute to minute, while he\nyet went on reflecting all the time.\n\nWalter had left the fields behind him, and was plodding homeward in\nthe same abstracted mood, when he heard a shout from a man, and then\na woman's voice calling to him loudly by name. Turning quickly in his\nsurprise, he saw that a hackney-coach, going in the contrary direction,\nhad stopped at no great distance; that the coachman was looking back\nfrom his box and making signals to him with his whip; and that a young\nwoman inside was leaning out of the window, and beckoning with immense\nenergy. Running up to this coach, he found that the young woman was\nMiss Nipper, and that Miss Nipper was in such a flutter as to be almost\nbeside herself.\n\n'Staggs's Gardens, Mr Walter!' said Miss Nipper; 'if you please, oh do!'\n\n'Eh?' cried Walter; 'what is the matter?'\n\n'Oh, Mr Walter, Staggs's Gardens, if you please!' said Susan.\n\n'There!' cried the coachman, appealing to Walter, with a sort of\nexalting despair; 'that's the way the young lady's been a goin' on\nfor up'ards of a mortal hour, and me continivally backing out of no\nthoroughfares, where she would drive up. I've had a many fares in this\ncoach, first and last, but never such a fare as her.'\n\n'Do you want to go to Staggs's Gardens, Susan?' inquired Walter.\n\n'Ah! She wants to go there! WHERE IS IT?' growled the coachman.\n\n'I don't know where it is!' exclaimed Susan, wildly. 'Mr Walter, I was\nthere once myself, along with Miss Floy and our poor darling Master\nPaul, on the very day when you found Miss Floy in the City, for we lost\nher coming home, Mrs Richards and me, and a mad bull, and Mrs Richards's\neldest, and though I went there afterwards, I can't remember where it\nis, I think it's sunk into the ground. Oh, Mr Walter, don't desert\nme, Staggs's Gardens, if you please! Miss Floy's darling--all our\ndarlings--little, meek, meek Master Paul! Oh Mr Walter!'\n\n'Good God!' cried Walter. 'Is he very ill?'\n\n'The pretty flower!' cried Susan, wringing her hands, 'has took the\nfancy that he'd like to see his old nurse, and I've come to bring her to\nhis bedside, Mrs Staggs, of Polly Toodle's Gardens, someone pray!'\n\nGreatly moved by what he heard, and catching Susan's earnestness\nimmediately, Walter, now that he understood the nature of her errand,\ndashed into it with such ardour that the coachman had enough to do\nto follow closely as he ran before, inquiring here and there and\neverywhere, the way to Staggs's Gardens.\n\nThere was no such place as Staggs's Gardens. It had vanished from the\nearth. Where the old rotten summer-houses once had stood, palaces now\nreared their heads, and granite columns of gigantic girth opened a\nvista to the railway world beyond. The miserable waste ground, where the\nrefuse-matter had been heaped of yore, was swallowed up and gone; and in\nits frowsy stead were tiers of warehouses, crammed with rich goods and\ncostly merchandise. The old by-streets now swarmed with passengers and\nvehicles of every kind: the new streets that had stopped disheartened\nin the mud and waggon-ruts, formed towns within themselves, originating\nwholesome comforts and conveniences belonging to themselves, and never\ntried nor thought of until they sprung into existence. Bridges that had\nled to nothing, led to villas, gardens, churches, healthy public walks.\nThe carcasses of houses, and beginnings of new thoroughfares, had\nstarted off upon the line at steam's own speed, and shot away into the\ncountry in a monster train.\n\nAs to the neighbourhood which had hesitated to acknowledge the railroad\nin its straggling days, that had grown wise and penitent, as any\nChristian might in such a case, and now boasted of its powerful and\nprosperous relation. There were railway patterns in its drapers' shops,\nand railway journals in the windows of its newsmen. There were railway\nhotels, office-houses, lodging-houses, boarding-houses; railway plans,\nmaps, views, wrappers, bottles, sandwich-boxes, and time-tables;\nrailway hackney-coach and stands; railway omnibuses, railway streets and\nbuildings, railway hangers-on and parasites, and flatterers out of all\ncalculation. There was even railway time observed in clocks, as if\nthe sun itself had given in. Among the vanquished was the master\nchimney-sweeper, whilom incredulous at Staggs's Gardens, who now lived\nin a stuccoed house three stories high, and gave himself out, with\ngolden flourishes upon a varnished board, as contractor for the\ncleansing of railway chimneys by machinery.\n\nTo and from the heart of this great change, all day and night, throbbing\ncurrents rushed and returned incessantly like its life's blood. Crowds\nof people and mountains of goods, departing and arriving scores upon\nscores of times in every four-and-twenty hours, produced a fermentation\nin the place that was always in action. The very houses seemed disposed\nto pack up and take trips. Wonderful Members of Parliament, who, little\nmore than twenty years before, had made themselves merry with the wild\nrailroad theories of engineers, and given them the liveliest rubs in\ncross-examination, went down into the north with their watches in their\nhands, and sent on messages before by the electric telegraph, to say\nthat they were coming. Night and day the conquering engines rumbled at\ntheir distant work, or, advancing smoothly to their journey's end, and\ngliding like tame dragons into the allotted corners grooved out to the\ninch for their reception, stood bubbling and trembling there, making the\nwalls quake, as if they were dilating with the secret knowledge of great\npowers yet unsuspected in them, and strong purposes not yet achieved.\n\nBut Staggs's Gardens had been cut up root and branch. Oh woe the day\nwhen 'not a rood of English ground'--laid out in Staggs's Gardens--is\nsecure!\n\nAt last, after much fruitless inquiry, Walter, followed by the coach and\nSusan, found a man who had once resided in that vanished land, and who\nwas no other than the master sweep before referred to, grown stout,\nand knocking a double knock at his own door. He knowed Toodle, he said,\nwell. Belonged to the Railroad, didn't he?\n\n'Yes sir, yes!' cried Susan Nipper from the coach window.\n\nWhere did he live now? hastily inquired Walter.\n\nHe lived in the Company's own Buildings, second turning to the right,\ndown the yard, cross over, and take the second on the right again. It\nwas number eleven; they couldn't mistake it; but if they did, they had\nonly to ask for Toodle, Engine Fireman, and any one would show them\nwhich was his house. At this unexpected stroke of success Susan Nipper\ndismounted from the coach with all speed, took Walter's arm, and set\noff at a breathless pace on foot; leaving the coach there to await their\nreturn.\n\n'Has the little boy been long ill, Susan?' inquired Walter, as they\nhurried on.\n\n'Ailing for a deal of time, but no one knew how much,' said Susan;\nadding, with excessive sharpness, 'Oh, them Blimbers!'\n\n'Blimbers?' echoed Walter.\n\n'I couldn't forgive myself at such a time as this, Mr Walter,' said\nSusan, 'and when there's so much serious distress to think about, if\nI rested hard on anyone, especially on them that little darling Paul\nspeaks well of, but I may wish that the family was set to work in a\nstony soil to make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front, and\nhad the pickaxe!'\n\nMiss Nipper then took breath, and went on faster than before, as if this\nextraordinary aspiration had relieved her. Walter, who had by this time\nno breath of his own to spare, hurried along without asking any more\nquestions; and they soon, in their impatience, burst in at a little door\nand came into a clean parlour full of children.\n\n'Where's Mrs Richards?' exclaimed Susan Nipper, looking round. 'Oh Mrs\nRichards, Mrs Richards, come along with me, my dear creetur!'\n\n'Why, if it ain't Susan!' cried Polly, rising with her honest face and\nmotherly figure from among the group, in great surprise.\n\n'Yes, Mrs Richards, it's me,' said Susan, 'and I wish it wasn't, though\nI may not seem to flatter when I say so, but little Master Paul is very\nill, and told his Pa today that he would like to see the face of his\nold nurse, and him and Miss Floy hope you'll come along with me--and Mr\nWalter, Mrs Richards--forgetting what is past, and do a kindness to the\nsweet dear that is withering away. Oh, Mrs Richards, withering away!'\nSusan Nipper crying, Polly shed tears to see her, and to hear what she\nhad said; and all the children gathered round (including numbers of new\nbabies); and Mr Toodle, who had just come home from Birmingham, and was\neating his dinner out of a basin, laid down his knife and fork, and put\non his wife's bonnet and shawl for her, which were hanging up behind the\ndoor; then tapped her on the back; and said, with more fatherly feeling\nthan eloquence, 'Polly! cut away!'\n\nSo they got back to the coach, long before the coachman expected them;\nand Walter, putting Susan and Mrs Richards inside, took his seat on the\nbox himself that there might be no more mistakes, and deposited them\nsafely in the hall of Mr Dombey's house--where, by the bye, he saw a\nmighty nosegay lying, which reminded him of the one Captain Cuttle had\npurchased in his company that morning. He would have lingered to know\nmore of the young invalid, or waited any length of time to see if\nhe could render the least service; but, painfully sensible that such\nconduct would be looked upon by Mr Dombey as presumptuous and forward,\nhe turned slowly, sadly, anxiously, away.\n\nHe had not gone five minutes' walk from the door, when a man came\nrunning after him, and begged him to return. Walter retraced his steps\nas quickly as he could, and entered the gloomy house with a sorrowful\nforeboding.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16. What the Waves were always saying\n\n\nPaul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to\nthe noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time\nwent, but watching it and watching everything about him with observing\neyes.\n\nWhen the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and\nquivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening\nwas coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection\ndied away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen,\ndeepen, deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long streets were\ndotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His\nfancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was\nflowing through the great city; and now he thought how black it was,\nand how deep it would look, reflecting the hosts of stars--and more than\nall, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea.\n\nAs it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so\nrare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed, and lose\nthem in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured\nring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was,\nthe swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop\nit--to stem it with his childish hands--or choke its way with sand--and\nwhen he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out! But a word from\nFlorence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and\nleaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and\nsmiled.\n\nWhen day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun; and when\nits cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to\nhimself--pictured! he saw--the high church towers rising up into the\nmorning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more,\nthe river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the\ncountry bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into\nthe street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces\nlooked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he\nwas. Paul always answered for himself, 'I am better. I am a great deal\nbetter, thank you! Tell Papa so!'\n\nBy little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise\nof carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; and would fall\nasleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again--the\nchild could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking\nmoments--of that rushing river. 'Why, will it never stop, Floy?' he\nwould sometimes ask her. 'It is bearing me away, I think!'\n\nBut Floy could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his daily\ndelight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest.\n\n'You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you, now!' They would\nprop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would\nrecline the while she lay beside him: bending forward oftentimes to kiss\nher, and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how\nshe had sat up so many nights beside him.\n\nThus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually\ndecline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.\n\nHe was visited by as many as three grave doctors--they used to assemble\ndownstairs, and come up together--and the room was so quiet, and Paul\nwas so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they\nsaid), that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches.\nBut his interest centred in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat\non the side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that\ngentleman had been with his Mama when she clasped Florence in her arms,\nand died. And he could not forget it, now. He liked him for it. He was\nnot afraid.\n\nThe people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at\nDoctor Blimber's--except Florence; Florence never changed--and what had\nbeen Sir Parker Peps, was now his father, sitting with his head upon\nhis hand. Old Mrs Pipchin dozing in an easy chair, often changed to Miss\nTox, or his aunt; and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and\nsee what happened next, without emotion. But this figure with its head\nupon its hand returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still\nand solemn, never speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up\nits face, that Paul began to wonder languidly, if it were real; and in\nthe night-time saw it sitting there, with fear.\n\n'Floy!' he said. 'What is that?'\n\n'Where, dearest?'\n\n'There! at the bottom of the bed.'\n\n'There's nothing there, except Papa!'\n\nThe figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bedside,\nsaid: 'My own boy! Don't you know me?'\n\nPaul looked it in the face, and thought, was this his father? But the\nface so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were\nin pain; and before he could reach out both his hands to take it between\nthem, and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the\nlittle bed, and went out at the door.\n\nPaul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart, but he knew what she\nwas going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The\nnext time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he\ncalled to it.\n\n'Don't be sorry for me, dear Papa! Indeed I am quite happy!'\n\nHis father coming and bending down to him--which he did quickly, and\nwithout first pausing by the bedside--Paul held him round the neck, and\nrepeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul\nnever saw him in his room again at any time, whether it were day or\nnight, but he called out, 'Don't be sorry for me! Indeed I am quite\nhappy!' This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that\nhe was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.\n\nHow many times the golden water danced upon the wall; how many nights\nthe dark, dark river rolled towards the sea in spite of him; Paul never\ncounted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it,\ncould have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful every\nday; but whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment\nnow, to the gentle boy.\n\nOne night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the\ndrawing-room downstairs, and thought she must have loved sweet Florence\nbetter than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt\nthat she was dying--for even he, her brother, who had such dear love\nfor her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought\nsuggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother? for he could\nnot remember whether they had told him, yes or no, the river running\nvery fast, and confusing his mind.\n\n'Floy, did I ever see Mama?'\n\n'No, darling, why?'\n\n'Did I ever see any kind face, like Mama's, looking at me when I was a\nbaby, Floy?'\n\nHe asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him.\n\n'Oh yes, dear!'\n\n'Whose, Floy?'\n\n'Your old nurse's. Often.'\n\n'And where is my old nurse?' said Paul. 'Is she dead too? Floy, are we\nall dead, except you?'\n\nThere was a hurry in the room, for an instant--longer, perhaps; but it\nseemed no more--then all was still again; and Florence, with her face\nquite colourless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm\ntrembled very much.\n\n'Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!'\n\n'She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow.'\n\n'Thank you, Floy!'\n\nPaul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke,\nthe sun was high, and the broad day was clear and warm. He lay a little,\nlooking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in\nthe air, and waving to and fro: then he said, 'Floy, is it tomorrow? Is\nshe come?'\n\nSomeone seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul thought\nhe heard her telling him when he had closed his eyes again, that she\nwould soon be back; but he did not open them to see. She kept her\nword--perhaps she had never been away--but the next thing that happened\nwas a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke--woke mind\nand body--and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There\nwas no grey mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night.\nHe knew them every one, and called them by their names.\n\n'And who is this? Is this my old nurse?' said the child, regarding with\na radiant smile, a figure coming in.\n\nYes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of\nhim, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted\nchild. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up\nhis wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some\nright to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody\nthere but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity.\n\n'Floy! this is a kind good face!' said Paul. 'I am glad to see it again.\nDon't go away, old nurse! Stay here.'\n\nHis senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew.\n\n'Who was that, who said \"Walter\"?' he asked, looking round. 'Someone\nsaid Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very much.'\n\nNobody replied directly; but his father soon said to Susan, 'Call him\nback, then: let him come up!' Alter a short pause of expectation, during\nwhich he looked with smiling interest and wonder, on his nurse, and saw\nthat she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the room.\nHis open face and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a\nfavourite with Paul; and when Paul saw him' he stretched Out his hand,\nand said 'Good-bye!'\n\n'Good-bye, my child!' said Mrs Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. 'Not\ngood-bye?'\n\nFor an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he\nhad so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. 'Yes,' he said\nplacidly, 'good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye!'--turning his head to where\nhe stood, and putting out his hand again. 'Where is Papa?'\n\nHe felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had parted\nfrom his lips.\n\n'Remember Walter, dear Papa,' he whispered, looking in his face.\n'Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!' The feeble hand waved in the\nair, as if it cried 'good-bye!' to Walter once again.\n\n'Now lay me down,' he said, 'and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see\nyou!'\n\nSister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden\nlight came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.\n\n'How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy!\nBut it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!'\n\nPresently he told her the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling\nhim to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers\ngrowing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea,\nbut gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood\non the bank?--\n\nHe put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He\ndid not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind\nher neck.\n\n'Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the\nprint upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about\nthe head is shining on me as I go!'\n\n\nThe golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred\nin the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our\nfirst garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its\ncourse, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old\nfashion--Death!\n\nOh thank GOD, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of\nImmortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards\nnot quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!\n\n'Dear me, dear me! To think,' said Miss Tox, bursting out afresh that\nnight, as if her heart were broken, 'that Dombey and Son should be a\nDaughter after all!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17. Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People\n\n\nCaptain Cuttle, in the exercise of that surprising talent for deep-laid\nand unfathomable scheming, with which (as is not unusual in men of\ntransparent simplicity) he sincerely believed himself to be endowed by\nnature, had gone to Mr Dombey's house on the eventful Sunday, winking\nall the way as a vent for his superfluous sagacity, and had presented\nhimself in the full lustre of the ankle-jacks before the eyes of\nTowlinson. Hearing from that individual, to his great concern, of the\nimpending calamity, Captain Cuttle, in his delicacy, sheered off\nagain confounded; merely handing in the nosegay as a small mark of his\nsolicitude, and leaving his respectful compliments for the family in\ngeneral, which he accompanied with an expression of his hope that they\nwould lay their heads well to the wind under existing circumstances, and\na friendly intimation that he would 'look up again' to-morrow.\n\nThe Captain's compliments were never heard of any more. The Captain's\nnosegay, after lying in the hall all night, was swept into the dust-bin\nnext morning; and the Captain's sly arrangement, involved in one\ncatastrophe with greater hopes and loftier designs, was crushed to\npieces. So, when an avalanche bears down a mountain-forest, twigs and\nbushes suffer with the trees, and all perish together.\n\nWhen Walter returned home on the Sunday evening from his long walk, and\nits memorable close, he was too much occupied at first by the tidings he\nhad to give them, and by the emotions naturally awakened in his breast\nby the scene through which he had passed, to observe either that his\nUncle was evidently unacquainted with the intelligence the Captain had\nundertaken to impart, or that the Captain made signals with his hook,\nwarning him to avoid the subject. Not that the Captain's signals were\ncalculated to have proved very comprehensible, however attentively\nobserved; for, like those Chinese sages who are said in their\nconferences to write certain learned words in the air that are wholly\nimpossible of pronunciation, the Captain made such waves and flourishes\nas nobody without a previous knowledge of his mystery, would have been\nat all likely to understand.\n\nCaptain Cuttle, however, becoming cognisant of what had happened,\nrelinquished these attempts, as he perceived the slender chance that now\nexisted of his being able to obtain a little easy chat with Mr Dombey\nbefore the period of Walter's departure. But in admitting to himself,\nwith a disappointed and crestfallen countenance, that Sol Gills must\nbe told, and that Walter must go--taking the case for the present as he\nfound it, and not having it enlightened or improved beforehand by the\nknowing management of a friend--the Captain still felt an unabated\nconfidence that he, Ned Cuttle, was the man for Mr Dombey; and that, to\nset Walter's fortunes quite square, nothing was wanted but that they two\nshould come together. For the Captain never could forget how well he and\nMr Dombey had got on at Brighton; with what nicety each of them had put\nin a word when it was wanted; how exactly they had taken one another's\nmeasure; nor how Ned Cuttle had pointed out that resources in the first\nextremity, and had brought the interview to the desired termination. On\nall these grounds the Captain soothed himself with thinking that though\nNed Cuttle was forced by the pressure of events to 'stand by' almost\nuseless for the present, Ned would fetch up with a wet sail in good\ntime, and carry all before him.\n\nUnder the influence of this good-natured delusion, Captain Cuttle even\nwent so far as to revolve in his own bosom, while he sat looking at\nWalter and listening with a tear on his shirt-collar to what he related,\nwhether it might not be at once genteel and politic to give Mr Dombey a\nverbal invitation, whenever they should meet, to come and cut his mutton\nin Brig Place on some day of his own naming, and enter on the question\nof his young friend's prospects over a social glass. But the uncertain\ntemper of Mrs MacStinger, and the possibility of her setting up her rest\nin the passage during such an entertainment, and there delivering\nsome homily of an uncomplimentary nature, operated as a check on the\nCaptain's hospitable thoughts, and rendered him timid of giving them\nencouragement.\n\nOne fact was quite clear to the Captain, as Walter, sitting thoughtfully\nover his untasted dinner, dwelt on all that had happened; namely, that\nhowever Walter's modesty might stand in the way of his perceiving it\nhimself, he was, as one might say, a member of Mr Dombey's family.\nHe had been, in his own person, connected with the incident he so\npathetically described; he had been by name remembered and commended\nin close association with it; and his fortunes must have a particular\ninterest in his employer's eyes. If the Captain had any lurking doubt\nwhatever of his own conclusions, he had not the least doubt that they\nwere good conclusions for the peace of mind of the Instrument-maker.\nTherefore he availed himself of so favourable a moment for breaking\nthe West Indian intelligence to his friend, as a piece of extraordinary\npreferment; declaring that for his part he would freely give a hundred\nthousand pounds (if he had it) for Walter's gain in the long-run, and\nthat he had no doubt such an investment would yield a handsome premium.\n\nSolomon Gills was at first stunned by the communication, which fell\nupon the little back-parlour like a thunderbolt, and tore up the hearth\nsavagely. But the Captain flashed such golden prospects before his dim\nsight: hinted so mysteriously at Whittingtonian consequences; laid such\nemphasis on what Walter had just now told them: and appealed to it so\nconfidently as a corroboration of his predictions, and a great advance\ntowards the realisation of the romantic legend of Lovely Peg: that he\nbewildered the old man. Walter, for his part, feigned to be so full of\nhope and ardour, and so sure of coming home again soon, and backed up\nthe Captain with such expressive shakings of his head and rubbings of\nhis hands, that Solomon, looking first at him then at Captain Cuttle,\nbegan to think he ought to be transported with joy.\n\n'But I'm behind the time, you understand,' he observed in apology,\npassing his hand nervously down the whole row of bright buttons on his\ncoat, and then up again, as if they were beads and he were telling\nthem twice over: 'and I would rather have my dear boy here. It's\nan old-fashioned notion, I daresay. He was always fond of the sea\nHe's'--and he looked wistfully at Walter--'he's glad to go.'\n\n'Uncle Sol!' cried Walter, quickly, 'if you say that, I won't go. No,\nCaptain Cuttle, I won't. If my Uncle thinks I could be glad to leave\nhim, though I was going to be made Governor of all the Islands in the\nWest Indies, that's enough. I'm a fixture.'\n\n'Wal'r, my lad,' said the Captain. 'Steady! Sol Gills, take an\nobservation of your nevy.'\n\nFollowing with his eyes the majestic action of the Captain's hook, the\nold man looked at Walter.\n\n'Here is a certain craft,' said the Captain, with a magnificent sense of\nthe allegory into which he was soaring, 'a-going to put out on a certain\nvoyage. What name is wrote upon that craft indelibly? Is it The Gay?\nor,' said the Captain, raising his voice as much as to say, observe the\npoint of this, 'is it The Gills?'\n\n'Ned,' said the old man, drawing Walter to his side, and taking his\narm tenderly through his, 'I know. I know. Of course I know that Wally\nconsiders me more than himself always. That's in my mind. When I say\nhe is glad to go, I mean I hope he is. Eh? look you, Ned and you too,\nWally, my dear, this is new and unexpected to me; and I'm afraid my\nbeing behind the time, and poor, is at the bottom of it. Is it really\ngood fortune for him, do you tell me, now?' said the old man, looking\nanxiously from one to the other. 'Really and truly? Is it? I can\nreconcile myself to almost anything that advances Wally, but I won't\nhave Wally putting himself at any disadvantage for me, or keeping\nanything from me. You, Ned Cuttle!' said the old man, fastening on the\nCaptain, to the manifest confusion of that diplomatist; 'are you dealing\nplainly by your old friend? Speak out, Ned Cuttle. Is there anything\nbehind? Ought he to go? How do you know it first, and why?'\n\nAs it was a contest of affection and self-denial, Walter struck in\nwith infinite effect, to the Captain's relief; and between them they\ntolerably reconciled old Sol Gills, by continued talking, to the\nproject; or rather so confused him, that nothing, not even the pain of\nseparation, was distinctly clear to his mind.\n\nHe had not much time to balance the matter; for on the very next day,\nWalter received from Mr Carker the Manager, the necessary credentials\nfor his passage and outfit, together with the information that the Son\nand Heir would sail in a fortnight, or within a day or two afterwards at\nlatest. In the hurry of preparation: which Walter purposely enhanced as\nmuch as possible: the old man lost what little self-possession he ever\nhad; and so the time of departure drew on rapidly.\n\nThe Captain, who did not fail to make himself acquainted with all that\npassed, through inquiries of Walter from day to day, found the time\nstill tending on towards his going away, without any occasion offering\nitself, or seeming likely to offer itself, for a better understanding\nof his position. It was after much consideration of this fact, and much\npondering over such an unfortunate combination of circumstances, that\na bright idea occurred to the Captain. Suppose he made a call on Mr\nCarker, and tried to find out from him how the land really lay!\n\nCaptain Cuttle liked this idea very much. It came upon him in a moment\nof inspiration, as he was smoking an early pipe in Brig Place after\nbreakfast; and it was worthy of the tobacco. It would quiet his\nconscience, which was an honest one, and was made a little uneasy by\nwhat Walter had confided to him, and what Sol Gills had said; and it\nwould be a deep, shrewd act of friendship. He would sound Mr Carker\ncarefully, and say much or little, just as he read that gentleman's\ncharacter, and discovered that they got on well together or the reverse.\n\nAccordingly, without the fear of Walter before his eyes (who he knew\nwas at home packing), Captain Cuttle again assumed his ankle-jacks\nand mourning brooch, and issued forth on this second expedition. He\npurchased no propitiatory nosegay on the present occasion, as he was\ngoing to a place of business; but he put a small sunflower in his\nbutton-hole to give himself an agreeable relish of the country; and\nwith this, and the knobby stick, and the glazed hat, bore down upon the\noffices of Dombey and Son.\n\nAfter taking a glass of warm rum-and-water at a tavern close by, to\ncollect his thoughts, the Captain made a rush down the court, lest its\ngood effects should evaporate, and appeared suddenly to Mr Perch.\n\n'Matey,' said the Captain, in persuasive accents. 'One of your Governors\nis named Carker.'\n\nMr Perch admitted it; but gave him to understand, as in official duty\nbound, that all his Governors were engaged, and never expected to be\ndisengaged any more.\n\n'Look'ee here, mate,' said the Captain in his ear; 'my name's Cap'en\nCuttle.'\n\nThe Captain would have hooked Perch gently to him, but Mr Perch eluded\nthe attempt; not so much in design, as in starting at the sudden thought\nthat such a weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs Perch might, in her\nthen condition, be destructive to that lady's hopes.\n\n'If you'll be so good as just report Cap'en Cuttle here, when you get a\nchance,' said the Captain, 'I'll wait.'\n\nSaying which, the Captain took his seat on Mr Perch's bracket, and\ndrawing out his handkerchief from the crown of the glazed hat which he\njammed between his knees (without injury to its shape, for nothing human\ncould bend it), rubbed his head well all over, and appeared refreshed.\nHe subsequently arranged his hair with his hook, and sat looking round\nthe office, contemplating the clerks with a serene respect.\n\nThe Captain's equanimity was so impenetrable, and he was altogether so\nmysterious a being, that Perch the messenger was daunted.\n\n'What name was it you said?' asked Mr Perch, bending down over him as he\nsat on the bracket.\n\n'Cap'en,' in a deep hoarse whisper.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr Perch, keeping time with his head.\n\n'Cuttle.'\n\n'Oh!' said Mr Perch, in the same tone, for he caught it, and couldn't\nhelp it; the Captain, in his diplomacy, was so impressive. 'I'll see if\nhe's disengaged now. I don't know. Perhaps he may be for a minute.'\n\n'Ay, ay, my lad, I won't detain him longer than a minute,' said the\nCaptain, nodding with all the weighty importance that he felt within\nhim. Perch, soon returning, said, 'Will Captain Cuttle walk this way?'\n\nMr Carker the Manager, standing on the hearth-rug before the empty\nfireplace, which was ornamented with a castellated sheet of brown paper,\nlooked at the Captain as he came in, with no very special encouragement.\n\n'Mr Carker?' said Captain Cuttle.\n\n'I believe so,' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth.\n\nThe Captain liked his answering with a smile; it looked pleasant. 'You\nsee,' began the Captain, rolling his eyes slowly round the little\nroom, and taking in as much of it as his shirt-collar permitted; 'I'm a\nseafaring man myself, Mr Carker, and Wal'r, as is on your books here, is\nalmost a son of mine.'\n\n'Walter Gay?' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth again.\n\n'Wal'r Gay it is,' replied the Captain, 'right!' The Captain's manner\nexpressed a warm approval of Mr Carker's quickness of perception. 'I'm a\nintimate friend of his and his Uncle's. Perhaps,' said the Captain, 'you\nmay have heard your head Governor mention my name?--Captain Cuttle.'\n\n'No!' said Mr Carker, with a still wider demonstration than before.\n\n'Well,' resumed the Captain, 'I've the pleasure of his acquaintance.\nI waited upon him down on the Sussex coast there, with my young friend\nWal'r, when--in short, when there was a little accommodation wanted.'\nThe Captain nodded his head in a manner that was at once comfortable,\neasy, and expressive. 'You remember, I daresay?'\n\n'I think,' said Mr Carker, 'I had the honour of arranging the business.'\n\n'To be sure!' returned the Captain. 'Right again! you had. Now I've took\nthe liberty of coming here--\n\n'Won't you sit down?' said Mr Carker, smiling.\n\n'Thank'ee,' returned the Captain, availing himself of the offer. 'A man\ndoes get more way upon himself, perhaps, in his conversation, when he\nsits down. Won't you take a cheer yourself?'\n\n'No thank you,' said the Manager, standing, perhaps from the force of\nwinter habit, with his back against the chimney-piece, and looking down\nupon the Captain with an eye in every tooth and gum. 'You have taken the\nliberty, you were going to say--though it's none--'\n\n'Thank'ee kindly, my lad,' returned the Captain: 'of coming here, on\naccount of my friend Wal'r. Sol Gills, his Uncle, is a man of science,\nand in science he may be considered a clipper; but he ain't what I\nshould altogether call a able seaman--not man of practice. Wal'r is as\ntrim a lad as ever stepped; but he's a little down by the head in one\nrespect, and that is, modesty. Now what I should wish to put to\nyou,' said the Captain, lowering his voice, and speaking in a kind of\nconfidential growl, 'in a friendly way, entirely between you and me, and\nfor my own private reckoning, 'till your head Governor has wore round a\nbit, and I can come alongside of him, is this.--Is everything right and\ncomfortable here, and is Wal'r out'ard bound with a pretty fair wind?'\n\n'What do you think now, Captain Cuttle?' returned Carker, gathering up\nhis skirts and settling himself in his position. 'You are a practical\nman; what do you think?'\n\nThe acuteness and the significance of the Captain's eye as he cocked\nit in reply, no words short of those unutterable Chinese words before\nreferred to could describe.\n\n'Come!' said the Captain, unspeakably encouraged, 'what do you say? Am I\nright or wrong?'\n\nSo much had the Captain expressed in his eye, emboldened and incited\nby Mr Carker's smiling urbanity, that he felt himself in as fair a\ncondition to put the question, as if he had expressed his sentiments\nwith the utmost elaboration.\n\n'Right,' said Mr Carker, 'I have no doubt.'\n\n'Out'ard bound with fair weather, then, I say,' cried Captain Cuttle.\n\nMr Carker smiled assent.\n\n'Wind right astarn, and plenty of it,' pursued the Captain.\n\nMr Carker smiled assent again.\n\n'Ay, ay!' said Captain Cuttle, greatly relieved and pleased. 'I know'd\nhow she headed, well enough; I told Wal'r so. Thank'ee, thank'ee.'\n\n'Gay has brilliant prospects,' observed Mr Carker, stretching his mouth\nwider yet: 'all the world before him.'\n\n'All the world and his wife too, as the saying is,' returned the\ndelighted Captain.\n\nAt the word 'wife' (which he had uttered without design), the Captain\nstopped, cocked his eye again, and putting the glazed hat on the top\nof the knobby stick, gave it a twirl, and looked sideways at his always\nsmiling friend.\n\n'I'd bet a gill of old Jamaica,' said the Captain, eyeing him\nattentively, 'that I know what you're a smiling at.'\n\nMr Carker took his cue, and smiled the more.\n\n'It goes no farther?' said the Captain, making a poke at the door with\nthe knobby stick to assure himself that it was shut.\n\n'Not an inch,' said Mr Carker.\n\n'You're thinking of a capital F perhaps?' said the Captain.\n\nMr Carker didn't deny it.\n\n'Anything about a L,' said the Captain, 'or a O?'\n\nMr Carker still smiled.\n\n'Am I right, again?' inquired the Captain in a whisper, with the scarlet\ncircle on his forehead swelling in his triumphant joy.\n\nMr Carker, in reply, still smiling, and now nodding assent, Captain\nCuttle rose and squeezed him by the hand, assuring him, warmly, that\nthey were on the same tack, and that as for him (Cuttle) he had laid his\ncourse that way all along. 'He know'd her first,' said the Captain, with\nall the secrecy and gravity that the subject demanded, 'in an uncommon\nmanner--you remember his finding her in the street when she was a'most\na babby--he has liked her ever since, and she him, as much as two\nyoungsters can. We've always said, Sol Gills and me, that they was cut\nout for each other.'\n\nA cat, or a monkey, or a hyena, or a death's-head, could not have shown\nthe Captain more teeth at one time, than Mr Carker showed him at this\nperiod of their interview.\n\n'There's a general indraught that way,' observed the happy Captain.\n'Wind and water sets in that direction, you see. Look at his being\npresent t'other day!'\n\n'Most favourable to his hopes,' said Mr Carker.\n\n'Look at his being towed along in the wake of that day!' pursued the\nCaptain. 'Why what can cut him adrift now?'\n\n'Nothing,' replied Mr Carker.\n\n'You're right again,' returned the Captain, giving his hand another\nsqueeze. 'Nothing it is. So! steady! There's a son gone: pretty little\ncreetur. Ain't there?'\n\n'Yes, there's a son gone,' said the acquiescent Carker.\n\n'Pass the word, and there's another ready for you,' quoth the Captain.\n'Nevy of a scientific Uncle! Nevy of Sol Gills! Wal'r! Wal'r, as is\nalready in your business! And'--said the Captain, rising gradually to\na quotation he was preparing for a final burst, 'who--comes from Sol\nGills's daily, to your business, and your buzzums.'\n\nThe Captain's complacency as he gently jogged Mr Carker with his elbow,\non concluding each of the foregoing short sentences, could be surpassed\nby nothing but the exultation with which he fell back and eyed him when\nhe had finished this brilliant display of eloquence and sagacity; his\ngreat blue waistcoat heaving with the throes of such a masterpiece, and\nhis nose in a state of violent inflammation from the same cause.\n\n'Am I right?' said the Captain.\n\n'Captain Cuttle,' said Mr Carker, bending down at the knees, for a\nmoment, in an odd manner, as if he were falling together to hug the\nwhole of himself at once, 'your views in reference to Walter Gay are\nthoroughly and accurately right. I understand that we speak together in\nconfidence.\n\n'Honour!' interposed the Captain. 'Not a word.'\n\n'To him or anyone?' pursued the Manager.\n\nCaptain Cuttle frowned and shook his head.\n\n'But merely for your own satisfaction and guidance--and guidance, of\ncourse,' repeated Mr Carker, 'with a view to your future proceedings.'\n\n'Thank'ee kindly, I am sure,' said the Captain, listening with great\nattention.\n\n'I have no hesitation in saying, that's the fact. You have hit the\nprobabilities exactly.'\n\n'And with regard to your head Governor,' said the Captain, 'why an\ninterview had better come about nat'ral between us. There's time\nenough.'\n\nMr Carker, with his mouth from ear to ear, repeated, 'Time enough.' Not\narticulating the words, but bowing his head affably, and forming them\nwith his tongue and lips.\n\n'And as I know--it's what I always said--that Wal'r's in a way to make\nhis fortune,' said the Captain.\n\n'To make his fortune,' Mr Carker repeated, in the same dumb manner.\n\n'And as Wal'r's going on this little voyage is, as I may say, in his\nday's work, and a part of his general expectations here,' said the\nCaptain.\n\n'Of his general expectations here,' assented Mr Carker, dumbly as\nbefore.\n\n'Why, so long as I know that,' pursued the Captain, 'there's no hurry,\nand my mind's at ease.\n\nMr Carker still blandly assenting in the same voiceless manner, Captain\nCuttle was strongly confirmed in his opinion that he was one of the most\nagreeable men he had ever met, and that even Mr Dombey might improve\nhimself on such a model. With great heartiness, therefore, the Captain\nonce again extended his enormous hand (not unlike an old block in\ncolour), and gave him a grip that left upon his smoother flesh a proof\nimpression of the chinks and crevices with which the Captain's palm was\nliberally tattooed.\n\n'Farewell!' said the Captain. 'I ain't a man of many words, but I take\nit very kind of you to be so friendly, and above-board. You'll excuse me\nif I've been at all intruding, will you?' said the Captain.\n\n'Not at all,' returned the other.\n\n'Thank'ee. My berth ain't very roomy,' said the Captain, turning back\nagain, 'but it's tolerably snug; and if you was to find yourself near\nBrig Place, number nine, at any time--will you make a note of it?--and\nwould come upstairs, without minding what was said by the person at the\ndoor, I should be proud to see you.\n\nWith that hospitable invitation, the Captain said 'Good day!' and walked\nout and shut the door; leaving Mr Carker still reclining against the\nchimney-piece. In whose sly look and watchful manner; in whose false\nmouth, stretched but not laughing; in whose spotless cravat and very\nwhiskers; even in whose silent passing of his soft hand over his white\nlinen and his smooth face; there was something desperately cat-like.\n\nThe unconscious Captain walked out in a state of self-glorification that\nimparted quite a new cut to the broad blue suit. 'Stand by, Ned!'\nsaid the Captain to himself. 'You've done a little business for the\nyoungsters today, my lad!'\n\nIn his exultation, and in his familiarity, present and prospective,\nwith the House, the Captain, when he reached the outer office, could\nnot refrain from rallying Mr Perch a little, and asking him whether he\nthought everybody was still engaged. But not to be bitter on a man who\nhad done his duty, the Captain whispered in his ear, that if he felt\ndisposed for a glass of rum-and-water, and would follow, he would be\nhappy to bestow the same upon him.\n\nBefore leaving the premises, the Captain, somewhat to the astonishment\nof the clerks, looked round from a central point of view, and took a\ngeneral survey of the officers part and parcel of a project in which his\nyoung friend was nearly interested. The strong-room excited his especial\nadmiration; but, that he might not appear too particular, he limited\nhimself to an approving glance, and, with a graceful recognition of the\nclerks as a body, that was full of politeness and patronage, passed\nout into the court. Being promptly joined by Mr Perch, he conveyed that\ngentleman to the tavern, and fulfilled his pledge--hastily, for Perch's\ntime was precious.\n\n'I'll give you for a toast,' said the Captain, 'Wal'r!'\n\n'Who?' submitted Mr Perch.\n\n'Wal'r!' repeated the Captain, in a voice of thunder.\n\nMr Perch, who seemed to remember having heard in infancy that there was\nonce a poet of that name, made no objection; but he was much astonished\nat the Captain's coming into the City to propose a poet; indeed, if\nhe had proposed to put a poet's statue up--say Shakespeare's for\nexample--in a civic thoroughfare, he could hardly have done a greater\noutrage to Mr Perch's experience. On the whole, he was such a mysterious\nand incomprehensible character, that Mr Perch decided not to mention\nhim to Mrs Perch at all, in case of giving rise to any disagreeable\nconsequences.\n\nMysterious and incomprehensible, the Captain, with that lively sense\nupon him of having done a little business for the youngsters, remained\nall day, even to his most intimate friends; and but that Walter\nattributed his winks and grins, and other such pantomimic reliefs of\nhimself, to his satisfaction in the success of their innocent deception\nupon old Sol Gills, he would assuredly have betrayed himself before\nnight. As it was, however, he kept his own secret; and went home late\nfrom the Instrument-maker's house, wearing the glazed hat so much on\none side, and carrying such a beaming expression in his eyes, that Mrs\nMacStinger (who might have been brought up at Doctor Blimber's, she was\nsuch a Roman matron) fortified herself, at the first glimpse of\nhim, behind the open street door, and refused to come out to the\ncontemplation of her blessed infants, until he was securely lodged in\nhis own room.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18. Father and Daughter\n\n\nThere is a hush through Mr Dombey's house. Servants gliding up and\ndown stairs rustle, but make no sound of footsteps. They talk together\nconstantly, and sit long at meals, making much of their meat and drink,\nand enjoying themselves after a grim unholy fashion. Mrs Wickam, with\nher eyes suffused with tears, relates melancholy anecdotes; and tells\nthem how she always said at Mrs Pipchin's that it would be so, and takes\nmore table-ale than usual, and is very sorry but sociable. Cook's state\nof mind is similar. She promises a little fry for supper, and struggles\nabout equally against her feelings and the onions. Towlinson begins to\nthink there's a fate in it, and wants to know if anybody can tell him\nof any good that ever came of living in a corner house. It seems to all\nof them as having happened a long time ago; though yet the child lies,\ncalm and beautiful, upon his little bed.\n\nAfter dark there come some visitors--noiseless visitors, with shoes of\nfelt--who have been there before; and with them comes that bed of\nrest which is so strange a one for infant sleepers. All this time, the\nbereaved father has not been seen even by his attendant; for he sits\nin an inner corner of his own dark room when anyone is there, and never\nseems to move at other times, except to pace it to and fro. But in the\nmorning it is whispered among the household that he was heard to go\nupstairs in the dead night, and that he stayed there--in the room--until\nthe sun was shining.\n\nAt the offices in the City, the ground-glass windows are made more\ndim by shutters; and while the lighted lamps upon the desks are half\nextinguished by the day that wanders in, the day is half extinguished\nby the lamps, and an unusual gloom prevails. There is not much business\ndone. The clerks are indisposed to work; and they make assignations to\neat chops in the afternoon, and go up the river. Perch, the messenger,\nstays long upon his errands; and finds himself in bars of public-houses,\ninvited thither by friends, and holding forth on the uncertainty of\nhuman affairs. He goes home to Ball's Pond earlier in the evening than\nusual, and treats Mrs Perch to a veal cutlet and Scotch ale. Mr Carker\nthe Manager treats no one; neither is he treated; but alone in his\nown room he shows his teeth all day; and it would seem that there is\nsomething gone from Mr Carker's path--some obstacle removed--which\nclears his way before him.\n\nNow the rosy children living opposite to Mr Dombey's house, peep from\ntheir nursery windows down into the street; for there are four black\nhorses at his door, with feathers on their heads; and feathers tremble\non the carriage that they draw; and these, and an array of men with\nscarves and staves, attract a crowd. The juggler who was going to twirl\nthe basin, puts his loose coat on again over his fine dress; and his\ntrudging wife, one-sided with her heavy baby in her arms, loiters to\nsee the company come out. But closer to her dingy breast she presses her\nbaby, when the burden that is so easily carried is borne forth; and\nthe youngest of the rosy children at the high window opposite, needs\nno restraining hand to check her in her glee, when, pointing with her\ndimpled finger, she looks into her nurse's face, and asks 'What's that?'\n\nAnd now, among the knot of servants dressed in mourning, and the weeping\nwomen, Mr Dombey passes through the hall to the other carriage that is\nwaiting to receive him. He is not 'brought down,' these observers think,\nby sorrow and distress of mind. His walk is as erect, his bearing is as\nstiff as ever it has been. He hides his face behind no handkerchief, and\nlooks before him. But that his face is something sunk and rigid, and is\npale, it bears the same expression as of old. He takes his place within\nthe carriage, and three other gentlemen follow. Then the grand funeral\nmoves slowly down the street. The feathers are yet nodding in the\ndistance, when the juggler has the basin spinning on a cane, and has the\nsame crowd to admire it. But the juggler's wife is less alert than\nusual with the money-box, for a child's burial has set her thinking that\nperhaps the baby underneath her shabby shawl may not grow up to be a\nman, and wear a sky-blue fillet round his head, and salmon-coloured\nworsted drawers, and tumble in the mud.\n\nThe feathers wind their gloomy way along the streets, and come within\nthe sound of a church bell. In this same church, the pretty boy received\nall that will soon be left of him on earth--a name. All of him that is\ndead, they lay there, near the perishable substance of his mother. It\nis well. Their ashes lie where Florence in her walks--oh lonely, lonely\nwalks!--may pass them any day.\n\nThe service over, and the clergyman withdrawn, Mr Dombey looks round,\ndemanding in a low voice, whether the person who has been requested to\nattend to receive instructions for the tablet, is there?\n\nSomeone comes forward, and says 'Yes.'\n\nMr Dombey intimates where he would have it placed; and shows him, with\nhis hand upon the wall, the shape and size; and how it is to follow\nthe memorial to the mother. Then, with his pencil, he writes out the\ninscription, and gives it to him: adding, 'I wish to have it done at\nonce.\n\n'It shall be done immediately, Sir.'\n\n'There is really nothing to inscribe but name and age, you see.'\n\nThe man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears to hesitate. Mr Dombey\nnot observing his hesitation, turns away, and leads towards the porch.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir;' a touch falls gently on his mourning cloak;\n'but as you wish it done immediately, and it may be put in hand when I\nget back--'\n\n'Well?'\n\n'Will you be so good as read it over again? I think there's a mistake.'\n\n'Where?'\n\nThe statuary gives him back the paper, and points out, with his pocket\nrule, the words, 'beloved and only child.'\n\n'It should be, \"son,\" I think, Sir?'\n\n'You are right. Of course. Make the correction.'\n\nThe father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to the coach. When the\nother three, who follow closely, take their seats, his face is hidden\nfor the first time--shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it any more\nthat day. He alights first, and passes immediately into his own room.\nThe other mourners (who are only Mr Chick, and two of the medical\nattendants) proceed upstairs to the drawing-room, to be received by\nMrs Chick and Miss Tox. And what the face is, in the shut-up chamber\nunderneath: or what the thoughts are: what the heart is, what the\ncontest or the suffering: no one knows.\n\nThe chief thing that they know, below stairs, in the kitchen, is that\n'it seems like Sunday.' They can hardly persuade themselves but that\nthere is something unbecoming, if not wicked, in the conduct of the\npeople out of doors, who pursue their ordinary occupations, and wear\ntheir everyday attire. It is quite a novelty to have the blinds up, and\nthe shutters open; and they make themselves dismally comfortable over\nbottles of wine, which are freely broached as on a festival. They are\nmuch inclined to moralise. Mr Towlinson proposes with a sigh, 'Amendment\nto us all!' for which, as Cook says with another sigh, 'There's room\nenough, God knows.' In the evening, Mrs Chick and Miss Tox take to\nneedlework again. In the evening also, Mr Towlinson goes out to take the\nair, accompanied by the housemaid, who has not yet tried her mourning\nbonnet. They are very tender to each other at dusky street-corners, and\nTowlinson has visions of leading an altered and blameless existence as a\nserious greengrocer in Oxford Market.\n\nThere is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr Dombey's house tonight,\nthan there has been for many nights. The morning sun awakens the old\nhousehold, settled down once more in their old ways. The rosy children\nopposite run past with hoops. There is a splendid wedding in the church.\nThe juggler's wife is active with the money-box in another quarter of\nthe town. The mason sings and whistles as he chips out P-A-U-L in the\nmarble slab before him.\n\nAnd can it be that in a world so full and busy, the loss of one weak\ncreature makes a void in any heart, so wide and deep that nothing but\nthe width and depth of vast eternity can fill it up! Florence, in her\ninnocent affliction, might have answered, 'Oh my brother, oh my dearly\nloved and loving brother! Only friend and companion of my slighted\nchildhood! Could any less idea shed the light already dawning on your\nearly grave, or give birth to the softened sorrow that is springing into\nlife beneath this rain of tears!'\n\n'My dear child,' said Mrs Chick, who held it as a duty incumbent on her,\nto improve the occasion, 'when you are as old as I am--'\n\n'Which will be the prime of life,' observed Miss Tox.\n\n'You will then,' pursued Mrs Chick, gently squeezing Miss Tox's hand\nin acknowledgment of her friendly remark, 'you will then know that all\ngrief is unavailing, and that it is our duty to submit.'\n\n'I will try, dear aunt I do try,' answered Florence, sobbing.\n\n'I am glad to hear it,' said Mrs Chick, 'because; my love, as our dear\nMiss Tox--of whose sound sense and excellent judgment, there cannot\npossibly be two opinions--'\n\n'My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,' said Miss Tox.\n\n'--will tell you, and confirm by her experience,' pursued Mrs Chick,\n'we are called upon on all occasions to make an effort It is required of\nus. If any--my dear,' turning to Miss Tox, 'I want a word. Mis--Mis-'\n\n'Demeanour?' suggested Miss Tox.\n\n'No, no, no,' said Mrs Chic 'How can you! Goodness me, it's on, the end\nof my tongue. Mis-'\n\n'Placed affection?' suggested Miss Tox, timidly.\n\n'Good gracious, Lucretia!' returned Mrs Chick 'How very monstrous!\nMisanthrope, is the word I want. The idea! Misplaced affection! I say,\nif any misanthrope were to put, in my presence, the question \"Why were\nwe born?\" I should reply, \"To make an effort\".'\n\n'Very good indeed,' said Miss Tox, much impressed by the originality of\nthe sentiment 'Very good.'\n\n'Unhappily,' pursued Mrs Chick, 'we have a warning under our own eyes.\nWe have but too much reason to suppose, my dear child, that if an effort\nhad been made in time, in this family, a train of the most trying and\ndistressing circumstances might have been avoided. Nothing shall ever\npersuade me,' observed the good matron, with a resolute air, 'but that\nif that effort had been made by poor dear Fanny, the poor dear darling\nchild would at least have had a stronger constitution.'\n\nMrs Chick abandoned herself to her feelings for half a moment; but, as a\npractical illustration of her doctrine, brought herself up short, in the\nmiddle of a sob, and went on again.\n\n'Therefore, Florence, pray let us see that you have some strength of\nmind, and do not selfishly aggravate the distress in which your poor\nPapa is plunged.'\n\n'Dear aunt!' said Florence, kneeling quickly down before her, that she\nmight the better and more earnestly look into her face. 'Tell me more\nabout Papa. Pray tell me about him! Is he quite heartbroken?'\n\nMiss Tox was of a tender nature, and there was something in this appeal\nthat moved her very much. Whether she saw it in a succession, on the\npart of the neglected child, to the affectionate concern so often\nexpressed by her dead brother--or a love that sought to twine itself\nabout the heart that had loved him, and that could not bear to be shut\nout from sympathy with such a sorrow, in such sad community of love and\ngrief--or whether she only recognised the earnest and devoted spirit\nwhich, although discarded and repulsed, was wrung with tenderness long\nunreturned, and in the waste and solitude of this bereavement cried\nto him to seek a comfort in it, and to give some, by some small\nresponse--whatever may have been her understanding of it, it moved Miss\nTox. For the moment she forgot the majesty of Mrs Chick, and, patting\nFlorence hastily on the cheek, turned aside and suffered the tears to\ngush from her eyes, without waiting for a lead from that wise matron.\n\nMrs Chick herself lost, for a moment, the presence of mind on which\nshe so much prided herself; and remained mute, looking on the beautiful\nyoung face that had so long, so steadily, and patiently, been turned\ntowards the little bed. But recovering her voice--which was synonymous\nwith her presence of mind, indeed they were one and the same thing--she\nreplied with dignity:\n\n'Florence, my dear child, your poor Papa is peculiar at times; and to\nquestion me about him, is to question me upon a subject which I really\ndo not pretend to understand. I believe I have as much influence with\nyour Papa as anybody has. Still, all I can say is, that he has said very\nlittle to me; and that I have only seen him once or twice for a minute\nat a time, and indeed have hardly seen him then, for his room has been\ndark. I have said to your Papa, \"Paul!\"--that is the exact expression\nI used--\"Paul! why do you not take something stimulating?\" Your Papa's\nreply has always been, \"Louisa, have the goodness to leave me. I\nwant nothing. I am better by myself.\" If I was to be put upon my oath\nto-morrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate,' said Mrs Chick, 'I have no\ndoubt I could venture to swear to those identical words.'\n\nMiss Tox expressed her admiration by saying, 'My Louisa is ever\nmethodical!'\n\n'In short, Florence,' resumed her aunt, 'literally nothing has passed\nbetween your poor Papa and myself, until to-day; when I mentioned to\nyour Papa that Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles had written exceedingly kind\nnotes--our sweet boy! Lady Skettles loved him like a--where's my pocket\nhandkerchief?'\n\nMiss Tox produced one.\n\n'Exceedingly kind notes, proposing that you should visit them for change\nof scene. Mentioning to your Papa that I thought Miss Tox and myself\nmight now go home (in which he quite agreed), I inquired if he had any\nobjection to your accepting this invitation. He said, \"No, Louisa, not\nthe least!\"'\n\nFlorence raised her tearful eye.\n\n'At the same time, if you would prefer staying here, Florence, to paying\nthis visit at present, or to going home with me--'\n\n'I should much prefer it, aunt,' was the faint rejoinder.\n\n'Why then, child,' said Mrs Chick, 'you can. It's a strange choice, I\nmust say. But you always were strange. Anybody else at your time of\nlife, and after what has passed--my dear Miss Tox, I have lost my pocket\nhandkerchief again--would be glad to leave here, one would suppose.'\n\n'I should not like to feel,' said Florence, 'as if the house was\navoided. I should not like to think that the--his--the rooms upstairs\nwere quite empty and dreary, aunt. I would rather stay here, for the\npresent. Oh my brother! oh my brother!'\n\nIt was a natural emotion, not to be suppressed; and it would make way\neven between the fingers of the hands with which she covered up her\nface. The overcharged and heavy-laden breast must some times have that\nvent, or the poor wounded solitary heart within it would have fluttered\nlike a bird with broken wings, and sunk down in the dust.\n\n'Well, child!' said Mrs Chick, after a pause 'I wouldn't on any account\nsay anything unkind to you, and that I'm sure you know. You will remain\nhere, then, and do exactly as you like. No one will interfere with you,\nFlorence, or wish to interfere with you, I'm sure.'\n\nFlorence shook her head in sad assent.\n\n'I had no sooner begun to advise your poor Papa that he really ought to\nseek some distraction and restoration in a temporary change,' said Mrs\nChick, 'than he told me he had already formed the intention of going\ninto the country for a short time. I'm sure I hope he'll go very\nsoon. He can't go too soon. But I suppose there are some arrangements\nconnected with his private papers and so forth, consequent on the\naffliction that has tried us all so much--I can't think what's become of\nmine: Lucretia, lend me yours, my dear--that may occupy him for one or\ntwo evenings in his own room. Your Papa's a Dombey, child, if ever there\nwas one,' said Mrs Chick, drying both her eyes at once with great care\non opposite corners of Miss Tox's handkerchief 'He'll make an effort.\nThere's no fear of him.'\n\n'Is there nothing, aunt,' said Florence, trembling, 'I might do to--'\n\n'Lord, my dear child,' interposed Mrs Chick, hastily, 'what are you\ntalking about? If your Papa said to Me--I have given you his exact\nwords, \"Louisa, I want nothing; I am better by myself\"--what do you\nthink he'd say to you? You mustn't show yourself to him, child. Don't\ndream of such a thing.'\n\n'Aunt,' said Florence, 'I will go and lie down on my bed.'\n\nMrs Chick approved of this resolution, and dismissed her with a\nkiss. But Miss Tox, on a faint pretence of looking for the mislaid\nhandkerchief, went upstairs after her; and tried in a few stolen minutes\nto comfort her, in spite of great discouragement from Susan Nipper. For\nMiss Nipper, in her burning zeal, disparaged Miss Tox as a crocodile;\nyet her sympathy seemed genuine, and had at least the vantage-ground of\ndisinterestedness--there was little favour to be won by it.\n\nAnd was there no one nearer and dearer than Susan, to uphold the\nstriving heart in its anguish? Was there no other neck to clasp; no\nother face to turn to? no one else to say a soothing word to such deep\nsorrow? Was Florence so alone in the bleak world that nothing else\nremained to her? Nothing. Stricken motherless and brotherless at\nonce--for in the loss of little Paul, that first and greatest loss fell\nheavily upon her--this was the only help she had. Oh, who can tell how\nmuch she needed help at first!\n\nAt first, when the house subsided into its accustomed course, and they\nhad all gone away, except the servants, and her father shut up in his\nown rooms, Florence could do nothing but weep, and wander up and down,\nand sometimes, in a sudden pang of desolate remembrance, fly to her\nown chamber, wring her hands, lay her face down on her bed, and know\nno consolation: nothing but the bitterness and cruelty of grief.\nThis commonly ensued upon the recognition of some spot or object very\ntenderly associated with him; and it made the miserable house, at first,\na place of agony.\n\nBut it is not in the nature of pure love to burn so fiercely and\nunkindly long. The flame that in its grosser composition has the taint\nof earth may prey upon the breast that gives it shelter; but the fire\nfrom heaven is as gentle in the heart, as when it rested on the heads\nof the assembled twelve, and showed each man his brother, brightened and\nunhurt. The image conjured up, there soon returned the placid face, the\nsoftened voice, the loving looks, the quiet trustfulness and peace; and\nFlorence, though she wept still, wept more tranquilly, and courted the\nremembrance.\n\nIt was not very long before the golden water, dancing on the wall, in\nthe old place, at the old serene time, had her calm eye fixed upon it\nas it ebbed away. It was not very long before that room again knew\nher, often; sitting there alone, as patient and as mild as when she had\nwatched beside the little bed. When any sharp sense of its being empty\nsmote upon her, she could kneel beside it, and pray GOD--it was the\npouring out of her full heart--to let one angel love her and remember\nher.\n\nIt was not very long before, in the midst of the dismal house so\nwide and dreary, her low voice in the twilight, slowly and stopping\nsometimes, touched the old air to which he had so often listened, with\nhis drooping head upon her arm. And after that, and when it was quite\ndark, a little strain of music trembled in the room: so softly played\nand sung, that it was more like the mournful recollection of what she\nhad done at his request on that last night, than the reality repeated.\nBut it was repeated, often--very often, in the shadowy solitude; and\nbroken murmurs of the strain still trembled on the keys, when the sweet\nvoice was hushed in tears.\n\nThus she gained heart to look upon the work with which her fingers had\nbeen busy by his side on the sea-shore; and thus it was not very long\nbefore she took to it again--with something of a human love for it, as\nif it had been sentient and had known him; and, sitting in a window,\nnear her mother's picture, in the unused room so long deserted, wore\naway the thoughtful hours.\n\nWhy did the dark eyes turn so often from this work to where the rosy\nchildren lived? They were not immediately suggestive of her loss; for\nthey were all girls: four little sisters. But they were motherless like\nher--and had a father.\n\nIt was easy to know when he had gone out and was expected home, for the\nelder child was always dressed and waiting for him at the drawing-room\nwindow, or on the balcony; and when he appeared, her expectant face\nlighted up with joy, while the others at the high window, and always on\nthe watch too, clapped their hands, and drummed them on the sill, and\ncalled to him. The elder child would come down to the hall, and put\nher hand in his, and lead him up the stairs; and Florence would see her\nafterwards sitting by his side, or on his knee, or hanging coaxingly\nabout his neck and talking to him: and though they were always gay\ntogether, he would often watch her face as if he thought her like her\nmother that was dead. Florence would sometimes look no more at this,\nand bursting into tears would hide behind the curtain as if she were\nfrightened, or would hurry from the window. Yet she could not help\nreturning; and her work would soon fall unheeded from her hands again.\n\nIt was the house that had been empty, years ago. It had remained so for\na long time. At last, and while she had been away from home, this family\nhad taken it; and it was repaired and newly painted; and there were\nbirds and flowers about it; and it looked very different from its old\nself. But she never thought of the house. The children and their father\nwere all in all.\n\nWhen he had dined, she could see them, through the open windows, go down\nwith their governess or nurse, and cluster round the table; and in\nthe still summer weather, the sound of their childish voices and clear\nlaughter would come ringing across the street, into the drooping air of\nthe room in which she sat. Then they would climb and clamber upstairs\nwith him, and romp about him on the sofa, or group themselves at his\nknee, a very nosegay of little faces, while he seemed to tell them\nsome story. Or they would come running out into the balcony; and then\nFlorence would hide herself quickly, lest it should check them in their\njoy, to see her in her black dress, sitting there alone.\n\nThe elder child remained with her father when the rest had gone away,\nand made his tea for him--happy little house-keeper she was then!--and\nsat conversing with him, sometimes at the window, sometimes in the room,\nuntil the candles came. He made her his companion, though she was some\nyears younger than Florence; and she could be as staid and pleasantly\ndemure, with her little book or work-box, as a woman. When they had\ncandles, Florence from her own dark room was not afraid to look again.\nBut when the time came for the child to say 'Good-night, Papa,' and go\nto bed, Florence would sob and tremble as she raised her face to him,\nand could look no more.\n\nThough still she would turn, again and again, before going to bed\nherself from the simple air that had lulled him to rest so often, long\nago, and from the other low soft broken strain of music, back to that\nhouse. But that she ever thought of it, or watched it, was a secret\nwhich she kept within her own young breast.\n\nAnd did that breast of Florence--Florence, so ingenuous and true--so\nworthy of the love that he had borne her, and had whispered in his last\nfaint words--whose guileless heart was mirrored in the beauty of her\nface, and breathed in every accent of her gentle voice--did that young\nbreast hold any other secret? Yes. One more.\n\nWhen no one in the house was stirring, and the lights were all\nextinguished, she would softly leave her own room, and with noiseless\nfeet descend the staircase, and approach her father's door. Against\nit, scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head, and press\nher lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold stone\nfloor outside it, every night, to listen even for his breath; and in\nher one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection, to be a\nconsolation to him, to win him over to the endurance of some tenderness\nfrom her, his solitary child, she would have knelt down at his feet, if\nshe had dared, in humble supplication.\n\nNo one knew it. No one thought of it. The door was ever closed, and he\nshut up within. He went out once or twice, and it was said in the house\nthat he was very soon going on his country journey; but he lived in\nthose rooms, and lived alone, and never saw her, or inquired for her.\nPerhaps he did not even know that she was in the house.\n\nOne day, about a week after the funeral, Florence was sitting at her\nwork, when Susan appeared, with a face half laughing and half crying, to\nannounce a visitor.\n\n'A visitor! To me, Susan!' said Florence, looking up in astonishment.\n\n'Well, it is a wonder, ain't it now, Miss Floy?' said Susan; 'but I wish\nyou had a many visitors, I do, indeed, for you'd be all the better for\nit, and it's my opinion that the sooner you and me goes even to them old\nSkettleses, Miss, the better for both, I may not wish to live in crowds,\nMiss Floy, but still I'm not a oyster.'\n\nTo do Miss Nipper justice, she spoke more for her young mistress than\nherself; and her face showed it.\n\n'But the visitor, Susan,' said Florence.\n\nSusan, with an hysterical explosion that was as much a laugh as a sob,\nand as much a sob as a laugh, answered,\n\n'Mr Toots!'\n\nThe smile that appeared on Florence's face passed from it in a moment,\nand her eyes filled with tears. But at any rate it was a smile, and that\ngave great satisfaction to Miss Nipper.\n\n'My own feelings exactly, Miss Floy,' said Susan, putting her apron to\nher eyes, and shaking her head. 'Immediately I see that Innocent in the\nHall, Miss Floy, I burst out laughing first, and then I choked.'\n\nSusan Nipper involuntarily proceeded to do the like again on the\nspot. In the meantime Mr Toots, who had come upstairs after her, all\nunconscious of the effect he produced, announced himself with his\nknuckles on the door, and walked in very briskly.\n\n'How d'ye do, Miss Dombey?' said Mr Toots. 'I'm very well, I thank you;\nhow are you?'\n\nMr Toots--than whom there were few better fellows in the world, though\nthere may have been one or two brighter spirits--had laboriously\ninvented this long burst of discourse with the view of relieving the\nfeelings both of Florence and himself. But finding that he had\nrun through his property, as it were, in an injudicious manner, by\nsquandering the whole before taking a chair, or before Florence had\nuttered a word, or before he had well got in at the door, he deemed it\nadvisable to begin again.\n\n'How d'ye do, Miss Dombey?' said Mr Toots. 'I'm very well, I thank you;\nhow are you?'\n\nFlorence gave him her hand, and said she was very well.\n\n'I'm very well indeed,' said Mr Toots, taking a chair. 'Very well\nindeed, I am. I don't remember,' said Mr Toots, after reflecting a\nlittle, 'that I was ever better, thank you.'\n\n'It's very kind of you to come,' said Florence, taking up her work, 'I\nam very glad to see you.'\n\nMr Toots responded with a chuckle. Thinking that might be too lively,\nhe corrected it with a sigh. Thinking that might be too melancholy, he\ncorrected it with a chuckle. Not thoroughly pleasing himself with either\nmode of reply, he breathed hard.\n\n'You were very kind to my dear brother,' said Florence, obeying her\nown natural impulse to relieve him by saying so. 'He often talked to me\nabout you.'\n\n'Oh it's of no consequence,' said Mr Toots hastily. 'Warm, ain't it?'\n\n'It is beautiful weather,' replied Florence.\n\n'It agrees with me!' said Mr Toots. 'I don't think I ever was so well as\nI find myself at present, I'm obliged to you.\n\nAfter stating this curious and unexpected fact, Mr Toots fell into a\ndeep well of silence.\n\n'You have left Dr Blimber's, I think?' said Florence, trying to help him\nout.\n\n'I should hope so,' returned Mr Toots. And tumbled in again.\n\nHe remained at the bottom, apparently drowned, for at least ten minutes.\nAt the expiration of that period, he suddenly floated, and said,\n\n'Well! Good morning, Miss Dombey.'\n\n'Are you going?' asked Florence, rising.\n\n'I don't know, though. No, not just at present,' said Mr Toots, sitting\ndown again, most unexpectedly. 'The fact is--I say, Miss Dombey!'\n\n'Don't be afraid to speak to me,' said Florence, with a quiet smile, 'I\nshould be very glad if you would talk about my brother.'\n\n'Would you, though?' retorted Mr Toots, with sympathy in every fibre\nof his otherwise expressionless face. 'Poor Dombey! I'm sure I never\nthought that Burgess and Co.--fashionable tailors (but very dear),\nthat we used to talk about--would make this suit of clothes for such a\npurpose.' Mr Toots was dressed in mourning. 'Poor Dombey! I say! Miss\nDombey!' blubbered Toots.\n\n'Yes,' said Florence.\n\n'There's a friend he took to very much at last. I thought you'd lIke to\nhave him, perhaps, as a sort of keepsake. You remember his remembering\nDiogenes?'\n\n'Oh yes! oh yes' cried Florence.\n\n'Poor Dombey! So do I,' said Mr Toots.\n\nMr Toots, seeing Florence in tears, had great difficulty in getting\nbeyond this point, and had nearly tumbled into the well again. But a\nchuckle saved him on the brink.\n\n'I say,' he proceeded, 'Miss Dombey! I could have had him stolen for ten\nshillings, if they hadn't given him up: and I would: but they were glad\nto get rid of him, I think. If you'd like to have him, he's at the door.\nI brought him on purpose for you. He ain't a lady's dog, you know,' said\nMr Toots, 'but you won't mind that, will you?'\n\nIn fact, Diogenes was at that moment, as they presently ascertained from\nlooking down into the street, staring through the window of a hackney\ncabriolet, into which, for conveyance to that spot, he had been\nensnared, on a false pretence of rats among the straw. Sooth to say, he\nwas as unlike a lady's dog as might be; and in his gruff anxiety to get\nout, presented an appearance sufficiently unpromising, as he gave short\nyelps out of one side of his mouth, and overbalancing himself by the\nintensity of every one of those efforts, tumbled down into the straw,\nand then sprung panting up again, putting out his tongue, as if he had\ncome express to a Dispensary to be examined for his health.\n\nBut though Diogenes was as ridiculous a dog as one would meet with on\na summer's day; a blundering, ill-favoured, clumsy, bullet-headed\ndog, continually acting on a wrong idea that there was an enemy in the\nneighbourhood, whom it was meritorious to bark at; and though he was far\nfrom good-tempered, and certainly was not clever, and had hair all over\nhis eyes, and a comic nose, and an inconsistent tail, and a gruff voice;\nhe was dearer to Florence, in virtue of that parting remembrance of him,\nand that request that he might be taken care of, than the most valuable\nand beautiful of his kind. So dear, indeed, was this same ugly Diogenes,\nand so welcome to her, that she took the jewelled hand of Mr Toots and\nkissed it in her gratitude. And when Diogenes, released, came tearing\nup the stairs and bouncing into the room (such a business as there was,\nfirst, to get him out of the cabriolet!), dived under all the furniture,\nand wound a long iron chain, that dangled from his neck, round legs\nof chairs and tables, and then tugged at it until his eyes became\nunnaturally visible, in consequence of their nearly starting out of his\nhead; and when he growled at Mr Toots, who affected familiarity; and\nwent pell-mell at Towlinson, morally convinced that he was the enemy\nwhom he had barked at round the corner all his life and had never seen\nyet; Florence was as pleased with him as if he had been a miracle of\ndiscretion.\n\nMr Toots was so overjoyed by the success of his present, and was so\ndelighted to see Florence bending down over Diogenes, smoothing his\ncoarse back with her little delicate hand--Diogenes graciously allowing\nit from the first moment of their acquaintance--that he felt it\ndifficult to take leave, and would, no doubt, have been a much longer\ntime in making up his mind to do so, if he had not been assisted by\nDiogenes himself, who suddenly took it into his head to bay Mr Toots,\nand to make short runs at him with his mouth open. Not exactly seeing\nhis way to the end of these demonstrations, and sensible that they\nplaced the pantaloons constructed by the art of Burgess and Co. in\njeopardy, Mr Toots, with chuckles, lapsed out at the door: by which,\nafter looking in again two or three times, without any object at all,\nand being on each occasion greeted with a fresh run from Diogenes, he\nfinally took himself off and got away.\n\n'Come, then, Di! Dear Di! Make friends with your new mistress. Let us\nlove each other, Di!' said Florence, fondling his shaggy head. And Di,\nthe rough and gruff, as if his hairy hide were pervious to the tear that\ndropped upon it, and his dog's heart melted as it fell, put his nose up\nto her face, and swore fidelity.\n\nDiogenes the man did not speak plainer to Alexander the Great than\nDiogenes the dog spoke to Florence. He subscribed to the offer of\nhis little mistress cheerfully, and devoted himself to her service. A\nbanquet was immediately provided for him in a corner; and when he had\neaten and drunk his fill, he went to the window where Florence was\nsitting, looking on, rose up on his hind legs, with his awkward fore\npaws on her shoulders, licked her face and hands, nestled his great\nhead against her heart, and wagged his tail till he was tired. Finally,\nDiogenes coiled himself up at her feet and went to sleep.\n\nAlthough Miss Nipper was nervous in regard of dogs, and felt it\nnecessary to come into the room with her skirts carefully collected\nabout her, as if she were crossing a brook on stepping-stones; also\nto utter little screams and stand up on chairs when Diogenes stretched\nhimself, she was in her own manner affected by the kindness of Mr Toots,\nand could not see Florence so alive to the attachment and society\nof this rude friend of little Paul's, without some mental comments\nthereupon that brought the water to her eyes. Mr Dombey, as a part of\nher reflections, may have been, in the association of ideas, connected\nwith the dog; but, at any rate, after observing Diogenes and his\nmistress all the evening, and after exerting herself with much good-will\nto provide Diogenes a bed in an ante-chamber outside his mistress's\ndoor, she said hurriedly to Florence, before leaving her for the night:\n\n'Your Pa's a going off, Miss Floy, tomorrow morning.'\n\n'To-morrow morning, Susan?'\n\n'Yes, Miss; that's the orders. Early.'\n\n'Do you know,' asked Florence, without looking at her, 'where Papa is\ngoing, Susan?'\n\n'Not exactly, Miss. He's going to meet that precious Major first, and\nI must say if I was acquainted with any Major myself (which Heavens\nforbid), it shouldn't be a blue one!'\n\n'Hush, Susan!' urged Florence gently.\n\n'Well, Miss Floy,' returned Miss Nipper, who was full of burning\nindignation, and minded her stops even less than usual. 'I can't help\nit, blue he is, and while I was a Christian, although humble, I would\nhave natural-coloured friends, or none.'\n\nIt appeared from what she added and had gleaned downstairs, that Mrs\nChick had proposed the Major for Mr Dombey's companion, and that Mr\nDombey, after some hesitation, had invited him.\n\n'Talk of him being a change, indeed!' observed Miss Nipper to herself\nwith boundless contempt. 'If he's a change, give me a constancy.'\n\n'Good-night, Susan,' said Florence.\n\n'Good-night, my darling dear Miss Floy.'\n\nHer tone of commiseration smote the chord so often roughly touched, but\nnever listened to while she or anyone looked on. Florence left alone,\nlaid her head upon her hand, and pressing the other over her swelling\nheart, held free communication with her sorrows.\n\nIt was a wet night; and the melancholy rain fell pattering and dropping\nwith a weary sound. A sluggish wind was blowing, and went moaning round\nthe house, as if it were in pain or grief. A shrill noise quivered\nthrough the trees. While she sat weeping, it grew late, and dreary\nmidnight tolled out from the steeples.\n\nFlorence was little more than a child in years--not yet fourteen--and the\nloneliness and gloom of such an hour in the great house where Death\nhad lately made its own tremendous devastation, might have set an older\nfancy brooding on vague terrors. But her innocent imagination was too\nfull of one theme to admit them. Nothing wandered in her thoughts but\nlove--a wandering love, indeed, and castaway--but turning always to her\nfather.\n\nThere was nothing in the dropping of the rain, the moaning of the wind,\nthe shuddering of the trees, the striking of the solemn clocks, that\nshook this one thought, or diminished its interest. Her recollections of\nthe dear dead boy--and they were never absent--were itself, the same\nthing. And oh, to be shut out: to be so lost: never to have looked into\nher father's face or touched him, since that hour!\n\nShe could not go to bed, poor child, and never had gone yet, since then,\nwithout making her nightly pilgrimage to his door. It would have been\na strange sad sight, to see her now, stealing lightly down the stairs\nthrough the thick gloom, and stopping at it with a beating heart, and\nblinded eyes, and hair that fell down loosely and unthought of; and\ntouching it outside with her wet cheek. But the night covered it, and no\none knew.\n\nThe moment that she touched the door on this night, Florence found\nthat it was open. For the first time it stood open, though by but a\nhair's-breadth: and there was a light within. The first impulse of the\ntimid child--and she yielded to it--was to retire swiftly. Her next, to\ngo back, and to enter; and this second impulse held her in irresolution\non the staircase.\n\nIn its standing open, even by so much as that chink, there seemed to\nbe hope. There was encouragement in seeing a ray of light from within,\nstealing through the dark stern doorway, and falling in a thread upon\nthe marble floor. She turned back, hardly knowing what she did, but\nurged on by the love within her, and the trial they had undergone\ntogether, but not shared: and with her hands a little raised and\ntrembling, glided in.\n\nHer father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had been\narranging some papers, and destroying others, and the latter lay in\nfragile ruins before him. The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes\nin the outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a baby; and\nthe low complainings of the wind were heard without.\n\nBut not by him. He sat with his eyes fixed on the table, so immersed in\nthought, that a far heavier tread than the light foot of his child could\nmake, might have failed to rouse him. His face was turned towards\nher. By the waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked worn and\ndejected; and in the utter loneliness surrounding him, there was an\nappeal to Florence that struck home.\n\n'Papa! Papa! speak to me, dear Papa!'\n\nHe started at her voice, and leaped up from his seat. She was close\nbefore him with extended arms, but he fell back.\n\n'What is the matter?' he said, sternly. 'Why do you come here? What has\nfrightened you?'\n\nIf anything had frightened her, it was the face he turned upon her. The\nglowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before it,\nand she stood and looked at him as if stricken into stone.\n\nThere was not one touch of tenderness or pity in it. There was not one\ngleam of interest, parental recognition, or relenting in it. There was\na change in it, but not of that kind. The old indifference and cold\nconstraint had given place to something: what, she never thought and did\nnot dare to think, and yet she felt it in its force, and knew it well\nwithout a name: that as it looked upon her, seemed to cast a shadow on\nher head.\n\nDid he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and\nlife? Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son's affection?\nDid a mad jealousy and withered pride, poison sweet remembrances that\nshould have endeared and made her precious to him? Could it be possible\nthat it was gall to him to look upon her in her beauty and her promise:\nthinking of his infant boy!\n\nFlorence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it is\nspurned and hopeless: and hope died out of hers, as she stood looking in\nher father's face.\n\n'I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter,\nthat you come here?'\n\n'I came, Papa--'\n\n'Against my wishes. Why?'\n\nShe saw he knew why: it was written broadly on his face: and dropped her\nhead upon her hands with one prolonged low cry.\n\nLet him remember it in that room, years to come. It has faded from\nthe air, before he breaks the silence. It may pass as quickly from his\nbrain, as he believes, but it is there. Let him remember it in that\nroom, years to come!\n\nHe took her by the arm. His hand was cold, and loose, and scarcely\nclosed upon her.\n\n'You are tired, I daresay,' he said, taking up the light, and leading\nher towards the door, 'and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence.\nYou have been dreaming.'\n\nThe dream she had had, was over then, God help her! and she felt that it\ncould never more come back.\n\n'I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house is\nyours above there,' said her father, slowly. 'You are its mistress now.\nGood-night!'\n\nStill covering her face, she sobbed, and answered 'Good-night, dear\nPapa,' and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would have\nreturned to him, but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too\nhopeless to encourage; and her father stood there with the light--hard,\nunresponsive, motionless--until the fluttering dress of his fair child\nwas lost in the darkness.\n\nLet him remember it in that room, years to come. The rain that\nfalls upon the roof: the wind that mourns outside the door: may have\nforeknowledge in their melancholy sound. Let him remember it in that\nroom, years to come!\n\nThe last time he had watched her, from the same place, winding up those\nstairs, she had had her brother in her arms. It did not move his heart\ntowards her now, it steeled it: but he went into his room, and locked\nhis door, and sat down in his chair, and cried for his lost boy.\n\nDiogenes was broad awake upon his post, and waiting for his little\nmistress.\n\n'Oh, Di! Oh, dear Di! Love me for his sake!'\n\nDiogenes already loved her for her own, and didn't care how much he\nshowed it. So he made himself vastly ridiculous by performing a variety\nof uncouth bounces in the ante-chamber, and concluded, when poor\nFlorence was at last asleep, and dreaming of the rosy children opposite,\nby scratching open her bedroom door: rolling up his bed into a pillow:\nlying down on the boards, at the full length of his tether, with his\nhead towards her: and looking lazily at her, upside down, out of the\ntops of his eyes, until from winking and winking he fell asleep himself,\nand dreamed, with gruff barks, of his enemy.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19. Walter goes away\n\n\nThe wooden Midshipman at the Instrument-maker's door, like the\nhard-hearted little Midshipman he was, remained supremely indifferent to\nWalter's going away, even when the very last day of his sojourn in the\nback parlour was on the decline. With his quadrant at his round black\nknob of an eye, and his figure in its old attitude of indomitable\nalacrity, the Midshipman displayed his elfin small-clothes to the best\nadvantage, and, absorbed in scientific pursuits, had no sympathy with\nworldly concerns. He was so far the creature of circumstances, that a\ndry day covered him with dust, and a misty day peppered him with little\nbits of soot, and a wet day brightened up his tarnished uniform for\nthe moment, and a very hot day blistered him; but otherwise he was a\ncallous, obdurate, conceited Midshipman, intent on his own discoveries,\nand caring as little for what went on about him, terrestrially, as\nArchimedes at the taking of Syracuse.\n\nSuch a Midshipman he seemed to be, at least, in the then position of\ndomestic affairs. Walter eyed him kindly many a time in passing in and\nout; and poor old Sol, when Walter was not there, would come and lean\nagainst the doorpost, resting his weary wig as near the shoe-buckles\nof the guardian genius of his trade and shop as he could. But no fierce\nidol with a mouth from ear to ear, and a murderous visage made of\nparrot's feathers, was ever more indifferent to the appeals of its\nsavage votaries, than was the Midshipman to these marks of attachment.\n\nWalter's heart felt heavy as he looked round his old bedroom, up among\nthe parapets and chimney-pots, and thought that one more night already\ndarkening would close his acquaintance with it, perhaps for ever.\nDismantled of his little stock of books and pictures, it looked\ncoldly and reproachfully on him for his desertion, and had already a\nforeshadowing upon it of its coming strangeness. 'A few hours more,'\nthought Walter, 'and no dream I ever had here when I was a schoolboy\nwill be so little mine as this old room. The dream may come back in my\nsleep, and I may return waking to this place, it may be: but the dream\nat least will serve no other master, and the room may have a score, and\nevery one of them may change, neglect, misuse it.'\n\nBut his Uncle was not to be left alone in the little back parlour, where\nhe was then sitting by himself; for Captain Cuttle, considerate in his\nroughness, stayed away against his will, purposely that they should have\nsome talk together unobserved: so Walter, newly returned home from his\nlast day's bustle, descended briskly, to bear him company.\n\n'Uncle,' he said gaily, laying his hand upon the old man's shoulder,\n'what shall I send you home from Barbados?'\n\n'Hope, my dear Wally. Hope that we shall meet again, on this side of the\ngrave. Send me as much of that as you can.'\n\n'So I will, Uncle: I have enough and to spare, and I'll not be chary of\nit! And as to lively turtles, and limes for Captain Cuttle's punch, and\npreserves for you on Sundays, and all that sort of thing, why I'll send\nyou ship-loads, Uncle: when I'm rich enough.'\n\nOld Sol wiped his spectacles, and faintly smiled.\n\n'That's right, Uncle!' cried Walter, merrily, and clapping him half a\ndozen times more upon the shoulder. 'You cheer up me! I'll cheer up\nyou! We'll be as gay as larks to-morrow morning, Uncle, and we'll fly as\nhigh! As to my anticipations, they are singing out of sight now.'\n\n'Wally, my dear boy,' returned the old man, 'I'll do my best, I'll do my\nbest.'\n\n'And your best, Uncle,' said Walter, with his pleasant laugh, 'is the\nbest best that I know. You'll not forget what you're to send me, Uncle?'\n\n'No, Wally, no,' replied the old man; 'everything I hear about Miss\nDombey, now that she is left alone, poor lamb, I'll write. I fear it\nwon't be much though, Wally.'\n\n'Why, I'll tell you what, Uncle,' said Walter, after a moment's\nhesitation, 'I have just been up there.'\n\n'Ay, ay, ay?' murmured the old man, raising his eyebrows, and his\nspectacles with them.\n\n'Not to see her,' said Walter, 'though I could have seen her, I daresay,\nif I had asked, Mr Dombey being out of town: but to say a parting word\nto Susan. I thought I might venture to do that, you know, under the\ncircumstances, and remembering when I saw Miss Dombey last.'\n\n'Yes, my boy, yes,' replied his Uncle, rousing himself from a temporary\nabstraction.\n\n'So I saw her,' pursued Walter, 'Susan, I mean: and I told her I was\noff and away to-morrow. And I said, Uncle, that you had always had an\ninterest in Miss Dombey since that night when she was here, and always\nwished her well and happy, and always would be proud and glad to serve\nher in the least: I thought I might say that, you know, under the\ncircumstances. Don't you think so?'\n\n'Yes, my boy, yes,' replied his Uncle, in the tone as before.\n\n'And I added,' pursued Walter, 'that if she--Susan, I mean--could ever\nlet you know, either through herself, or Mrs Richards, or anybody else\nwho might be coming this way, that Miss Dombey was well and happy, you\nwould take it very kindly, and would write so much to me, and I should\ntake it very kindly too. There! Upon my word, Uncle,' said Walter, 'I\nscarcely slept all last night through thinking of doing this; and could\nnot make up my mind when I was out, whether to do it or not; and yet I\nam sure it is the true feeling of my heart, and I should have been quite\nmiserable afterwards if I had not relieved it.'\n\nHis honest voice and manner corroborated what he said, and quite\nestablished its ingenuousness.\n\n'So, if you ever see her, Uncle,' said Walter, 'I mean Miss Dombey\nnow--and perhaps you may, who knows!--tell her how much I felt for her;\nhow much I used to think of her when I was here; how I spoke of her,\nwith the tears in my eyes, Uncle, on this last night before I went away.\nTell her that I said I never could forget her gentle manner, or her\nbeautiful face, or her sweet kind disposition that was better than all.\nAnd as I didn't take them from a woman's feet, or a young lady's: only\na little innocent child's,' said Walter: 'tell her, if you don't mind,\nUncle, that I kept those shoes--she'll remember how often they fell off,\nthat night--and took them away with me as a remembrance!'\n\nThey were at that very moment going out at the door in one of Walter's\ntrunks. A porter carrying off his baggage on a truck for shipment at the\ndocks on board the Son and Heir, had got possession of them; and wheeled\nthem away under the very eye of the insensible Midshipman before their\nowner had well finished speaking.\n\nBut that ancient mariner might have been excused his insensibility to\nthe treasure as it rolled away. For, under his eye at the same moment,\naccurately within his range of observation, coming full into the sphere\nof his startled and intensely wide-awake look-out, were Florence and\nSusan Nipper: Florence looking up into his face half timidly, and\nreceiving the whole shock of his wooden ogling!\n\nMore than this, they passed into the shop, and passed in at the parlour\ndoor before they were observed by anybody but the Midshipman. And\nWalter, having his back to the door, would have known nothing of their\napparition even then, but for seeing his Uncle spring out of his own\nchair, and nearly tumble over another.\n\n'Why, Uncle!' exclaimed Walter. 'What's the matter?'\n\nOld Solomon replied, 'Miss Dombey!'\n\n'Is it possible?' cried Walter, looking round and starting up in his\nturn. 'Here!'\n\nWhy, It was so possible and so actual, that, while the words were on his\nlips, Florence hurried past him; took Uncle Sol's snuff-coloured lapels,\none in each hand; kissed him on the cheek; and turning, gave her hand to\nWalter with a simple truth and earnestness that was her own, and no one\nelse's in the world!\n\n'Going away, Walter?' said Florence.\n\n'Yes, Miss Dombey,' he replied, but not so hopefully as he endeavoured:\n'I have a voyage before me.'\n\n'And your Uncle,' said Florence, looking back at Solomon. 'He is sorry\nyou are going, I am sure. Ah! I see he is! Dear Walter, I am very sorry\ntoo.'\n\n'Goodness knows,' exclaimed Miss Nipper, 'there's a many we could spare\ninstead, if numbers is a object, Mrs Pipchin as a overseer would come\ncheap at her weight in gold, and if a knowledge of black slavery should\nbe required, them Blimbers is the very people for the sitiwation.'\n\nWith that Miss Nipper untied her bonnet strings, and after looking\nvacantly for some moments into a little black teapot that was set forth\nwith the usual homely service on the table, shook her head and a tin\ncanister, and began unasked to make the tea.\n\nIn the meantime Florence had turned again to the Instrument-maker, who\nwas as full of admiration as surprise. 'So grown!' said old Sol. 'So\nimproved! And yet not altered! Just the same!'\n\n'Indeed!' said Florence.\n\n'Ye--yes,' returned old Sol, rubbing his hands slowly, and considering\nthe matter half aloud, as something pensive in the bright eyes looking\nat him arrested his attention. 'Yes, that expression was in the younger\nface, too!'\n\n'You remember me,' said Florence with a smile, 'and what a little\ncreature I was then?'\n\n'My dear young lady,' returned the Instrument-maker, 'how could I forget\nyou, often as I have thought of you and heard of you since! At the very\nmoment, indeed, when you came in, Wally was talking about you to me, and\nleaving messages for you, and--'\n\n'Was he?' said Florence. 'Thank you, Walter! Oh thank you, Walter! I was\nafraid you might be going away and hardly thinking of me;' and again she\ngave him her little hand so freely and so faithfully that Walter held it\nfor some moments in his own, and could not bear to let it go.\n\nYet Walter did not hold it as he might have held it once, nor did its\ntouch awaken those old day-dreams of his boyhood that had floated past\nhim sometimes even lately, and confused him with their indistinct and\nbroken shapes. The purity and innocence of her endearing manner, and\nits perfect trustfulness, and the undisguised regard for him that lay\nso deeply seated in her constant eyes, and glowed upon her fair face\nthrough the smile that shaded--for alas! it was a smile too sad to\nbrighten--it, were not of their romantic race. They brought back to his\nthoughts the early death-bed he had seen her tending, and the love the\nchild had borne her; and on the wings of such remembrances she seemed to\nrise up, far above his idle fancies, into clearer and serener air.\n\n'I--I am afraid I must call you Walter's Uncle, Sir,' said Florence to\nthe old man, 'if you'll let me.'\n\n'My dear young lady,' cried old Sol. 'Let you! Good gracious!'\n\n'We always knew you by that name, and talked of you,' said Florence,\nglancing round, and sighing gently. 'The nice old parlour! Just the\nsame! How well I recollect it!'\n\nOld Sol looked first at her, then at his nephew, and then rubbed his\nhands, and rubbed his spectacles, and said below his breath, 'Ah! time,\ntime, time!'\n\nThere was a short silence; during which Susan Nipper skilfully impounded\ntwo extra cups and saucers from the cupboard, and awaited the drawing of\nthe tea with a thoughtful air.\n\n'I want to tell Walter's Uncle,' said Florence, laying her hand timidly\nupon the old man's as it rested on the table, to bespeak his attention,\n'something that I am anxious about. He is going to be left alone, and\nif he will allow me--not to take Walter's place, for that I couldn't\ndo, but to be his true friend and help him if I ever can while Walter\nis away, I shall be very much obliged to him indeed. Will you? May I,\nWalter's Uncle?'\n\nThe Instrument-maker, without speaking, put her hand to his lips,\nand Susan Nipper, leaning back with her arms crossed, in the chair of\npresidency into which she had voted herself, bit one end of her bonnet\nstrings, and heaved a gentle sigh as she looked up at the skylight.\n\n'You will let me come to see you,' said Florence, 'when I can; and you\nwill tell me everything about yourself and Walter; and you will have no\nsecrets from Susan when she comes and I do not, but will confide in us,\nand trust us, and rely upon us. And you'll try to let us be a comfort to\nyou? Will you, Walter's Uncle?'\n\nThe sweet face looking into his, the gentle pleading eyes, the soft\nvoice, and the light touch on his arm made the more winning by a child's\nrespect and honour for his age, that gave to all an air of graceful\ndoubt and modest hesitation--these, and her natural earnestness, so\novercame the poor old Instrument-maker, that he only answered:\n\n'Wally! say a word for me, my dear. I'm very grateful.'\n\n'No, Walter,' returned Florence with her quiet smile. 'Say nothing for\nhim, if you please. I understand him very well, and we must learn to\ntalk together without you, dear Walter.'\n\nThe regretful tone in which she said these latter words, touched Walter\nmore than all the rest.\n\n'Miss Florence,' he replied, with an effort to recover the cheerful\nmanner he had preserved while talking with his Uncle, 'I know no more\nthan my Uncle, what to say in acknowledgment of such kindness, I am\nsure. But what could I say, after all, if I had the power of talking for\nan hour, except that it is like you?'\n\nSusan Nipper began upon a new part of her bonnet string, and nodded at\nthe skylight, in approval of the sentiment expressed.\n\n'Oh! but, Walter,' said Florence, 'there is something that I wish to say\nto you before you go away, and you must call me Florence, if you please,\nand not speak like a stranger.'\n\n'Like a stranger!' returned Walter, 'No. I couldn't speak so. I am sure,\nat least, I couldn't feel like one.'\n\n'Ay, but that is not enough, and is not what I mean. For, Walter,' added\nFlorence, bursting into tears, 'he liked you very much, and said before\nhe died that he was fond of you, and said \"Remember Walter!\" and if\nyou'll be a brother to me, Walter, now that he is gone and I have none\non earth, I'll be your sister all my life, and think of you like one\nwherever we may be! This is what I wished to say, dear Walter, but I\ncannot say it as I would, because my heart is full.'\n\nAnd in its fulness and its sweet simplicity, she held out both her hands\nto him. Walter taking them, stooped down and touched the tearful face\nthat neither shrunk nor turned away, nor reddened as he did so, but\nlooked up at him with confidence and truth. In that one moment, every\nshadow of doubt or agitation passed away from Walter's soul. It seemed\nto him that he responded to her innocent appeal, beside the dead child's\nbed: and, in the solemn presence he had seen there, pledged himself to\ncherish and protect her very image, in his banishment, with brotherly\nregard; to garner up her simple faith, inviolate; and hold himself\ndegraded if he breathed upon it any thought that was not in her own\nbreast when she gave it to him.\n\nSusan Nipper, who had bitten both her bonnet strings at once, and\nimparted a great deal of private emotion to the skylight, during this\ntransaction, now changed the subject by inquiring who took milk and who\ntook sugar; and being enlightened on these points, poured out the tea.\nThey all four gathered socially about the little table, and took tea\nunder that young lady's active superintendence; and the presence of\nFlorence in the back parlour, brightened the Tartar frigate on the wall.\n\nHalf an hour ago Walter, for his life, would have hardly called her by\nher name. But he could do so now when she entreated him. He could think\nof her being there, without a lurking misgiving that it would have been\nbetter if she had not come. He could calmly think how beautiful she was,\nhow full of promise, what a home some happy man would find in such a\nheart one day. He could reflect upon his own place in that heart, with\npride; and with a brave determination, if not to deserve it--he still\nthought that far above him--never to deserve it less.\n\nSome fairy influence must surely have hovered round the hands of Susan\nNipper when she made the tea, engendering the tranquil air that reigned\nin the back parlour during its discussion. Some counter-influence must\nsurely have hovered round the hands of Uncle Sol's chronometer, and\nmoved them faster than the Tartar frigate ever went before the wind. Be\nthis as it may, the visitors had a coach in waiting at a quiet corner\nnot far off; and the chronometer, on being incidentally referred to,\ngave such a positive opinion that it had been waiting a long time, that\nit was impossible to doubt the fact, especially when stated on such\nunimpeachable authority. If Uncle Sol had been going to be hanged by his\nown time, he never would have allowed that the chronometer was too fast,\nby the least fraction of a second.\n\nFlorence at parting recapitulated to the old man all that she had said\nbefore, and bound him to their compact. Uncle Sol attended her lovingly\nto the legs of the wooden Midshipman, and there resigned her to Walter,\nwho was ready to escort her and Susan Nipper to the coach.\n\n'Walter,' said Florence by the way, 'I have been afraid to ask before\nyour Uncle. Do you think you will be absent very long?'\n\n'Indeed,' said Walter, 'I don't know. I fear so. Mr Dombey signified as\nmuch, I thought, when he appointed me.'\n\n'Is it a favour, Walter?' inquired Florence, after a moment's\nhesitation, and looking anxiously in his face.\n\n'The appointment?' returned Walter.\n\n'Yes.'\n\nWalter would have given anything to have answered in the affirmative,\nbut his face answered before his lips could, and Florence was too\nattentive to it not to understand its reply.\n\n'I am afraid you have scarcely been a favourite with Papa,' she said,\ntimidly.\n\n'There is no reason,' replied Walter, smiling, 'why I should be.'\n\n'No reason, Walter!'\n\n'There was no reason,' said Walter, understanding what she meant. 'There\nare many people employed in the House. Between Mr Dombey and a young man\nlike me, there's a wide space of separation. If I do my duty, I do what\nI ought, and do no more than all the rest.'\n\nHad Florence any misgiving of which she was hardly conscious: any\nmisgiving that had sprung into an indistinct and undefined existence\nsince that recent night when she had gone down to her father's room:\nthat Walter's accidental interest in her, and early knowledge of her,\nmight have involved him in that powerful displeasure and dislike? Had\nWalter any such idea, or any sudden thought that it was in her mind at\nthat moment? Neither of them hinted at it. Neither of them spoke at all,\nfor some short time. Susan, walking on the other side of Walter, eyed\nthem both sharply; and certainly Miss Nipper's thoughts travelled in\nthat direction, and very confidently too.\n\n'You may come back very soon,' said Florence, 'perhaps, Walter.'\n\n'I may come back,' said Walter, 'an old man, and find you an old lady.\nBut I hope for better things.'\n\n'Papa,' said Florence, after a moment, 'will--will recover from his\ngrief, and--speak more freely to me one day, perhaps; and if he should,\nI will tell him how much I wish to see you back again, and ask him to\nrecall you for my sake.'\n\nThere was a touching modulation in these words about her father, that\nWalter understood too well.\n\nThe coach being close at hand, he would have left her without speaking,\nfor now he felt what parting was; but Florence held his hand when she\nwas seated, and then he found there was a little packet in her own.\n\n'Walter,' she said, looking full upon him with her affectionate eyes,\n'like you, I hope for better things. I will pray for them, and believe\nthat they will arrive. I made this little gift for Paul. Pray take it\nwith my love, and do not look at it until you are gone away. And now,\nGod bless you, Walter! never forget me. You are my brother, dear!'\n\nHe was glad that Susan Nipper came between them, or he might have left\nher with a sorrowful remembrance of him. He was glad too that she\ndid not look out of the coach again, but waved the little hand to him\ninstead, as long as he could see it.\n\nIn spite of her request, he could not help opening the packet that night\nwhen he went to bed. It was a little purse: and there was was money in\nit.\n\nBright rose the sun next morning, from his absence in strange countries\nand up rose Walter with it to receive the Captain, who was already at\nthe door: having turned out earlier than was necessary, in order to\nget under weigh while Mrs MacStinger was still slumbering. The Captain\npretended to be in tip-top spirits, and brought a very smoky tongue in\none of the pockets of the broad blue coat for breakfast.\n\n'And, Wal'r,' said the Captain, when they took their seats at table, if\nyour Uncle's the man I think him, he'll bring out the last bottle of the\nMadeira on the present occasion.'\n\n'No, no, Ned,' returned the old man. 'No! That shall be opened when\nWalter comes home again.'\n\n'Well said!' cried the Captain. 'Hear him!'\n\n'There it lies,' said Sol Gills, 'down in the little cellar, covered\nwith dirt and cobwebs. There may be dirt and cobwebs over you and me\nperhaps, Ned, before it sees the light.'\n\n'Hear him!' cried the Captain. 'Good morality! Wal'r, my lad. Train up\na fig-tree in the way it should go, and when you are old sit under the\nshade on it. Overhaul the--Well,' said the Captain on second thoughts,\n'I ain't quite certain where that's to be found, but when found, make a\nnote of. Sol Gills, heave ahead again!'\n\n'But there or somewhere, it shall lie, Ned, until Wally comes back to\nclaim it,' said the old man. 'That's all I meant to say.'\n\n'And well said too,' returned the Captain; 'and if we three don't crack\nthat bottle in company, I'll give you two leave to.'\n\nNotwithstanding the Captain's excessive joviality, he made but a poor\nhand at the smoky tongue, though he tried very hard, when anybody looked\nat him, to appear as if he were eating with a vast appetite. He was\nterribly afraid, likewise, of being left alone with either Uncle or\nnephew; appearing to consider that his only chance of safety as to\nkeeping up appearances, was in there being always three together.\nThis terror on the part of the Captain, reduced him to such ingenious\nevasions as running to the door, when Solomon went to put his coat on,\nunder pretence of having seen an extraordinary hackney-coach pass: and\ndarting out into the road when Walter went upstairs to take leave of the\nlodgers, on a feint of smelling fire in a neighbouring chimney. These\nartifices Captain Cuttle deemed inscrutable by any uninspired observer.\n\nWalter was coming down from his parting expedition upstairs, and was\ncrossing the shop to go back to the little parlour, when he saw a faded\nface he knew, looking in at the door, and darted towards it.\n\n'Mr Carker!' cried Walter, pressing the hand of John Carker the Junior.\n'Pray come in! This is kind of you, to be here so early to say good-bye\nto me. You knew how glad it would make me to shake hands with you, once,\nbefore going away. I cannot say how glad I am to have this opportunity.\nPray come in.'\n\n'It is not likely that we may ever meet again, Walter,' returned\nthe other, gently resisting his invitation, 'and I am glad of this\nopportunity too. I may venture to speak to you, and to take you by the\nhand, on the eve of separation. I shall not have to resist your frank\napproaches, Walter, any more.'\n\nThere was a melancholy in his smile as he said it, that showed he had\nfound some company and friendship for his thoughts even in that.\n\n'Ah, Mr Carker!' returned Walter. 'Why did you resist them? You could\nhave done me nothing but good, I am very sure.'\n\nHe shook his head. 'If there were any good,' he said, 'I could do on\nthis earth, I would do it, Walter, for you. The sight of you from day to\nday, has been at once happiness and remorse to me. But the pleasure has\noutweighed the pain. I know that, now, by knowing what I lose.'\n\n'Come in, Mr Carker, and make acquaintance with my good old Uncle,'\nurged Walter. 'I have often talked to him about you, and he will be glad\nto tell you all he hears from me. I have not,' said Walter, noticing his\nhesitation, and speaking with embarrassment himself: 'I have not told\nhim anything about our last conversation, Mr Carker; not even him,\nbelieve me.\n\nThe grey Junior pressed his hand, and tears rose in his eyes.\n\n'If I ever make acquaintance with him, Walter,' he returned, 'it will be\nthat I may hear tidings of you. Rely on my not wronging your forbearance\nand consideration. It would be to wrong it, not to tell him all the\ntruth, before I sought a word of confidence from him. But I have no\nfriend or acquaintance except you: and even for your sake, am little\nlikely to make any.'\n\n'I wish,' said Walter, 'you had suffered me to be your friend indeed. I\nalways wished it, Mr Carker, as you know; but never half so much as now,\nwhen we are going to part.'\n\n'It is enough replied the other, 'that you have been the friend of my\nown breast, and that when I have avoided you most, my heart inclined the\nmost towards you, and was fullest of you. Walter, good-bye!'\n\n'Good-bye, Mr Carker. Heaven be with you, Sir!' cried Walter with\nemotion.\n\n'If,' said the other, retaining his hand while he spoke; 'if when you\ncome back, you miss me from my old corner, and should hear from anyone\nwhere I am lying, come and look upon my grave. Think that I might have\nbeen as honest and as happy as you! And let me think, when I know time\nis coming on, that some one like my former self may stand there, for a\nmoment, and remember me with pity and forgiveness! Walter, good-bye!'\n\nHis figure crept like a shadow down the bright, sun-lighted street, so\ncheerful yet so solemn in the early summer morning; and slowly passed\naway.\n\nThe relentless chronometer at last announced that Walter must turn his\nback upon the wooden Midshipman: and away they went, himself, his Uncle,\nand the Captain, in a hackney-coach to a wharf, where they were to take\nsteam-boat for some Reach down the river, the name of which, as the\nCaptain gave it out, was a hopeless mystery to the ears of landsmen.\nArrived at this Reach (whither the ship had repaired by last night's\ntide), they were boarded by various excited watermen, and among others\nby a dirty Cyclops of the Captain's acquaintance, who, with his one\neye, had made the Captain out some mile and a half off, and had been\nexchanging unintelligible roars with him ever since. Becoming the lawful\nprize of this personage, who was frightfully hoarse and constitutionally\nin want of shaving, they were all three put aboard the Son and Heir. And\nthe Son and Heir was in a pretty state of confusion, with sails lying\nall bedraggled on the wet decks, loose ropes tripping people up, men in\nred shirts running barefoot to and fro, casks blockading every foot of\nspace, and, in the thickest of the fray, a black cook in a black caboose\nup to his eyes in vegetables and blinded with smoke.\n\nThe Captain immediately drew Walter into a corner, and with a great\neffort, that made his face very red, pulled up the silver watch, which\nwas so big, and so tight in his pocket, that it came out like a bung.\n\n'Wal'r,' said the Captain, handing it over, and shaking him heartily\nby the hand, 'a parting gift, my lad. Put it back half an hour every\nmorning, and about another quarter towards the arternoon, and it's a\nwatch that'll do you credit.'\n\n'Captain Cuttle! I couldn't think of it!' cried Walter, detaining him,\nfor he was running away. 'Pray take it back. I have one already.'\n\n'Then, Wal'r,' said the Captain, suddenly diving into one of his pockets\nand bringing up the two teaspoons and the sugar-tongs, with which he\nhad armed himself to meet such an objection, 'take this here trifle of\nplate, instead.'\n\n'No, no, I couldn't indeed!' cried Walter, 'a thousand thanks! Don't\nthrow them away, Captain Cuttle!' for the Captain was about to jerk them\noverboard. 'They'll be of much more use to you than me. Give me your\nstick. I have often thought I should like to have it. There! Good-bye,\nCaptain Cuttle! Take care of my Uncle! Uncle Sol, God bless you!'\n\nThey were over the side in the confusion, before Walter caught another\nglimpse of either; and when he ran up to the stern, and looked after\nthem, he saw his Uncle hanging down his head in the boat, and Captain\nCuttle rapping him on the back with the great silver watch (it must have\nbeen very painful), and gesticulating hopefully with the teaspoons\nand sugar-tongs. Catching sight of Walter, Captain Cuttle dropped the\nproperty into the bottom of the boat with perfect unconcern, being\nevidently oblivious of its existence, and pulling off the glazed hat\nhailed him lustily. The glazed hat made quite a show in the sun with its\nglistening, and the Captain continued to wave it until he could be\nseen no longer. Then the confusion on board, which had been rapidly\nincreasing, reached its height; two or three other boats went away with\na cheer; the sails shone bright and full above, as Walter watched\nthem spread their surface to the favourable breeze; the water flew in\nsparkles from the prow; and off upon her voyage went the Son and Heir,\nas hopefully and trippingly as many another son and heir, gone down, had\nstarted on his way before her.\n\nDay after day, old Sol and Captain Cuttle kept her reckoning in the\nlittle hack parlour and worked out her course, with the chart spread\nbefore them on the round table. At night, when old Sol climbed upstairs,\nso lonely, to the attic where it sometimes blew great guns, he looked\nup at the stars and listened to the wind, and kept a longer watch than\nwould have fallen to his lot on board the ship. The last bottle of the\nold Madeira, which had had its cruising days, and known its dangers of\nthe deep, lay silently beneath its dust and cobwebs, in the meanwhile,\nundisturbed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20. Mr Dombey goes upon a Journey\n\n\n'Mr Dombey, Sir,' said Major Bagstock, 'Joey' B. is not in general a man\nof sentiment, for Joseph is tough. But Joe has his feelings, Sir, and\nwhen they are awakened--Damme, Mr Dombey,' cried the Major with sudden\nferocity, 'this is weakness, and I won't submit to it!'\n\nMajor Bagstock delivered himself of these expressions on receiving\nMr Dombey as his guest at the head of his own staircase in Princess's\nPlace. Mr Dombey had come to breakfast with the Major, previous to their\nsetting forth on their trip; and the ill-starved Native had already\nundergone a world of misery arising out of the muffins, while, in\nconnexion with the general question of boiled eggs, life was a burden to\nhim.\n\n'It is not for an old soldier of the Bagstock breed,' observed the\nMajor, relapsing into a mild state, 'to deliver himself up, a prey to\nhis own emotions; but--damme, Sir,' cried the Major, in another spasm of\nferocity, 'I condole with you!'\n\nThe Major's purple visage deepened in its hue, and the Major's lobster\neyes stood out in bolder relief, as he shook Mr Dombey by the hand,\nimparting to that peaceful action as defiant a character as if it had\nbeen the prelude to his immediately boxing Mr Dombey for a thousand\npounds a side and the championship of England. With a rotatory motion\nof his head, and a wheeze very like the cough of a horse, the Major\nthen conducted his visitor to the sitting-room, and there welcomed him\n(having now composed his feelings) with the freedom and frankness of a\ntravelling companion.\n\n'Dombey,' said the Major, 'I'm glad to see you. I'm proud to see you.\nThere are not many men in Europe to whom J. Bagstock would say that--for\nJosh is blunt. Sir: it's his nature--but Joey B. is proud to see you,\nDombey.'\n\n'Major,' returned Mr Dombey, 'you are very obliging.'\n\n'No, Sir,' said the Major, 'Devil a bit! That's not my character.\nIf that had been Joe's character, Joe might have been, by this time,\nLieutenant-General Sir Joseph Bagstock, K.C.B., and might have received\nyou in very different quarters. You don't know old Joe yet, I find. But\nthis occasion, being special, is a source of pride to me. By the Lord,\nSir,' said the Major resolutely, 'it's an honour to me!'\n\nMr Dombey, in his estimation of himself and his money, felt that\nthis was very true, and therefore did not dispute the point. But the\ninstinctive recognition of such a truth by the Major, and his plain\navowal of it, were very able. It was a confirmation to Mr Dombey, if\nhe had required any, of his not being mistaken in the Major. It was\nan assurance to him that his power extended beyond his own immediate\nsphere; and that the Major, as an officer and a gentleman, had a no less\nbecoming sense of it, than the beadle of the Royal Exchange.\n\nAnd if it were ever consolatory to know this, or the like of this, it\nwas consolatory then, when the impotence of his will, the instability\nof his hopes, the feebleness of wealth, had been so direfully impressed\nupon him. What could it do, his boy had asked him. Sometimes, thinking\nof the baby question, he could hardly forbear inquiring, himself, what\ncould it do indeed: what had it done?\n\nBut these were lonely thoughts, bred late at night in the sullen\ndespondency and gloom of his retirement, and pride easily found its\nreassurance in many testimonies to the truth, as unimpeachable and\nprecious as the Major's. Mr Dombey, in his friendlessness, inclined to\nthe Major. It cannot be said that he warmed towards him, but he thawed\na little, The Major had had some part--and not too much--in the days by\nthe seaside. He was a man of the world, and knew some great people. He\ntalked much, and told stories; and Mr Dombey was disposed to regard him\nas a choice spirit who shone in society, and who had not that poisonous\ningredient of poverty with which choice spirits in general are too much\nadulterated. His station was undeniable. Altogether the Major was a\ncreditable companion, well accustomed to a life of leisure, and to\nsuch places as that they were about to visit, and having an air of\ngentlemanly ease about him that mixed well enough with his own City\ncharacter, and did not compete with it at all. If Mr Dombey had any\nlingering idea that the Major, as a man accustomed, in the way of his\ncalling, to make light of the ruthless hand that had lately crushed his\nhopes, might unconsciously impart some useful philosophy to him, and\nscare away his weak regrets, he hid it from himself, and left it lying\nat the bottom of his pride, unexamined.\n\n'Where is my scoundrel?' said the Major, looking wrathfully round the\nroom.\n\nThe Native, who had no particular name, but answered to any vituperative\nepithet, presented himself instantly at the door and ventured to come no\nnearer.\n\n'You villain!' said the choleric Major, 'where's the breakfast?'\n\nThe dark servant disappeared in search of it, and was quickly heard\nreascending the stairs in such a tremulous state, that the plates and\ndishes on the tray he carried, trembling sympathetically as he came,\nrattled again, all the way up.\n\n'Dombey,' said the Major, glancing at the Native as he arranged the\ntable, and encouraging him with an awful shake of his fist when he upset\na spoon, 'here is a devilled grill, a savoury pie, a dish of kidneys,\nand so forth. Pray sit down. Old Joe can give you nothing but camp fare,\nyou see.'\n\n'Very excellent fare, Major,' replied his guest; and not in mere\npoliteness either; for the Major always took the best possible care of\nhimself, and indeed ate rather more of rich meats than was good for him,\ninsomuch that his Imperial complexion was mainly referred by the faculty\nto that circumstance.\n\n'You have been looking over the way, Sir,' observed the Major. 'Have you\nseen our friend?'\n\n'You mean Miss Tox,' retorted Mr Dombey. 'No.'\n\n'Charming woman, Sir,' said the Major, with a fat laugh rising in his\nshort throat, and nearly suffocating him.\n\n'Miss Tox is a very good sort of person, I believe,' replied Mr Dombey.\n\nThe haughty coldness of the reply seemed to afford Major Bagstock\ninfinite delight. He swelled and swelled, exceedingly: and even laid\ndown his knife and fork for a moment, to rub his hands.\n\n'Old Joe, Sir,' said the Major, 'was a bit of a favourite in\nthat quarter once. But Joe has had his day. J. Bagstock is\nextinguished--outrivalled--floored, Sir.'\n\n'I should have supposed,' Mr Dombey replied, 'that the lady's day for\nfavourites was over: but perhaps you are jesting, Major.'\n\n'Perhaps you are jesting, Dombey?' was the Major's rejoinder.\n\nThere never was a more unlikely possibility. It was so clearly expressed\nin Mr Dombey's face, that the Major apologised.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'I see you are in earnest. I tell you\nwhat, Dombey.' The Major paused in his eating, and looked mysteriously\nindignant. 'That's a de-vilish ambitious woman, Sir.'\n\nMr Dombey said 'Indeed?' with frigid indifference: mingled perhaps with\nsome contemptuous incredulity as to Miss Tox having the presumption to\nharbour such a superior quality.\n\n'That woman, Sir,' said the Major, 'is, in her way, a Lucifer. Joey\nB. has had his day, Sir, but he keeps his eyes. He sees, does Joe. His\nRoyal Highness the late Duke of York observed of Joey, at a levee, that\nhe saw.'\n\nThe Major accompanied this with such a look, and, between eating,\ndrinking, hot tea, devilled grill, muffins, and meaning, was altogether\nso swollen and inflamed about the head, that even Mr Dombey showed some\nanxiety for him.\n\n'That ridiculous old spectacle, Sir,' pursued the Major, 'aspires. She\naspires sky-high, Sir. Matrimonially, Dombey.'\n\n'I am sorry for her,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Don't say that, Dombey,' returned the Major in a warning voice.\n\n'Why should I not, Major?' said Mr Dombey.\n\nThe Major gave no answer but the horse's cough, and went on eating\nvigorously.\n\n'She has taken an interest in your household,' said the Major, stopping\nshort again, 'and has been a frequent visitor at your house for some\ntime now.'\n\n'Yes,' replied Mr Dombey with great stateliness, 'Miss Tox was\noriginally received there, at the time of Mrs Dombey's death, as a\nfriend of my sister's; and being a well-behaved person, and showing a\nliking for the poor infant, she was permitted--may I say encouraged--to\nrepeat her visits with my sister, and gradually to occupy a kind of\nfooting of familiarity in the family. I have,' said Mr Dombey, in the\ntone of a man who was making a great and valuable concession, 'I have a\nrespect for Miss Tox. She his been so obliging as to render many little\nservices in my house: trifling and insignificant services perhaps,\nMajor, but not to be disparaged on that account: and I hope I have had\nthe good fortune to be enabled to acknowledge them by such attention and\nnotice as it has been in my power to bestow. I hold myself indebted to\nMiss Tox, Major,' added Mr Dombey, with a slight wave of his hand, 'for\nthe pleasure of your acquaintance.'\n\n'Dombey,' said the Major, warmly: 'no! No, Sir! Joseph Bagstock can\nnever permit that assertion to pass uncontradicted. Your knowledge of\nold Joe, Sir, such as he is, and old Joe's knowledge of you, Sir, had\nits origin in a noble fellow, Sir--in a great creature, Sir. Dombey!'\nsaid the Major, with a struggle which it was not very difficult to\nparade, his whole life being a struggle against all kinds of apoplectic\nsymptoms, 'we knew each other through your boy.'\n\nMr Dombey seemed touched, as it is not improbable the Major designed he\nshould be, by this allusion. He looked down and sighed: and the Major,\nrousing himself fiercely, again said, in reference to the state of mind\ninto which he felt himself in danger of falling, that this was weakness,\nand nothing should induce him to submit to it.\n\n'Our friend had a remote connexion with that event,' said the Major,\n'and all the credit that belongs to her, J. B. is willing to give her,\nSir. Notwithstanding which, Ma'am,' he added, raising his eyes from his\nplate, and casting them across Princess's Place, to where Miss Tox was\nat that moment visible at her window watering her flowers, 'you're\na scheming jade, Ma'am, and your ambition is a piece of monstrous\nimpudence. If it only made yourself ridiculous, Ma'am,' said the Major,\nrolling his head at the unconscious Miss Tox, while his starting eyes\nappeared to make a leap towards her, 'you might do that to your heart's\ncontent, Ma'am, without any objection, I assure you, on the part of\nBagstock.' Here the Major laughed frightfully up in the tips of his ears\nand in the veins of his head. 'But when, Ma'am,' said the Major, 'you\ncompromise other people, and generous, unsuspicious people too, as a\nrepayment for their condescension, you stir the blood of old Joe in his\nbody.'\n\n'Major,' said Mr Dombey, reddening, 'I hope you do not hint at anything\nso absurd on the part of Miss Tox as--'\n\n'Dombey,' returned the Major, 'I hint at nothing. But Joey B. has lived\nin the world, Sir: lived in the world with his eyes open, Sir, and his\nears cocked: and Joe tells you, Dombey, that there's a devilish artful\nand ambitious woman over the way.'\n\nMr Dombey involuntarily glanced over the way; and an angry glance he\nsent in that direction, too.\n\n'That's all on such a subject that shall pass the lips of Joseph\nBagstock,' said the Major firmly. 'Joe is not a tale-bearer, but there\nare times when he must speak, when he will speak!--confound your arts,\nMa'am,' cried the Major, again apostrophising his fair neighbour,\nwith great ire,--'when the provocation is too strong to admit of his\nremaining silent.'\n\nThe emotion of this outbreak threw the Major into a paroxysm of horse's\ncoughs, which held him for a long time. On recovering he added:\n\n'And now, Dombey, as you have invited Joe--old Joe, who has no other\nmerit, Sir, but that he is tough and hearty--to be your guest and guide\nat Leamington, command him in any way you please, and he is wholly\nyours. I don't know, Sir,' said the Major, wagging his double chin with\na jocose air, 'what it is you people see in Joe to make you hold him in\nsuch great request, all of you; but this I know, Sir, that if he wasn't\npretty tough, and obstinate in his refusals, you'd kill him among you\nwith your invitations and so forth, in double-quick time.'\n\nMr Dombey, in a few words, expressed his sense of the preference he\nreceived over those other distinguished members of society who were\nclamouring for the possession of Major Bagstock. But the Major cut him\nshort by giving him to understand that he followed his own inclinations,\nand that they had risen up in a body and said with one accord, 'J. B.,\nDombey is the man for you to choose as a friend.'\n\nThe Major being by this time in a state of repletion, with essence of\nsavoury pie oozing out at the corners of his eyes, and devilled grill\nand kidneys tightening his cravat: and the time moreover approaching for\nthe departure of the railway train to Birmingham, by which they were\nto leave town: the Native got him into his great-coat with immense\ndifficulty, and buttoned him up until his face looked staring and\ngasping, over the top of that garment, as if he were in a barrel. The\nNative then handed him separately, and with a decent interval between\neach supply, his washleather gloves, his thick stick, and his hat; which\nlatter article the Major wore with a rakish air on one side of his head,\nby way of toning down his remarkable visage. The Native had previously\npacked, in all possible and impossible parts of Mr Dombey's chariot,\nwhich was in waiting, an unusual quantity of carpet-bags and small\nportmanteaus, no less apoplectic in appearance than the Major himself:\nand having filled his own pockets with Seltzer water, East India sherry,\nsandwiches, shawls, telescopes, maps, and newspapers, any or all of\nwhich light baggage the Major might require at any instant of the\njourney, he announced that everything was ready. To complete the\nequipment of this unfortunate foreigner (currently believed to be a\nprince in his own country), when he took his seat in the rumble by the\nside of Mr Towlinson, a pile of the Major's cloaks and great-coats was\nhurled upon him by the landlord, who aimed at him from the pavement\nwith those great missiles like a Titan, and so covered him up, that he\nproceeded, in a living tomb, to the railroad station.\n\nBut before the carriage moved away, and while the Native was in the\nact of sepulture, Miss Tox appearing at her window, waved a lilywhite\nhandkerchief. Mr Dombey received this parting salutation very\ncoldly--very coldly even for him--and honouring her with the slightest\npossible inclination of his head, leaned back in the carriage with a\nvery discontented look. His marked behaviour seemed to afford the\nMajor (who was all politeness in his recognition of Miss Tox) unbounded\nsatisfaction; and he sat for a long time afterwards, leering, and\nchoking, like an over-fed Mephistopheles.\n\nDuring the bustle of preparation at the railway, Mr Dombey and the Major\nwalked up and down the platform side by side; the former taciturn and\ngloomy, and the latter entertaining him, or entertaining himself, with\na variety of anecdotes and reminiscences, in most of which Joe Bagstock\nwas the principal performer. Neither of the two observed that in the\ncourse of these walks, they attracted the attention of a working man who\nwas standing near the engine, and who touched his hat every time they\npassed; for Mr Dombey habitually looked over the vulgar herd, not at\nthem; and the Major was looking, at the time, into the core of one of\nhis stories. At length, however, this man stepped before them as they\nturned round, and pulling his hat off, and keeping it off, ducked his\nhead to Mr Dombey.\n\n'Beg your pardon, Sir,' said the man, 'but I hope you're a doin' pretty\nwell, Sir.'\n\nHe was dressed in a canvas suit abundantly besmeared with coal-dust and\noil, and had cinders in his whiskers, and a smell of half-slaked ashes\nall over him. He was not a bad-looking fellow, nor even what could be\nfairly called a dirty-looking fellow, in spite of this; and, in short,\nhe was Mr Toodle, professionally clothed.\n\n'I shall have the honour of stokin' of you down, Sir,' said Mr Toodle.\n'Beg your pardon, Sir.--I hope you find yourself a coming round?'\n\nMr Dombey looked at him, in return for his tone of interest, as if a man\nlike that would make his very eyesight dirty.\n\n''Scuse the liberty, Sir,' said Toodle, seeing he was not clearly\nremembered, 'but my wife Polly, as was called Richards in your family--'\n\nA change in Mr Dombey's face, which seemed to express recollection of\nhim, and so it did, but it expressed in a much stronger degree an angry\nsense of humiliation, stopped Mr Toodle short.\n\n'Your wife wants money, I suppose,' said Mr Dombey, putting his hand in\nhis pocket, and speaking (but that he always did) haughtily.\n\n'No thank'ee, Sir,' returned Toodle, 'I can't say she does. I don't.'\n\nMr Dombey was stopped short now in his turn: and awkwardly: with his\nhand in his pocket.\n\n'No, Sir,' said Toodle, turning his oilskin cap round and round; 'we're\na doin' pretty well, Sir; we haven't no cause to complain in the worldly\nway, Sir. We've had four more since then, Sir, but we rubs on.'\n\nMr Dombey would have rubbed on to his own carriage, though in so doing\nhe had rubbed the stoker underneath the wheels; but his attention was\narrested by something in connexion with the cap still going slowly round\nand round in the man's hand.\n\n'We lost one babby,' observed Toodle, 'there's no denyin'.'\n\n'Lately,' added Mr Dombey, looking at the cap.\n\n'No, Sir, up'ard of three years ago, but all the rest is hearty. And in\nthe matter o readin', Sir,' said Toodle, ducking again, as if to remind\nMr Dombey of what had passed between them on that subject long ago,\n'them boys o' mine, they learned me, among 'em, arter all. They've made\na wery tolerable scholar of me, Sir, them boys.'\n\n'Come, Major!' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Beg your pardon, Sir,' resumed Toodle, taking a step before them and\ndeferentially stopping them again, still cap in hand: 'I wouldn't have\ntroubled you with such a pint except as a way of gettin' in the name\nof my son Biler--christened Robin--him as you was so good as to make a\nCharitable Grinder on.'\n\n'Well, man,' said Mr Dombey in his severest manner. 'What about him?'\n\n'Why, Sir,' returned Toodle, shaking his head with a face of great\nanxiety and distress, 'I'm forced to say, Sir, that he's gone wrong.'\n\n'He has gone wrong, has he?' said Mr Dombey, with a hard kind of\nsatisfaction.\n\n'He has fell into bad company, you see, genelmen,' pursued the father,\nlooking wistfully at both, and evidently taking the Major into the\nconversation with the hope of having his sympathy. 'He has got into bad\nways. God send he may come to again, genelmen, but he's on the wrong\ntrack now! You could hardly be off hearing of it somehow, Sir,' said\nToodle, again addressing Mr Dombey individually; 'and it's better I\nshould out and say my boy's gone rather wrong. Polly's dreadful down\nabout it, genelmen,' said Toodle with the same dejected look, and\nanother appeal to the Major.\n\n'A son of this man's whom I caused to be educated, Major,' said Mr\nDombey, giving him his arm. 'The usual return!'\n\n'Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate that sort of people,\nSir,' returned the Major. 'Damme, Sir, it never does! It always fails!'\n\nThe simple father was beginning to submit that he hoped his son, the\nquondam Grinder, huffed and cuffed, and flogged and badged, and taught,\nas parrots are, by a brute jobbed into his place of schoolmaster with as\nmuch fitness for it as a hound, might not have been educated on quite\na right plan in some undiscovered respect, when Mr Dombey angrily\nrepeating 'The usual return!' led the Major away. And the Major being\nheavy to hoist into Mr Dombey's carriage, elevated in mid-air, and\nhaving to stop and swear that he would flay the Native alive, and break\nevery bone in his skin, and visit other physical torments upon him,\nevery time he couldn't get his foot on the step, and fell back on that\ndark exile, had barely time before they started to repeat hoarsely that\nit would never do: that it always failed: and that if he were to educate\n'his own vagabond,' he would certainly be hanged.\n\nMr Dombey assented bitterly; but there was something more in his\nbitterness, and in his moody way of falling back in the carriage, and\nlooking with knitted brows at the changing objects without, than the\nfailure of that noble educational system administered by the Grinders'\nCompany. He had seen upon the man's rough cap a piece of new crape, and\nhe had assured himself, from his manner and his answers, that he wore it\nfor his son.\n\nSol from high to low, at home or abroad, from Florence in his great\nhouse to the coarse churl who was feeding the fire then smoking before\nthem, everyone set up some claim or other to a share in his dead boy,\nand was a bidder against him! Could he ever forget how that woman had\nwept over his pillow, and called him her own child! or how he, waking\nfrom his sleep, had asked for her, and had raised himself in his bed and\nbrightened when she came in!\n\nTo think of this presumptuous raker among coals and ashes going on\nbefore there, with his sign of mourning! To think that he dared\nto enter, even by a common show like that, into the trial and\ndisappointment of a proud gentleman's secret heart! To think that\nthis lost child, who was to have divided with him his riches, and his\nprojects, and his power, and allied with whom he was to have shut out\nall the world as with a double door of gold, should have let in such a\nherd to insult him with their knowledge of his defeated hopes, and their\nboasts of claiming community of feeling with himself, so far removed:\nif not of having crept into the place wherein he would have lorded it,\nalone!\n\nHe found no pleasure or relief in the journey. Tortured by these\nthoughts he carried monotony with him, through the rushing landscape,\nand hurried headlong, not through a rich and varied country, but a\nwilderness of blighted plans and gnawing jealousies. The very speed at\nwhich the train was whirled along, mocked the swift course of the young\nlife that had been borne away so steadily and so inexorably to its\nforedoomed end. The power that forced itself upon its iron way--its\nown--defiant of all paths and roads, piercing through the heart of\nevery obstacle, and dragging living creatures of all classes, ages, and\ndegrees behind it, was a type of the triumphant monster, Death.\n\nAway, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, from the town, burrowing\namong the dwellings of men and making the streets hum, flashing out into\nthe meadows for a moment, mining in through the damp earth, booming\non in darkness and heavy air, bursting out again into the sunny day so\nbright and wide; away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, through\nthe fields, through the woods, through the corn, through the hay,\nthrough the chalk, through the mould, through the clay, through the\nrock, among objects close at hand and almost in the grasp, ever flying\nfrom the traveller, and a deceitful distance ever moving slowly within\nhim: like as in the track of the remorseless monster, Death!\n\nThrough the hollow, on the height, by the heath, by the orchard, by the\npark, by the garden, over the canal, across the river, where the sheep\nare feeding, where the mill is going, where the barge is floating, where\nthe dead are lying, where the factory is smoking, where the stream is\nrunning, where the village clusters, where the great cathedral rises,\nwhere the bleak moor lies, and the wild breeze smooths or ruffles it at\nits inconstant will; away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, and\nno trace to leave behind but dust and vapour: like as in the track of\nthe remorseless monster, Death!\n\nBreasting the wind and light, the shower and sunshine, away, and still\naway, it rolls and roars, fierce and rapid, smooth and certain, and\ngreat works and massive bridges crossing up above, fall like a beam of\nshadow an inch broad, upon the eye, and then are lost. Away, and still\naway, onward and onward ever: glimpses of cottage-homes, of houses,\nmansions, rich estates, of husbandry and handicraft, of people, of old\nroads and paths that look deserted, small, and insignificant as they are\nleft behind: and so they do, and what else is there but such glimpses,\nin the track of the indomitable monster, Death!\n\nAway, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, plunging down into the\nearth again, and working on in such a storm of energy and perseverance,\nthat amidst the darkness and whirlwind the motion seems reversed, and\nto tend furiously backward, until a ray of light upon the wet wall shows\nits surface flying past like a fierce stream. Away once more into the\nday, and through the day, with a shrill yell of exultation, roaring,\nrattling, tearing on, spurning everything with its dark breath,\nsometimes pausing for a minute where a crowd of faces are, that in a\nminute more are not; sometimes lapping water greedily, and before the\nspout at which it drinks has ceased to drip upon the ground, shrieking,\nroaring, rattling through the purple distance!\n\nLouder and louder yet, it shrieks and cries as it comes tearing on\nresistless to the goal: and now its way, still like the way of Death,\nis strewn with ashes thickly. Everything around is blackened. There are\ndark pools of water, muddy lanes, and miserable habitations far below.\nThere are jagged walls and falling houses close at hand, and through the\nbattered roofs and broken windows, wretched rooms are seen, where want\nand fever hide themselves in many wretched shapes, while smoke and\ncrowded gables, and distorted chimneys, and deformity of brick and\nmortar penning up deformity of mind and body, choke the murky distance.\nAs Mr Dombey looks out of his carriage window, it is never in his\nthoughts that the monster who has brought him there has let the light\nof day in on these things: not made or caused them. It was the journey's\nfitting end, and might have been the end of everything; it was so\nruinous and dreary.\n\nSo, pursuing the one course of thought, he had the one relentless\nmonster still before him. All things looked black, and cold, and\ndeadly upon him, and he on them. He found a likeness to his misfortune\neverywhere. There was a remorseless triumph going on about him, and it\ngalled and stung him in his pride and jealousy, whatever form it took:\nthough most of all when it divided with him the love and memory of his\nlost boy.\n\nThere was a face--he had looked upon it, on the previous night, and it\non him with eyes that read his soul, though they were dim with tears,\nand hidden soon behind two quivering hands--that often had attended\nhim in fancy, on this ride. He had seen it, with the expression of last\nnight, timidly pleading to him. It was not reproachful, but there was\nsomething of doubt, almost of hopeful incredulity in it, which, as he\nonce more saw that fade away into a desolate certainty of his dislike,\nwas like reproach. It was a trouble to him to think of this face of\nFlorence.\n\nBecause he felt any new compunction towards it? No. Because the feeling\nit awakened in him--of which he had had some old foreshadowing in older\ntimes--was full-formed now, and spoke out plainly, moving him too much,\nand threatening to grow too strong for his composure. Because the face\nwas abroad, in the expression of defeat and persecution that seemed to\nencircle him like the air. Because it barbed the arrow of that cruel and\nremorseless enemy on which his thoughts so ran, and put into its grasp a\ndouble-handed sword. Because he knew full well, in his own breast, as he\nstood there, tinging the scene of transition before him with the morbid\ncolours of his own mind, and making it a ruin and a picture of decay,\ninstead of hopeful change, and promise of better things, that life had\nquite as much to do with his complainings as death. One child was gone,\nand one child left. Why was the object of his hope removed instead of\nher?\n\nThe sweet, calm, gentle presence in his fancy, moved him to no\nreflection but that. She had been unwelcome to him from the first; she\nwas an aggravation of his bitterness now. If his son had been his only\nchild, and the same blow had fallen on him, it would have been heavy to\nbear; but infinitely lighter than now, when it might have fallen on her\n(whom he could have lost, or he believed it, without a pang), and had\nnot. Her loving and innocent face rising before him, had no softening\nor winning influence. He rejected the angel, and took up with the\ntormenting spirit crouching in his bosom. Her patience, goodness, youth,\ndevotion, love, were as so many atoms in the ashes upon which he set his\nheel. He saw her image in the blight and blackness all around him, not\nirradiating but deepening the gloom. More than once upon this journey,\nand now again as he stood pondering at this journey's end, tracing\nfigures in the dust with his stick, the thought came into his mind, what\nwas there he could interpose between himself and it?\n\nThe Major, who had been blowing and panting all the way down, like\nanother engine, and whose eye had often wandered from his newspaper to\nleer at the prospect, as if there were a procession of discomfited Miss\nToxes pouring out in the smoke of the train, and flying away over the\nfields to hide themselves in any place of refuge, aroused his friends\nby informing him that the post-horses were harnessed and the carriage\nready.\n\n'Dombey,' said the Major, rapping him on the arm with his cane, 'don't\nbe thoughtful. It's a bad habit, Old Joe, Sir, wouldn't be as tough\nas you see him, if he had ever encouraged it. You are too great a man,\nDombey, to be thoughtful. In your position, Sir, you're far above that\nkind of thing.'\n\nThe Major even in his friendly remonstrances, thus consulting the\ndignity and honour of Mr Dombey, and showing a lively sense of their\nimportance, Mr Dombey felt more than ever disposed to defer to a\ngentleman possessing so much good sense and such a well-regulated mind;\naccordingly he made an effort to listen to the Major's stories, as they\ntrotted along the turnpike road; and the Major, finding both the pace\nand the road a great deal better adapted to his conversational powers\nthan the mode of travelling they had just relinquished, came out of his\nentertainment.\n\nBut still the Major, blunt and tough as he was, and as he so very often\nsaid he was, administered some palatable catering to his companion's\nappetite. He related, or rather suffered it to escape him, accidentally,\nand as one might say, grudgingly and against his will, how there was\ngreat curiosity and excitement at the club, in regard of his friend\nDombey. How he was suffocated with questions, Sir. How old Joe Bagstock\nwas a greater man than ever, there, on the strength of Dombey. How they\nsaid, 'Bagstock, your friend Dombey now, what is the view he takes of\nsuch and such a question? Though, by the Rood, Sir,' said the Major,\nwith a broad stare, 'how they discovered that J. B. ever came to know\nyou, is a mystery!'\n\nIn this flow of spirits and conversation, only interrupted by his usual\nplethoric symptoms, and by intervals of lunch, and from time to time by\nsome violent assault upon the Native, who wore a pair of ear-rings\nin his dark-brown ears, and on whom his European clothes sat with an\noutlandish impossibility of adjustment--being, of their own accord, and\nwithout any reference to the tailor's art, long where they ought to be\nshort, short where they ought to be long, tight where they ought to be\nloose, and loose where they ought to be tight--and to which he imparted\na new grace, whenever the Major attacked him, by shrinking into them\nlike a shrivelled nut, or a cold monkey--in this flow of spirits and\nconversation, the Major continued all day: so that when evening came\non, and found them trotting through the green and leafy road near\nLeamington, the Major's voice, what with talking and eating and\nchuckling and choking, appeared to be in the box under the rumble, or in\nsome neighbouring hay-stack. Nor did the Major improve it at the\nRoyal Hotel, where rooms and dinner had been ordered, and where he so\noppressed his organs of speech by eating and drinking, that when he\nretired to bed he had no voice at all, except to cough with, and could\nonly make himself intelligible to the dark servant by gasping at him.\n\nHe not only rose next morning, however, like a giant refreshed, but\nconducted himself, at breakfast like a giant refreshing. At this\nmeal they arranged their daily habits. The Major was to take the\nresponsibility of ordering everything to eat and drink; and they were to\nhave a late breakfast together every morning, and a late dinner together\nevery day. Mr Dombey would prefer remaining in his own room, or walking\nin the country by himself, on that first day of their sojourn at\nLeamington; but next morning he would be happy to accompany the Major to\nthe Pump-room, and about the town. So they parted until dinner-time.\nMr Dombey retired to nurse his wholesome thoughts in his own way. The\nMajor, attended by the Native carrying a camp-stool, a great-coat,\nand an umbrella, swaggered up and down through all the public places:\nlooking into subscription books to find out who was there, looking up\nold ladies by whom he was much admired, reporting J. B. tougher than\never, and puffing his rich friend Dombey wherever he went. There never\nwas a man who stood by a friend more staunchly than the Major, when in\npuffing him, he puffed himself.\n\nIt was surprising how much new conversation the Major had to let off at\ndinner-time, and what occasion he gave Mr Dombey to admire his social\nqualities. At breakfast next morning, he knew the contents of the latest\nnewspapers received; and mentioned several subjects in connexion with\nthem, on which his opinion had recently been sought by persons of such\npower and might, that they were only to be obscurely hinted at. Mr\nDombey, who had been so long shut up within himself, and who had\nrarely, at any time, overstepped the enchanted circle within which the\noperations of Dombey and Son were conducted, began to think this an\nimprovement on his solitary life; and in place of excusing himself for\nanother day, as he had thought of doing when alone, walked out with the\nMajor arm-in-arm.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21. New Faces\n\n\nThe MAJOR, more blue-faced and staring--more over-ripe, as it were, than\never--and giving vent, every now and then, to one of the horse's coughs,\nnot so much of necessity as in a spontaneous explosion of importance,\nwalked arm-in-arm with Mr Dombey up the sunny side of the way, with his\ncheeks swelling over his tight stock, his legs majestically wide\napart, and his great head wagging from side to side, as if he were\nremonstrating within himself for being such a captivating object. They\nhad not walked many yards, before the Major encountered somebody he\nknew, nor many yards farther before the Major encountered somebody else\nhe knew, but he merely shook his fingers at them as he passed, and led\nMr Dombey on: pointing out the localities as they went, and enlivening\nthe walk with any current scandal suggested by them.\n\nIn this manner the Major and Mr Dombey were walking arm-in-arm, much\nto their own satisfaction, when they beheld advancing towards them,\na wheeled chair, in which a lady was seated, indolently steering her\ncarriage by a kind of rudder in front, while it was propelled by some\nunseen power in the rear. Although the lady was not young, she was\nvery blooming in the face--quite rosy--and her dress and attitude were\nperfectly juvenile. Walking by the side of the chair, and carrying her\ngossamer parasol with a proud and weary air, as if so great an effort\nmust be soon abandoned and the parasol dropped, sauntered a much younger\nlady, very handsome, very haughty, very wilful, who tossed her head and\ndrooped her eyelids, as though, if there were anything in all the world\nworth looking into, save a mirror, it certainly was not the earth or\nsky.\n\n'Why, what the devil have we here, Sir!' cried the Major, stopping as\nthis little cavalcade drew near.\n\n'My dearest Edith!' drawled the lady in the chair, 'Major Bagstock!'\n\nThe Major no sooner heard the voice, than he relinquished Mr Dombey's\narm, darted forward, took the hand of the lady in the chair and pressed\nit to his lips. With no less gallantry, the Major folded both his gloves\nupon his heart, and bowed low to the other lady. And now, the chair\nhaving stopped, the motive power became visible in the shape of a\nflushed page pushing behind, who seemed to have in part outgrown and in\npart out-pushed his strength, for when he stood upright he was tall, and\nwan, and thin, and his plight appeared the more forlorn from his having\ninjured the shape of his hat, by butting at the carriage with his\nhead to urge it forward, as is sometimes done by elephants in Oriental\ncountries.\n\n'Joe Bagstock,' said the Major to both ladies, 'is a proud and happy man\nfor the rest of his life.'\n\n'You false creature!' said the old lady in the chair, insipidly. 'Where\ndo you come from? I can't bear you.'\n\n'Then suffer old Joe to present a friend, Ma'am,' said the Major,\npromptly, 'as a reason for being tolerated. Mr Dombey, Mrs Skewton.' The\nlady in the chair was gracious. 'Mr Dombey, Mrs Granger.' The lady with\nthe parasol was faintly conscious of Mr Dombey's taking off his hat,\nand bowing low. 'I am delighted, Sir,' said the Major, 'to have this\nopportunity.'\n\nThe Major seemed in earnest, for he looked at all the three, and leered\nin his ugliest manner.\n\n'Mrs Skewton, Dombey,' said the Major, 'makes havoc in the heart of old\nJosh.'\n\nMr Dombey signified that he didn't wonder at it.\n\n'You perfidious goblin,' said the lady in the chair, 'have done! How\nlong have you been here, bad man?'\n\n'One day,' replied the Major.\n\n'And can you be a day, or even a minute,' returned the lady, slightly\nsettling her false curls and false eyebrows with her fan, and showing\nher false teeth, set off by her false complexion, 'in the garden of\nwhat's-its-name.'\n\n'Eden, I suppose, Mama,' interrupted the younger lady, scornfully.\n\n'My dear Edith,' said the other, 'I cannot help it. I never can remember\nthose frightful names--without having your whole Soul and Being inspired\nby the sight of Nature; by the perfume,' said Mrs Skewton, rustling a\nhandkerchief that was faint and sickly with essences, 'of her artless\nbreath, you creature!'\n\nThe discrepancy between Mrs Skewton's fresh enthusiasm of words, and\nforlornly faded manner, was hardly less observable than that between\nher age, which was about seventy, and her dress, which would have been\nyouthful for twenty-seven. Her attitude in the wheeled chair (which she\nnever varied) was one in which she had been taken in a barouche, some\nfifty years before, by a then fashionable artist who had appended to his\npublished sketch the name of Cleopatra: in consequence of a discovery\nmade by the critics of the time, that it bore an exact resemblance to\nthat Princess as she reclined on board her galley. Mrs Skewton was a\nbeauty then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their heads by dozens in\nher honour. The beauty and the barouche had both passed away, but she\nstill preserved the attitude, and for this reason expressly, maintained\nthe wheeled chair and the butting page: there being nothing whatever,\nexcept the attitude, to prevent her from walking.\n\n'Mr Dombey is devoted to Nature, I trust?' said Mrs Skewton, settling\nher diamond brooch. And by the way, she chiefly lived upon the\nreputation of some diamonds, and her family connexions.\n\n'My friend Dombey, Ma'am,' returned the Major, 'may be devoted to her\nin secret, but a man who is paramount in the greatest city in the\nuniverse--'\n\n'No one can be a stranger,' said Mrs Skewton, 'to Mr Dombey's immense\ninfluence.'\n\nAs Mr Dombey acknowledged the compliment with a bend of his head, the\nyounger lady glancing at him, met his eyes.\n\n'You reside here, Madam?' said Mr Dombey, addressing her.\n\n'No, we have been to a great many places. To Harrogate and Scarborough,\nand into Devonshire. We have been visiting, and resting here and there.\nMama likes change.'\n\n'Edith of course does not,' said Mrs Skewton, with a ghastly archness.\n\n'I have not found that there is any change in such places,' was the\nanswer, delivered with supreme indifference.\n\n'They libel me. There is only one change, Mr Dombey,' observed Mrs\nSkewton, with a mincing sigh, 'for which I really care, and that I\nfear I shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But\nseclusion and contemplation are my what-his-name--'\n\n'If you mean Paradise, Mama, you had better say so, to render yourself\nintelligible,' said the younger lady.\n\n'My dearest Edith,' returned Mrs Skewton, 'you know that I am wholly\ndependent upon you for those odious names. I assure you, Mr Dombey,\nNature intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in society. Cows\nare my passion. What I have ever sighed for, has been to retreat to a\nSwiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows--and china.'\n\nThis curious association of objects, suggesting a remembrance of the\ncelebrated bull who got by mistake into a crockery shop, was received\nwith perfect gravity by Mr Dombey, who intimated his opinion that Nature\nwas, no doubt, a very respectable institution.\n\n'What I want,' drawled Mrs Skewton, pinching her shrivelled throat, 'is\nheart.' It was frightfully true in one sense, if not in that in which\nshe used the phrase. 'What I want, is frankness, confidence, less\nconventionality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully\nartificial.'\n\nWe were, indeed.\n\n'In short,' said Mrs Skewton, 'I want Nature everywhere. It would be so\nextremely charming.'\n\n'Nature is inviting us away now, Mama, if you are ready,' said the\nyounger lady, curling her handsome lip. At this hint, the wan page, who\nhad been surveying the party over the top of the chair, vanished behind\nit, as if the ground had swallowed him up.\n\n'Stop a moment, Withers!' said Mrs Skewton, as the chair began to move;\ncalling to the page with all the languid dignity with which she had\ncalled in days of yore to a coachman with a wig, cauliflower nosegay,\nand silk stockings. 'Where are you staying, abomination?'\n\nThe Major was staying at the Royal Hotel, with his friend Dombey.\n\n'You may come and see us any evening when you are good,' lisped Mrs\nSkewton. 'If Mr Dombey will honour us, we shall be happy. Withers, go\non!'\n\nThe Major again pressed to his blue lips the tips of the fingers\nthat were disposed on the ledge of the wheeled chair with careful\ncarelessness, after the Cleopatra model: and Mr Dombey bowed. The elder\nlady honoured them both with a very gracious smile and a girlish wave\nof her hand; the younger lady with the very slightest inclination of her\nhead that common courtesy allowed.\n\nThe last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the mother, with that patched\ncolour on it which the sun made infinitely more haggard and dismal\nthan any want of colour could have been, and of the proud beauty of the\ndaughter with her graceful figure and erect deportment, engendered such\nan involuntary disposition on the part of both the Major and Mr Dombey\nto look after them, that they both turned at the same moment. The Page,\nnearly as much aslant as his own shadow, was toiling after the chair,\nuphill, like a slow battering-ram; the top of Cleopatra's bonnet was\nfluttering in exactly the same corner to the inch as before; and the\nBeauty, loitering by herself a little in advance, expressed in all\nher elegant form, from head to foot, the same supreme disregard of\neverything and everybody.\n\n'I tell you what, Sir,' said the Major, as they resumed their walk\nagain. 'If Joe Bagstock were a younger man, there's not a woman in the\nworld whom he'd prefer for Mrs Bagstock to that woman. By George, Sir!'\nsaid the Major, 'she's superb!'\n\n'Do you mean the daughter?' inquired Mr Dombey.\n\n'Is Joey B. a turnip, Dombey,' said the Major, 'that he should mean the\nmother?'\n\n'You were complimentary to the mother,' returned Mr Dombey.\n\n'An ancient flame, Sir,' chuckled Major Bagstock. 'Devilish ancient. I\nhumour her.'\n\n'She impresses me as being perfectly genteel,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Genteel, Sir,' said the Major, stopping short, and staring in his\ncompanion's face. 'The Honourable Mrs Skewton, Sir, is sister to the\nlate Lord Feenix, and aunt to the present Lord. The family are not\nwealthy--they're poor, indeed--and she lives upon a small jointure; but\nif you come to blood, Sir!' The Major gave a flourish with his stick and\nwalked on again, in despair of being able to say what you came to, if\nyou came to that.\n\n'You addressed the daughter, I observed,' said Mr Dombey, after a short\npause, 'as Mrs Granger.'\n\n'Edith Skewton, Sir,' returned the Major, stopping short again, and\npunching a mark in the ground with his cane, to represent her, 'married\n(at eighteen) Granger of Ours;' whom the Major indicated by another\npunch. 'Granger, Sir,' said the Major, tapping the last ideal portrait,\nand rolling his head emphatically, 'was Colonel of Ours; a de-vilish\nhandsome fellow, Sir, of forty-one. He died, Sir, in the second year of\nhis marriage.' The Major ran the representative of the deceased Granger\nthrough and through the body with his walking-stick, and went on again,\ncarrying his stick over his shoulder.\n\n'How long is this ago?' asked Mr Dombey, making another halt.\n\n'Edith Granger, Sir,' replied the Major, shutting one eye, putting his\nhead on one side, passing his cane into his left hand, and smoothing his\nshirt-frill with his right, 'is, at this present time, not quite thirty.\nAnd damme, Sir,' said the Major, shouldering his stick once more, and\nwalking on again, 'she's a peerless woman!'\n\n'Was there any family?' asked Mr Dombey presently.\n\n'Yes, Sir,' said the Major. 'There was a boy.'\n\nMr Dombey's eyes sought the ground, and a shade came over his face.\n\n'Who was drowned, Sir,' pursued the Major. 'When a child of four or five\nyears old.'\n\n'Indeed?' said Mr Dombey, raising his head.\n\n'By the upsetting of a boat in which his nurse had no business to have\nput him,' said the Major. 'That's his history. Edith Granger is Edith\nGranger still; but if tough old Joey B., Sir, were a little younger and\na little richer, the name of that immortal paragon should be Bagstock.'\n\nThe Major heaved his shoulders, and his cheeks, and laughed more like an\nover-fed Mephistopheles than ever, as he said the words.\n\n'Provided the lady made no objection, I suppose?' said Mr Dombey coldly.\n\n'By Gad, Sir,' said the Major, 'the Bagstock breed are not accustomed\nto that sort of obstacle. Though it's true enough that Edith might have\nmarried twenty times, but for being proud, Sir, proud.'\n\nMr Dombey seemed, by his face, to think no worse of her for that.\n\n'It's a great quality after all,' said the Major. 'By the Lord, it's a\nhigh quality! Dombey! You are proud yourself, and your friend, Old Joe,\nrespects you for it, Sir.'\n\nWith this tribute to the character of his ally, which seemed to be wrung\nfrom him by the force of circumstances and the irresistible tendency\nof their conversation, the Major closed the subject, and glided into a\ngeneral exposition of the extent to which he had been beloved and doted\non by splendid women and brilliant creatures.\n\nOn the next day but one, Mr Dombey and the Major encountered the\nHonourable Mrs Skewton and her daughter in the Pump-room; on the day\nafter, they met them again very near the place where they had met them\nfirst. After meeting them thus, three or four times in all, it became\na point of mere civility to old acquaintances that the Major should go\nthere one evening. Mr Dombey had not originally intended to pay visits,\nbut on the Major announcing this intention, he said he would have the\npleasure of accompanying him. So the Major told the Native to go round\nbefore dinner, and say, with his and Mr Dombey's compliments, that they\nwould have the honour of visiting the ladies that same evening, if the\nladies were alone. In answer to which message, the Native brought back a\nvery small note with a very large quantity of scent about it, indited by\nthe Honourable Mrs Skewton to Major Bagstock, and briefly saying, 'You\nare a shocking bear and I have a great mind not to forgive you, but\nif you are very good indeed,' which was underlined, 'you may come.\nCompliments (in which Edith unites) to Mr Dombey.'\n\nThe Honourable Mrs Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Granger, resided, while\nat Leamington, in lodgings that were fashionable enough and dear enough,\nbut rather limited in point of space and conveniences; so that the\nHonourable Mrs Skewton, being in bed, had her feet in the window and\nher head in the fireplace, while the Honourable Mrs Skewton's maid was\nquartered in a closet within the drawing-room, so extremely small, that,\nto avoid developing the whole of its accommodations, she was obliged to\nwrithe in and out of the door like a beautiful serpent. Withers, the\nwan page, slept out of the house immediately under the tiles at a\nneighbouring milk-shop; and the wheeled chair, which was the stone of\nthat young Sisyphus, passed the night in a shed belonging to the same\ndairy, where new-laid eggs were produced by the poultry connected with\nthe establishment, who roosted on a broken donkey-cart, persuaded, to\nall appearance, that it grew there, and was a species of tree.\n\nMr Dombey and the Major found Mrs Skewton arranged, as Cleopatra,\namong the cushions of a sofa: very airily dressed; and certainly not\nresembling Shakespeare's Cleopatra, whom age could not wither. On their\nway upstairs they had heard the sound of a harp, but it had ceased\non their being announced, and Edith now stood beside it handsomer and\nhaughtier than ever. It was a remarkable characteristic of this lady's\nbeauty that it appeared to vaunt and assert itself without her aid, and\nagainst her will. She knew that she was beautiful: it was impossible\nthat it could be otherwise: but she seemed with her own pride to defy\nher very self.\n\nWhether she held cheap attractions that could only call forth admiration\nthat was worthless to her, or whether she designed to render them more\nprecious to admirers by this usage of them, those to whom they were\nprecious seldom paused to consider.\n\n'I hope, Mrs Granger,' said Mr Dombey, advancing a step towards her, 'we\nare not the cause of your ceasing to play?'\n\n'You! oh no!'\n\n'Why do you not go on then, my dearest Edith?' said Cleopatra.\n\n'I left off as I began--of my own fancy.'\n\nThe exquisite indifference of her manner in saying this: an indifference\nquite removed from dulness or insensibility, for it was pointed with\nproud purpose: was well set off by the carelessness with which she drew\nher hand across the strings, and came from that part of the room.\n\n'Do you know, Mr Dombey,' said her languishing mother, playing with a\nhand-screen, 'that occasionally my dearest Edith and myself actually\nalmost differ--'\n\n'Not quite, sometimes, Mama?' said Edith.\n\n'Oh never quite, my darling! Fie, fie, it would break my heart,'\nreturned her mother, making a faint attempt to pat her with the\nscreen, which Edith made no movement to meet, '--about these old\nconventionalities of manner that are observed in little things? Why are\nwe not more natural? Dear me! With all those yearnings, and gushings,\nand impulsive throbbings that we have implanted in our souls, and which\nare so very charming, why are we not more natural?'\n\nMr Dombey said it was very true, very true.\n\n'We could be more natural I suppose if we tried?' said Mrs Skewton.\n\nMr Dombey thought it possible.\n\n'Devil a bit, Ma'am,' said the Major. 'We couldn't afford it. Unless the\nworld was peopled with J.B.'s--tough and blunt old Joes, Ma'am, plain\nred herrings with hard roes, Sir--we couldn't afford it. It wouldn't\ndo.'\n\n'You naughty Infidel,' said Mrs Skewton, 'be mute.'\n\n'Cleopatra commands,' returned the Major, kissing his hand, 'and Antony\nBagstock obeys.'\n\n'The man has no sensitiveness,' said Mrs Skewton, cruelly holding up the\nhand-screen so as to shut the Major out. 'No sympathy. And what do we\nlive for but sympathy! What else is so extremely charming! Without that\ngleam of sunshine on our cold cold earth,' said Mrs Skewton, arranging\nher lace tucker, and complacently observing the effect of her bare lean\narm, looking upward from the wrist, 'how could we possibly bear it? In\nshort, obdurate man!' glancing at the Major, round the screen, 'I would\nhave my world all heart; and Faith is so excessively charming, that I\nwon't allow you to disturb it, do you hear?'\n\nThe Major replied that it was hard in Cleopatra to require the world to\nbe all heart, and yet to appropriate to herself the hearts of all\nthe world; which obliged Cleopatra to remind him that flattery was\ninsupportable to her, and that if he had the boldness to address her in\nthat strain any more, she would positively send him home.\n\nWithers the Wan, at this period, handing round the tea, Mr Dombey again\naddressed himself to Edith.\n\n'There is not much company here, it would seem?' said Mr Dombey, in his\nown portentous gentlemanly way.\n\n'I believe not. We see none.'\n\n'Why really,' observed Mrs Skewton from her couch, 'there are no people\nhere just now with whom we care to associate.'\n\n'They have not enough heart,' said Edith, with a smile. The very\ntwilight of a smile: so singularly were its light and darkness blended.\n\n'My dearest Edith rallies me, you see!' said her mother, shaking her\nhead: which shook a little of itself sometimes, as if the palsy twinkled\nnow and then in opposition to the diamonds. 'Wicked one!'\n\n'You have been here before, if I am not mistaken?' said Mr Dombey. Still\nto Edith.\n\n'Oh, several times. I think we have been everywhere.'\n\n'A beautiful country!'\n\n'I suppose it is. Everybody says so.'\n\n'Your cousin Feenix raves about it, Edith,' interposed her mother from\nher couch.\n\nThe daughter slightly turned her graceful head, and raising her eyebrows\nby a hair's-breadth, as if her cousin Feenix were of all the mortal\nworld the least to be regarded, turned her eyes again towards Mr Dombey.\n\n'I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am tired of the\nneighbourhood,' she said.\n\n'You have almost reason to be, Madam,' he replied, glancing at a variety\nof landscape drawings, of which he had already recognised several\nas representing neighbouring points of view, and which were strewn\nabundantly about the room, 'if these beautiful productions are from your\nhand.'\n\nShe gave him no reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty, quite amazing.\n\n'Have they that interest?' said Mr Dombey. 'Are they yours?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'And you play, I already know.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'And sing?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nShe answered all these questions with a strange reluctance; and with\nthat remarkable air of opposition to herself, already noticed as\nbelonging to her beauty. Yet she was not embarrassed, but wholly\nself-possessed. Neither did she seem to wish to avoid the conversation,\nfor she addressed her face, and--so far as she could--her manner also,\nto him; and continued to do so, when he was silent.\n\n'You have many resources against weariness at least,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Whatever their efficiency may be,' she returned, 'you know them all\nnow. I have no more.'\n\n'May I hope to prove them all?' said Mr Dombey, with solemn gallantry,\nlaying down a drawing he had held, and motioning towards the harp.\n\n'Oh certainly! If you desire it!'\n\nShe rose as she spoke, and crossing by her mother's couch, and directing\na stately look towards her, which was instantaneous in its duration, but\ninclusive (if anyone had seen it) of a multitude of expressions, among\nwhich that of the twilight smile, without the smile itself, overshadowed\nall the rest, went out of the room.\n\nThe Major, who was quite forgiven by this time, had wheeled a little\ntable up to Cleopatra, and was sitting down to play picquet with her. Mr\nDombey, not knowing the game, sat down to watch them for his edification\nuntil Edith should return.\n\n'We are going to have some music, Mr Dombey, I hope?' said Cleopatra.\n\n'Mrs Granger has been kind enough to promise so,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Ah! That's very nice. Do you propose, Major?'\n\n'No, Ma'am,' said the Major. 'Couldn't do it.'\n\n'You're a barbarous being,' replied the lady, 'and my hand's destroyed.\nYou are fond of music, Mr Dombey?'\n\n'Eminently so,' was Mr Dombey's answer.\n\n'Yes. It's very nice,' said Cleopatra, looking at her cards. 'So\nmuch heart in it--undeveloped recollections of a previous state of\nexistence--and all that--which is so truly charming. Do you know,'\nsimpered Cleopatra, reversing the knave of clubs, who had come into her\ngame with his heels uppermost, 'that if anything could tempt me to put\na period to my life, it would be curiosity to find out what it's all\nabout, and what it means; there are so many provoking mysteries, really,\nthat are hidden from us. Major, you to play!'\n\nThe Major played; and Mr Dombey, looking on for his instruction,\nwould soon have been in a state of dire confusion, but that he gave no\nattention to the game whatever, and sat wondering instead when Edith\nwould come back.\n\nShe came at last, and sat down to her harp, and Mr Dombey rose and stood\nbeside her, listening. He had little taste for music, and no knowledge\nof the strain she played, but he saw her bending over it, and perhaps\nhe heard among the sounding strings some distant music of his own, that\ntamed the monster of the iron road, and made it less inexorable.\n\nCleopatra had a sharp eye, verily, at picquet. It glistened like a\nbird's, and did not fix itself upon the game, but pierced the room from\nend to end, and gleamed on harp, performer, listener, everything.\n\nWhen the haughty beauty had concluded, she arose, and receiving Mr\nDombey's thanks and compliments in exactly the same manner as before,\nwent with scarcely any pause to the piano, and began there.\n\nEdith Granger, any song but that! Edith Granger, you are very handsome,\nand your touch upon the keys is brilliant, and your voice is deep and\nrich; but not the air that his neglected daughter sang to his dead son!\n\nAlas, he knows it not; and if he did, what air of hers would stir him,\nrigid man! Sleep, lonely Florence, sleep! Peace in thy dreams, although\nthe night has turned dark, and the clouds are gathering, and threaten to\ndischarge themselves in hail!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22. A Trifle of Management by Mr Carker the Manager\n\n\nMr Carker the Manager sat at his desk, smooth and soft as usual,\nreading those letters which were reserved for him to open, backing\nthem occasionally with such memoranda and references as their business\npurport required, and parcelling them out into little heaps for\ndistribution through the several departments of the House. The post had\ncome in heavy that morning, and Mr Carker the Manager had a good deal to\ndo.\n\nThe general action of a man so engaged--pausing to look over a bundle\nof papers in his hand, dealing them round in various portions, taking\nup another bundle and examining its contents with knitted brows and\npursed-out lips--dealing, and sorting, and pondering by turns--would\neasily suggest some whimsical resemblance to a player at cards. The face\nof Mr Carker the Manager was in good keeping with such a fancy. It was\nthe face of a man who studied his play, warily: who made himself master\nof all the strong and weak points of the game: who registered the cards\nin his mind as they fell about him, knew exactly what was on them, what\nthey missed, and what they made: who was crafty to find out what the\nother players held, and who never betrayed his own hand.\n\nThe letters were in various languages, but Mr Carker the Manager read\nthem all. If there had been anything in the offices of Dombey and Son\nthat he could read, there would have been a card wanting in the pack.\nHe read almost at a glance, and made combinations of one letter with\nanother and one business with another as he went on, adding new matter\nto the heaps--much as a man would know the cards at sight, and work out\ntheir combinations in his mind after they were turned. Something too\ndeep for a partner, and much too deep for an adversary, Mr Carker\nthe Manager sat in the rays of the sun that came down slanting on him\nthrough the skylight, playing his game alone.\n\nAnd although it is not among the instincts wild or domestic of the cat\ntribe to play at cards, feline from sole to crown was Mr Carker the\nManager, as he basked in the strip of summer-light and warmth that shone\nupon his table and the ground as if they were a crooked dial-plate,\nand himself the only figure on it. With hair and whiskers deficient in\ncolour at all times, but feebler than common in the rich sunshine,\nand more like the coat of a sandy tortoise-shell cat; with long nails,\nnicely pared and sharpened; with a natural antipathy to any speck of\ndirt, which made him pause sometimes and watch the falling motes of\ndust, and rub them off his smooth white hand or glossy linen: Mr Carker\nthe Manager, sly of manner, sharp of tooth, soft of foot, watchful of\neye, oily of tongue, cruel of heart, nice of habit, sat with a dainty\nsteadfastness and patience at his work, as if he were waiting at a\nmouse's hole.\n\nAt length the letters were disposed of, excepting one which he\nreserved for a particular audience. Having locked the more confidential\ncorrespondence in a drawer, Mr Carker the Manager rang his bell.\n\n'Why do you answer it?' was his reception of his brother.\n\n'The messenger is out, and I am the next,' was the submissive reply.\n\n'You are the next?' muttered the Manager. 'Yes! Creditable to me!\nThere!'\n\nPointing to the heaps of opened letters, he turned disdainfully away,\nin his elbow-chair, and broke the seal of that one which he held in his\nhand.\n\n'I am sorry to trouble you, James,' said the brother, gathering them up,\n'but--'\n\n'Oh! you have something to say. I knew that. Well?'\n\nMr Carker the Manager did not raise his eyes or turn them on his\nbrother, but kept them on his letter, though without opening it.\n\n'Well?' he repeated sharply.\n\n'I am uneasy about Harriet.'\n\n'Harriet who? what Harriet? I know nobody of that name.'\n\n'She is not well, and has changed very much of late.'\n\n'She changed very much, a great many years ago,' replied the Manager;\n'and that is all I have to say.\n\n'I think if you would hear me--\n\n'Why should I hear you, Brother John?' returned the Manager, laying a\nsarcastic emphasis on those two words, and throwing up his head, but not\nlifting his eyes. 'I tell you, Harriet Carker made her choice many years\nago between her two brothers. She may repent it, but she must abide by\nit.'\n\n'Don't mistake me. I do not say she does repent it. It would be black\ningratitude in me to hint at such a thing,' returned the other. 'Though\nbelieve me, James, I am as sorry for her sacrifice as you.'\n\n'As I?' exclaimed the Manager. 'As I?'\n\n'As sorry for her choice--for what you call her choice--as you are angry\nat it,' said the Junior.\n\n'Angry?' repeated the other, with a wide show of his teeth.\n\n'Displeased. Whatever word you like best. You know my meaning. There is\nno offence in my intention.'\n\n'There is offence in everything you do,' replied his brother, glancing\nat him with a sudden scowl, which in a moment gave place to a wider\nsmile than the last. 'Carry those papers away, if you please. I am busy.\n\nHis politeness was so much more cutting than his wrath, that the Junior\nwent to the door. But stopping at it, and looking round, he said:\n\n'When Harriet tried in vain to plead for me with you, on your first just\nindignation, and my first disgrace; and when she left you, James,\nto follow my broken fortunes, and devote herself, in her mistaken\naffection, to a ruined brother, because without her he had no one, and\nwas lost; she was young and pretty. I think if you could see her\nnow--if you would go and see her--she would move your admiration and\ncompassion.'\n\nThe Manager inclined his head, and showed his teeth, as who should say,\nin answer to some careless small-talk, 'Dear me! Is that the case?' but\nsaid never a word.\n\n'We thought in those days: you and I both: that she would marry young,\nand lead a happy and light-hearted life,' pursued the other. 'Oh if you\nknew how cheerfully she cast those hopes away; how cheerfully she has\ngone forward on the path she took, and never once looked back; you never\ncould say again that her name was strange in your ears. Never!'\n\nAgain the Manager inclined his head and showed his teeth, and seemed to\nsay, 'Remarkable indeed! You quite surprise me!' And again he uttered\nnever a word.\n\n'May I go on?' said John Carker, mildly.\n\n'On your way?' replied his smiling brother. 'If you will have the\ngoodness.'\n\nJohn Carker, with a sigh, was passing slowly out at the door, when his\nbrother's voice detained him for a moment on the threshold.\n\n'If she has gone, and goes, her own way cheerfully,' he said, throwing\nthe still unfolded letter on his desk, and putting his hands firmly in\nhis pockets, 'you may tell her that I go as cheerfully on mine. If she\nhas never once looked back, you may tell her that I have, sometimes, to\nrecall her taking part with you, and that my resolution is no easier to\nwear away;' he smiled very sweetly here; 'than marble.'\n\n'I tell her nothing of you. We never speak about you. Once a year, on\nyour birthday, Harriet says always, \"Let us remember James by name, and\nwish him happy,\" but we say no more.'\n\n'Tell it then, if you please,' returned the other, 'to yourself. You\ncan't repeat it too often, as a lesson to you to avoid the subject in\nspeaking to me. I know no Harriet Carker. There is no such person. You\nmay have a sister; make much of her. I have none.'\n\nMr Carker the Manager took up the letter again, and waved it with a\nsmile of mock courtesy towards the door. Unfolding it as his brother\nwithdrew, and looking darkly after him as he left the room, he once\nmore turned round in his elbow-chair, and applied himself to a diligent\nperusal of its contents.\n\nIt was in the writing of his great chief, Mr Dombey, and dated from\nLeamington. Though he was a quick reader of all other letters, Mr Carker\nread this slowly; weighing the words as he went, and bringing every\ntooth in his head to bear upon them. When he had read it through once,\nhe turned it over again, and picked out these passages. 'I find myself\nbenefited by the change, and am not yet inclined to name any time for my\nreturn.' 'I wish, Carker, you would arrange to come down once and see me\nhere, and let me know how things are going on, in person.' 'I omitted\nto speak to you about young Gay. If not gone per Son and Heir, or if Son\nand Heir still lying in the Docks, appoint some other young man and\nkeep him in the City for the present. I am not decided.' 'Now that's\nunfortunate!' said Mr Carker the Manager, expanding his mouth, as if it\nwere made of India-rubber: 'for he's far away.'\n\nStill that passage, which was in a postscript, attracted his attention\nand his teeth, once more.\n\n'I think,' he said, 'my good friend Captain Cuttle mentioned something\nabout being towed along in the wake of that day. What a pity he's so far\naway!'\n\nHe refolded the letter, and was sitting trifling with it, standing it\nlong-wise and broad-wise on his table, and turning it over and over\non all sides--doing pretty much the same thing, perhaps, by its\ncontents--when Mr Perch the messenger knocked softly at the door, and\ncoming in on tiptoe, bending his body at every step as if it were the\ndelight of his life to bow, laid some papers on the table.\n\n'Would you please to be engaged, Sir?' asked Mr Perch, rubbing his\nhands, and deferentially putting his head on one side, like a man who\nfelt he had no business to hold it up in such a presence, and would keep\nit as much out of the way as possible.\n\n'Who wants me?'\n\n'Why, Sir,' said Mr Perch, in a soft voice, 'really nobody, Sir, to\nspeak of at present. Mr Gills the Ship's Instrument-maker, Sir, has\nlooked in, about a little matter of payment, he says: but I mentioned to\nhim, Sir, that you was engaged several deep; several deep.'\n\nMr Perch coughed once behind his hand, and waited for further orders.\n\n'Anybody else?'\n\n'Well, Sir,' said Mr Perch, 'I wouldn't of my own self take the liberty\nof mentioning, Sir, that there was anybody else; but that same young lad\nthat was here yesterday, Sir, and last week, has been hanging about the\nplace; and it looks, Sir,' added Mr Perch, stopping to shut the door,\n'dreadful unbusiness-like to see him whistling to the sparrows down the\ncourt, and making of 'em answer him.'\n\n'You said he wanted something to do, didn't you, Perch?' asked Mr\nCarker, leaning back in his chair and looking at that officer.\n\n'Why, Sir,' said Mr Perch, coughing behind his hand again, 'his\nexpression certainly were that he was in wants of a sitiwation, and that\nhe considered something might be done for him about the Docks, being\nused to fishing with a rod and line: but--' Mr Perch shook his head very\ndubiously indeed.\n\n'What does he say when he comes?' asked Mr Carker.\n\n'Indeed, Sir,' said Mr Perch, coughing another cough behind his hand,\nwhich was always his resource as an expression of humility when nothing\nelse occurred to him, 'his observation generally air that he would\nhumbly wish to see one of the gentlemen, and that he wants to earn a\nliving. But you see, Sir,' added Perch, dropping his voice to a whisper,\nand turning, in the inviolable nature of his confidence, to give the\ndoor a thrust with his hand and knee, as if that would shut it any more\nwhen it was shut already, 'it's hardly to be bore, Sir, that a common\nlad like that should come a prowling here, and saying that his mother\nnursed our House's young gentleman, and that he hopes our House will\ngive him a chance on that account. I am sure, Sir,' observed Mr Perch,\n'that although Mrs Perch was at that time nursing as thriving a little\ngirl, Sir, as we've ever took the liberty of adding to our family,\nI wouldn't have made so free as drop a hint of her being capable of\nimparting nourishment, not if it was never so!'\n\nMr Carker grinned at him like a shark, but in an absent, thoughtful\nmanner.\n\n'Whether,' submitted Mr Perch, after a short silence, and another cough,\n'it mightn't be best for me to tell him, that if he was seen here any\nmore he would be given into custody; and to keep to it! With respect to\nbodily fear,' said Mr Perch, 'I'm so timid, myself, by nature, Sir,\nand my nerves is so unstrung by Mrs Perch's state, that I could take my\naffidavit easy.'\n\n'Let me see this fellow, Perch,' said Mr Carker. 'Bring him in!'\n\n'Yes, Sir. Begging your pardon, Sir,' said Mr Perch, hesitating at the\ndoor, 'he's rough, Sir, in appearance.'\n\n'Never mind. If he's there, bring him in. I'll see Mr Gills directly.\nAsk him to wait.'\n\nMr Perch bowed; and shutting the door, as precisely and carefully as if\nhe were not coming back for a week, went on his quest among the sparrows\nin the court. While he was gone, Mr Carker assumed his favourite\nattitude before the fire-place, and stood looking at the door;\npresenting, with his under lip tucked into the smile that showed his\nwhole row of upper teeth, a singularly crouching apace.\n\nThe messenger was not long in returning, followed by a pair of\nheavy boots that came bumping along the passage like boxes. With the\nunceremonious words 'Come along with you!'--a very unusual form of\nintroduction from his lips--Mr Perch then ushered into the presence a\nstrong-built lad of fifteen, with a round red face, a round sleek head,\nround black eyes, round limbs, and round body, who, to carry out the\ngeneral rotundity of his appearance, had a round hat in his hand,\nwithout a particle of brim to it.\n\nObedient to a nod from Mr Carker, Perch had no sooner confronted the\nvisitor with that gentleman than he withdrew. The moment they were face\nto face alone, Mr Carker, without a word of preparation, took him by the\nthroat, and shook him until his head seemed loose upon his shoulders.\n\nThe boy, who in the midst of his astonishment could not help staring\nwildly at the gentleman with so many white teeth who was choking him,\nand at the office walls, as though determined, if he were choked, that\nhis last look should be at the mysteries for his intrusion into which he\nwas paying such a severe penalty, at last contrived to utter--\n\n'Come, Sir! You let me alone, will you!'\n\n'Let you alone!' said Mr Carker. 'What! I have got you, have I?' There\nwas no doubt of that, and tightly too. 'You dog,' said Mr Carker,\nthrough his set jaws, 'I'll strangle you!'\n\nBiler whimpered, would he though? oh no he wouldn't--and what was he\ndoing of--and why didn't he strangle some--body of his own size and not\nhim: but Biler was quelled by the extraordinary nature of his reception,\nand, as his head became stationary, and he looked the gentleman in the\nface, or rather in the teeth, and saw him snarling at him, he so far\nforgot his manhood as to cry.\n\n'I haven't done nothing to you, Sir,' said Biler, otherwise Rob,\notherwise Grinder, and always Toodle.\n\n'You young scoundrel!' replied Mr Carker, slowly releasing him, and\nmoving back a step into his favourite position. 'What do you mean by\ndaring to come here?'\n\n'I didn't mean no harm, Sir,' whimpered Rob, putting one hand to his\nthroat, and the knuckles of the other to his eyes. 'I'll never come\nagain, Sir. I only wanted work.'\n\n'Work, young Cain that you are!' repeated Mr Carker, eyeing him\nnarrowly. 'Ain't you the idlest vagabond in London?'\n\nThe impeachment, while it much affected Mr Toodle Junior, attached to\nhis character so justly, that he could not say a word in denial.\nHe stood looking at the gentleman, therefore, with a frightened,\nself-convicted, and remorseful air. As to his looking at him, it may be\nobserved that he was fascinated by Mr Carker, and never took his round\neyes off him for an instant.\n\n'Ain't you a thief?' said Mr Carker, with his hands behind him in his\npockets.\n\n'No, sir,' pleaded Rob.\n\n'You are!' said Mr Carker.\n\n'I ain't indeed, Sir,' whimpered Rob. 'I never did such a thing as\nthieve, Sir, if you'll believe me. I know I've been a going wrong, Sir,\never since I took to bird-catching and walking-matching. I'm sure a\ncove might think,' said Mr Toodle Junior, with a burst of penitence,\n'that singing birds was innocent company, but nobody knows what harm is\nin them little creeturs and what they brings you down to.'\n\nThey seemed to have brought him down to a velveteen jacket and trousers\nvery much the worse for wear, a particularly small red waistcoat like a\ngorget, an interval of blue check, and the hat before mentioned.\n\n'I ain't been home twenty times since them birds got their will of me,'\nsaid Rob, 'and that's ten months. How can I go home when everybody's\nmiserable to see me! I wonder,' said Biler, blubbering outright, and\nsmearing his eyes with his coat-cuff, 'that I haven't been and drownded\nmyself over and over again.'\n\nAll of which, including his expression of surprise at not having\nachieved this last scarce performance, the boy said, just as if the\nteeth of Mr Carker drew it out of him, and he had no power of concealing\nanything with that battery of attraction in full play.\n\n'You're a nice young gentleman!' said Mr Carker, shaking his head at\nhim. 'There's hemp-seed sown for you, my fine fellow!'\n\n'I'm sure, Sir,' returned the wretched Biler, blubbering again, and\nagain having recourse to his coat-cuff: 'I shouldn't care, sometimes,\nif it was growed too. My misfortunes all began in wagging, Sir; but what\ncould I do, exceptin' wag?'\n\n'Excepting what?' said Mr Carker.\n\n'Wag, Sir. Wagging from school.'\n\n'Do you mean pretending to go there, and not going?' said Mr Carker.\n\n'Yes, Sir, that's wagging, Sir,' returned the quondam Grinder, much\naffected. 'I was chivied through the streets, Sir, when I went there,\nand pounded when I got there. So I wagged, and hid myself, and that\nbegan it.'\n\n'And you mean to tell me,' said Mr Carker, taking him by the throat\nagain, holding him out at arm's-length, and surveying him in silence for\nsome moments, 'that you want a place, do you?'\n\n'I should be thankful to be tried, Sir,' returned Toodle Junior,\nfaintly.\n\nMr Carker the Manager pushed him backward into a corner--the boy\nsubmitting quietly, hardly venturing to breathe, and never once removing\nhis eyes from his face--and rang the bell.\n\n'Tell Mr Gills to come here.'\n\nMr Perch was too deferential to express surprise or recognition of the\nfigure in the corner: and Uncle Sol appeared immediately.\n\n'Mr Gills!' said Carker, with a smile, 'sit down. How do you do? You\ncontinue to enjoy your health, I hope?'\n\n'Thank you, Sir,' returned Uncle Sol, taking out his pocket-book, and\nhanding over some notes as he spoke. 'Nothing ails me in body but old\nage. Twenty-five, Sir.'\n\n'You are as punctual and exact, Mr Gills,' replied the smiling Manager,\ntaking a paper from one of his many drawers, and making an endorsement\non it, while Uncle Sol looked over him, 'as one of your own\nchronometers. Quite right.'\n\n'The Son and Heir has not been spoken, I find by the list, Sir,' said\nUncle Sol, with a slight addition to the usual tremor in his voice.\n\n'The Son and Heir has not been spoken,' returned Carker. 'There seems\nto have been tempestuous weather, Mr Gills, and she has probably been\ndriven out of her course.'\n\n'She is safe, I trust in Heaven!' said old Sol.\n\n'She is safe, I trust in Heaven!' assented Mr Carker in that voiceless\nmanner of his: which made the observant young Toodle tremble again. 'Mr\nGills,' he added aloud, throwing himself back in his chair, 'you must\nmiss your nephew very much?'\n\nUncle Sol, standing by him, shook his head and heaved a deep sigh.\n\n'Mr Gills,' said Carker, with his soft hand playing round his mouth, and\nlooking up into the Instrument-maker's face, 'it would be company to you\nto have a young fellow in your shop just now, and it would be obliging\nme if you would give one house-room for the present. No, to be sure,'\nhe added quickly, in anticipation of what the old man was going to say,\n'there's not much business doing there, I know; but you can make him\nclean the place out, polish up the instruments; drudge, Mr Gills. That's\nthe lad!'\n\nSol Gills pulled down his spectacles from his forehead to his eyes,\nand looked at Toodle Junior standing upright in the corner: his head\npresenting the appearance (which it always did) of having been newly\ndrawn out of a bucket of cold water; his small waistcoat rising and\nfalling quickly in the play of his emotions; and his eyes intently fixed\non Mr Carker, without the least reference to his proposed master.\n\n'Will you give him house-room, Mr Gills?' said the Manager.\n\nOld Sol, without being quite enthusiastic on the subject, replied that\nhe was glad of any opportunity, however slight, to oblige Mr Carker,\nwhose wish on such a point was a command: and that the wooden Midshipman\nwould consider himself happy to receive in his berth any visitor of Mr\nCarker's selecting.\n\nMr Carker bared himself to the tops and bottoms of his gums: making\nthe watchful Toodle Junior tremble more and more: and acknowledged the\nInstrument-maker's politeness in his most affable manner.\n\n'I'll dispose of him so, then, Mr Gills,' he answered, rising, and\nshaking the old man by the hand, 'until I make up my mind what to do\nwith him, and what he deserves. As I consider myself responsible for\nhim, Mr Gills,' here he smiled a wide smile at Rob, who shook before\nit: 'I shall be glad if you'll look sharply after him, and report his\nbehaviour to me. I'll ask a question or two of his parents as I ride\nhome this afternoon--respectable people--to confirm some particulars in\nhis own account of himself; and that done, Mr Gills, I'll send him round\nto you to-morrow morning. Goodbye!'\n\nHis smile at parting was so full of teeth, that it confused old Sol, and\nmade him vaguely uncomfortable. He went home, thinking of raging seas,\nfoundering ships, drowning men, an ancient bottle of Madeira never\nbrought to light, and other dismal matters.\n\n'Now, boy!' said Mr Carker, putting his hand on young Toodle's shoulder,\nand bringing him out into the middle of the room. 'You have heard me?'\n\nRob said, 'Yes, Sir.'\n\n'Perhaps you understand,' pursued his patron, 'that if you ever deceive\nor play tricks with me, you had better have drowned yourself, indeed,\nonce for all, before you came here?'\n\nThere was nothing in any branch of mental acquisition that Rob seemed to\nunderstand better than that.\n\n'If you have lied to me,' said Mr Carker, 'in anything, never come in my\nway again. If not, you may let me find you waiting for me somewhere near\nyour mother's house this afternoon. I shall leave this at five o'clock,\nand ride there on horseback. Now, give me the address.'\n\nRob repeated it slowly, as Mr Carker wrote it down. Rob even spelt it\nover a second time, letter by letter, as if he thought that the omission\nof a dot or scratch would lead to his destruction. Mr Carker then handed\nhim out of the room; and Rob, keeping his round eyes fixed upon his\npatron to the last, vanished for the time being.\n\nMr Carker the Manager did a great deal of business in the course of the\nday, and bestowed his teeth upon a great many people. In the office, in\nthe court, in the street, and on 'Change, they glistened and bristled\nto a terrible extent. Five o'clock arriving, and with it Mr Carker's bay\nhorse, they got on horseback, and went gleaming up Cheapside.\n\nAs no one can easily ride fast, even if inclined to do so, through the\npress and throng of the City at that hour, and as Mr Carker was not\ninclined, he went leisurely along, picking his way among the carts and\ncarriages, avoiding whenever he could the wetter and more dirty places\nin the over-watered road, and taking infinite pains to keep himself and\nhis steed clean. Glancing at the passersby while he was thus ambling on\nhis way, he suddenly encountered the round eyes of the sleek-headed Rob\nintently fixed upon his face as if they had never been taken off, while\nthe boy himself, with a pocket-handkerchief twisted up like a speckled\neel and girded round his waist, made a very conspicuous demonstration\nof being prepared to attend upon him, at whatever pace he might think\nproper to go.\n\nThis attention, however flattering, being one of an unusual kind,\nand attracting some notice from the other passengers, Mr Carker took\nadvantage of a clearer thoroughfare and a cleaner road, and broke into a\ntrot. Rob immediately did the same. Mr Carker presently tried a canter;\nRob was still in attendance. Then a short gallop; it was all one to the\nboy. Whenever Mr Carker turned his eyes to that side of the road, he\nstill saw Toodle Junior holding his course, apparently without distress,\nand working himself along by the elbows after the most approved manner\nof professional gentlemen who get over the ground for wagers.\n\nRidiculous as this attendance was, it was a sign of an influence\nestablished over the boy, and therefore Mr Carker, affecting not to\nnotice it, rode away into the neighbourhood of Mr Toodle's house. On\nhis slackening his pace here, Rob appeared before him to point out the\nturnings; and when he called to a man at a neighbouring gateway to\nhold his horse, pending his visit to the buildings that had succeeded\nStaggs's Gardens, Rob dutifully held the stirrup, while the Manager\ndismounted.\n\n'Now, Sir,' said Mr Carker, taking him by the shoulder, 'come along!'\n\nThe prodigal son was evidently nervous of visiting the parental abode;\nbut Mr Carker pushing him on before, he had nothing for it but to open\nthe right door, and suffer himself to be walked into the midst of his\nbrothers and sisters, mustered in overwhelming force round the family\ntea-table. At sight of the prodigal in the grasp of a stranger,\nthese tender relations united in a general howl, which smote upon the\nprodigal's breast so sharply when he saw his mother stand up among them,\npale and trembling, with the baby in her arms, that he lent his own\nvoice to the chorus.\n\nNothing doubting now that the stranger, if not Mr Ketch in person, was\none of that company, the whole of the young family wailed the louder,\nwhile its more infantine members, unable to control the transports of\nemotion appertaining to their time of life, threw themselves on their\nbacks like young birds when terrified by a hawk, and kicked violently.\nAt length, poor Polly making herself audible, said, with quivering lips,\n'Oh Rob, my poor boy, what have you done at last!'\n\n'Nothing, mother,' cried Rob, in a piteous voice, 'ask the gentleman!'\n\n'Don't be alarmed,' said Mr Carker, 'I want to do him good.'\n\nAt this announcement, Polly, who had not cried yet, began to do so. The\nelder Toodles, who appeared to have been meditating a rescue, unclenched\ntheir fists. The younger Toodles clustered round their mother's gown,\nand peeped from under their own chubby arms at their desperado brother\nand his unknown friend. Everybody blessed the gentleman with the\nbeautiful teeth, who wanted to do good.\n\n'This fellow,' said Mr Carker to Polly, giving him a gentle shake, 'is\nyour son, eh, Ma'am?'\n\n'Yes, Sir,' sobbed Polly, with a curtsey; 'yes, Sir.'\n\n'A bad son, I am afraid?' said Mr Carker.\n\n'Never a bad son to me, Sir,' returned Polly.\n\n'To whom then?' demanded Mr Carker.\n\n'He has been a little wild, Sir,' returned Polly, checking the baby, who\nwas making convulsive efforts with his arms and legs to launch himself\non Biler, through the ambient air, 'and has gone with wrong companions:\nbut I hope he has seen the misery of that, Sir, and will do well again.'\n\nMr Carker looked at Polly, and the clean room, and the clean children,\nand the simple Toodle face, combined of father and mother, that was\nreflected and repeated everywhere about him--and seemed to have achieved\nthe real purpose of his visit.\n\n'Your husband, I take it, is not at home?' he said.\n\n'No, Sir,' replied Polly. 'He's down the line at present.'\n\nThe prodigal Rob seemed very much relieved to hear it: though still in\nthe absorption of all his faculties in his patron, he hardly took his\neyes from Mr Carker's face, unless for a moment at a time to steal a\nsorrowful glance at his mother.\n\n'Then,' said Mr Carker, 'I'll tell you how I have stumbled on this boy\nof yours, and who I am, and what I am going to do for him.'\n\nThis Mr Carker did, in his own way; saying that he at first intended to\nhave accumulated nameless terrors on his presumptuous head, for\ncoming to the whereabout of Dombey and Son. That he had relented, in\nconsideration of his youth, his professed contrition, and his friends.\nThat he was afraid he took a rash step in doing anything for the boy,\nand one that might expose him to the censure of the prudent; but that\nhe did it of himself and for himself, and risked the consequences\nsingle-handed; and that his mother's past connexion with Mr Dombey's\nfamily had nothing to do with it, and that Mr Dombey had nothing to do\nwith it, but that he, Mr Carker, was the be-all and the end-all of this\nbusiness. Taking great credit to himself for his goodness, and\nreceiving no less from all the family then present, Mr Carker signified,\nindirectly but still pretty plainly, that Rob's implicit fidelity,\nattachment, and devotion, were for evermore his due, and the least\nhomage he could receive. And with this great truth Rob himself was so\nimpressed, that, standing gazing on his patron with tears rolling down\nhis cheeks, he nodded his shiny head until it seemed almost as loose as\nit had done under the same patron's hands that morning.\n\nPolly, who had passed Heaven knows how many sleepless nights on account\nof this her dissipated firstborn, and had not seen him for weeks and\nweeks, could have almost kneeled to Mr Carker the Manager, as to a Good\nSpirit--in spite of his teeth. But Mr Carker rising to depart, she only\nthanked him with her mother's prayers and blessings; thanks so rich when\npaid out of the Heart's mint, especially for any service Mr Carker had\nrendered, that he might have given back a large amount of change, and\nyet been overpaid.\n\nAs that gentleman made his way among the crowding children to the door,\nRob retreated on his mother, and took her and the baby in the same\nrepentant hug.\n\n'I'll try hard, dear mother, now. Upon my soul I will!' said Rob.\n\n'Oh do, my dear boy! I am sure you will, for our sakes and your own!'\ncried Polly, kissing him. 'But you're coming back to speak to me, when\nyou have seen the gentleman away?'\n\n'I don't know, mother.' Rob hesitated, and looked down. 'Father--when's\nhe coming home?'\n\n'Not till two o'clock to-morrow morning.'\n\n'I'll come back, mother dear!' cried Rob. And passing through the\nshrill cry of his brothers and sisters in reception of this promise, he\nfollowed Mr Carker out.\n\n'What!' said Mr Carker, who had heard this. 'You have a bad father, have\nyou?'\n\n'No, Sir!' returned Rob, amazed. 'There ain't a better nor a kinder\nfather going, than mine is.'\n\n'Why don't you want to see him then?' inquired his patron.\n\n'There's such a difference between a father and a mother, Sir,' said\nRob, after faltering for a moment. 'He couldn't hardly believe yet that\nI was doing to do better--though I know he'd try to--but a mother--she\nalways believes what's good, Sir; at least, I know my mother does, God\nbless her!'\n\nMr Carker's mouth expanded, but he said no more until he was mounted\non his horse, and had dismissed the man who held it, when, looking down\nfrom the saddle steadily into the attentive and watchful face of the\nboy, he said:\n\n'You'll come to me tomorrow morning, and you shall be shown where that\nold gentleman lives; that old gentleman who was with me this morning;\nwhere you are going, as you heard me say.'\n\n'Yes, Sir,' returned Rob.\n\n'I have a great interest in that old gentleman, and in serving him, you\nserve me, boy, do you understand? Well,' he added, interrupting him, for\nhe saw his round face brighten when he was told that: 'I see you do. I\nwant to know all about that old gentleman, and how he goes on from day\nto day--for I am anxious to be of service to him--and especially who\ncomes there to see him. Do you understand?'\n\nRob nodded his steadfast face, and said 'Yes, Sir,' again.\n\n'I should like to know that he has friends who are attentive to him,\nand that they don't desert him--for he lives very much alone now, poor\nfellow; but that they are fond of him, and of his nephew who has gone\nabroad. There is a very young lady who may perhaps come to see him. I\nwant particularly to know all about her.'\n\n'I'll take care, Sir,' said the boy.\n\n'And take care,' returned his patron, bending forward to advance his\ngrinning face closer to the boy's, and pat him on the shoulder with the\nhandle of his whip: 'take care you talk about affairs of mine to nobody\nbut me.'\n\n'To nobody in the world, Sir,' replied Rob, shaking his head.\n\n'Neither there,' said Mr Carker, pointing to the place they had just\nleft, 'nor anywhere else. I'll try how true and grateful you can be.\nI'll prove you!' Making this, by his display of teeth and by the action\nof his head, as much a threat as a promise, he turned from Rob's eyes,\nwhich were nailed upon him as if he had won the boy by a charm, body\nand soul, and rode away. But again becoming conscious, after trotting a\nshort distance, that his devoted henchman, girt as before, was yielding\nhim the same attendance, to the great amusement of sundry spectators,\nhe reined up, and ordered him off. To ensure his obedience, he turned\nin the saddle and watched him as he retired. It was curious to see that\neven then Rob could not keep his eyes wholly averted from his patron's\nface, but, constantly turning and turning again to look after him,\ninvolved himself in a tempest of buffetings and jostlings from the other\npassengers in the street: of which, in the pursuit of the one paramount\nidea, he was perfectly heedless.\n\nMr Carker the Manager rode on at a foot-pace, with the easy air of one\nwho had performed all the business of the day in a satisfactory manner,\nand got it comfortably off his mind. Complacent and affable as man could\nbe, Mr Carker picked his way along the streets and hummed a soft tune as\nhe went. He seemed to purr, he was so glad.\n\nAnd in some sort, Mr Carker, in his fancy, basked upon a hearth too.\nCoiled up snugly at certain feet, he was ready for a spring, Or for a\ntear, or for a scratch, or for a velvet touch, as the humour took him\nand occasion served. Was there any bird in a cage, that came in for a\nshare of his regards?\n\n'A very young lady!' thought Mr Carker the Manager, through his song.\n'Ay! when I saw her last, she was a little child. With dark eyes and\nhair, I recollect, and a good face; a very good face! I daresay she's\npretty.'\n\nMore affable and pleasant yet, and humming his song until his many teeth\nvibrated to it, Mr Carker picked his way along, and turned at last into\nthe shady street where Mr Dombey's house stood. He had been so busy,\nwinding webs round good faces, and obscuring them with meshes, that he\nhardly thought of being at this point of his ride, until, glancing down\nthe cold perspective of tall houses, he reined in his horse quickly\nwithin a few yards of the door. But to explain why Mr Carker reined in\nhis horse quickly, and what he looked at in no small surprise, a few\ndigressive words are necessary.\n\nMr Toots, emancipated from the Blimber thraldom and coming into the\npossession of a certain portion of his worldly wealth, 'which,' as he had\nbeen wont, during his last half-year's probation, to communicate to Mr\nFeeder every evening as a new discovery, 'the executors couldn't keep\nhim out of' had applied himself with great diligence, to the science\nof Life. Fired with a noble emulation to pursue a brilliant and\ndistinguished career, Mr Toots had furnished a choice set of apartments;\nhad established among them a sporting bower, embellished with the\nportraits of winning horses, in which he took no particle of interest;\nand a divan, which made him poorly. In this delicious abode, Mr Toots\ndevoted himself to the cultivation of those gentle arts which refine\nand humanise existence, his chief instructor in which was an interesting\ncharacter called the Game Chicken, who was always to be heard of at the\nbar of the Black Badger, wore a shaggy white great-coat in the warmest\nweather, and knocked Mr Toots about the head three times a week, for the\nsmall consideration of ten and six per visit.\n\nThe Game Chicken, who was quite the Apollo of Mr Toots's Pantheon, had\nintroduced to him a marker who taught billiards, a Life Guard who taught\nfencing, a jobmaster who taught riding, a Cornish gentleman who was\nup to anything in the athletic line, and two or three other friends\nconnected no less intimately with the fine arts. Under whose auspices\nMr Toots could hardly fail to improve apace, and under whose tuition he\nwent to work.\n\nBut however it came about, it came to pass, even while these gentlemen\nhad the gloss of novelty upon them, that Mr Toots felt, he didn't know\nhow, unsettled and uneasy. There were husks in his corn, that even Game\nChickens couldn't peck up; gloomy giants in his leisure, that even Game\nChickens couldn't knock down. Nothing seemed to do Mr Toots so much good\nas incessantly leaving cards at Mr Dombey's door. No taxgatherer in the\nBritish Dominions--that wide-spread territory on which the sun never\nsets, and where the tax-gatherer never goes to bed--was more regular and\npersevering in his calls than Mr Toots.\n\nMr Toots never went upstairs; and always performed the same ceremonies,\nrichly dressed for the purpose, at the hall door.\n\n'Oh! Good morning!' would be Mr Toots's first remark to the servant.\n'For Mr Dombey,' would be Mr Toots's next remark, as he handed in a\ncard. 'For Miss Dombey,' would be his next, as he handed in another.\n\nMr Toots would then turn round as if to go away; but the man knew him by\nthis time, and knew he wouldn't.\n\n'Oh, I beg your pardon,' Mr Toots would say, as if a thought had\nsuddenly descended on him. 'Is the young woman at home?'\n\nThe man would rather think she was, but wouldn't quite know. Then he\nwould ring a bell that rang upstairs, and would look up the staircase,\nand would say, yes, she was at home, and was coming down. Then Miss\nNipper would appear, and the man would retire.\n\n'Oh! How de do?' Mr Toots would say, with a chuckle and a blush.\n\nSusan would thank him, and say she was very well.\n\n'How's Diogenes going on?' would be Mr Toots's second interrogation.\n\nVery well indeed. Miss Florence was fonder and fonder of him every\nday. Mr Toots was sure to hail this with a burst of chuckles, like the\nopening of a bottle of some effervescent beverage.\n\n'Miss Florence is quite well, Sir,' Susan would add.\n\n'Oh, it's of no consequence, thank'ee,' was the invariable reply of Mr\nToots; and when he had said so, he always went away very fast.\n\nNow it is certain that Mr Toots had a filmy something in his mind, which\nled him to conclude that if he could aspire successfully in the fulness\nof time, to the hand of Florence, he would be fortunate and blest. It\nis certain that Mr Toots, by some remote and roundabout road, had got\nto that point, and that there he made a stand. His heart was wounded; he\nwas touched; he was in love. He had made a desperate attempt, one\nnight, and had sat up all night for the purpose, to write an acrostic\non Florence, which affected him to tears in the conception. But he\nnever proceeded in the execution further than the words 'For when I\ngaze,'--the flow of imagination in which he had previously written down\nthe initial letters of the other seven lines, deserting him at that\npoint.\n\nBeyond devising that very artful and politic measure of leaving a\ncard for Mr Dombey daily, the brain of Mr Toots had not worked much\nin reference to the subject that held his feelings prisoner. But deep\nconsideration at length assured Mr Toots that an important step to gain,\nwas, the conciliation of Miss Susan Nipper, preparatory to giving her\nsome inkling of his state of mind.\n\nA little light and playful gallantry towards this lady seemed the means\nto employ in that early chapter of the history, for winning her to\nhis interests. Not being able quite to make up his mind about it,\nhe consulted the Chicken--without taking that gentleman into his\nconfidence; merely informing him that a friend in Yorkshire had written\nto him (Mr Toots) for his opinion on such a question. The Chicken\nreplying that his opinion always was, 'Go in and win,' and further,\n'When your man's before you and your work cut out, go in and do it,' Mr\nToots considered this a figurative way of supporting his own view of the\ncase, and heroically resolved to kiss Miss Nipper next day.\n\nUpon the next day, therefore, Mr Toots, putting into requisition some of\nthe greatest marvels that Burgess and Co. had ever turned out, went off\nto Mr Dombey's upon this design. But his heart failed him so much as he\napproached the scene of action, that, although he arrived on the ground\nat three o'clock in the afternoon, it was six before he knocked at the\ndoor.\n\nEverything happened as usual, down to the point where Susan said her\nyoung mistress was well, and Mr Toots said it was of no consequence. To\nher amazement, Mr Toots, instead of going off, like a rocket, after that\nobservation, lingered and chuckled.\n\n'Perhaps you'd like to walk upstairs, Sir!' said Susan.\n\n'Well, I think I will come in!' said Mr Toots.\n\nBut instead of walking upstairs, the bold Toots made an awkward plunge\nat Susan when the door was shut, and embracing that fair creature,\nkissed her on the cheek.\n\n'Go along with you!' cried Susan, 'or Ill tear your eyes out.'\n\n'Just another!' said Mr Toots.\n\n'Go along with you!' exclaimed Susan, giving him a push 'Innocents like\nyou, too! Who'll begin next? Go along, Sir!'\n\nSusan was not in any serious strait, for she could hardly speak for\nlaughing; but Diogenes, on the staircase, hearing a rustling against\nthe wall, and a shuffling of feet, and seeing through the banisters that\nthere was some contention going on, and foreign invasion in the house,\nformed a different opinion, dashed down to the rescue, and in the\ntwinkling of an eye had Mr Toots by the leg.\n\nSusan screamed, laughed, opened the street-door, and ran downstairs; the\nbold Toots tumbled staggering out into the street, with Diogenes holding\non to one leg of his pantaloons, as if Burgess and Co. were his cooks,\nand had provided that dainty morsel for his holiday entertainment;\nDiogenes shaken off, rolled over and over in the dust, got up again,\nwhirled round the giddy Toots and snapped at him: and all this turmoil\nMr Carker, reigning up his horse and sitting a little at a distance, saw\nto his amazement, issue from the stately house of Mr Dombey.\n\nMr Carker remained watching the discomfited Toots, when Diogenes was\ncalled in, and the door shut: and while that gentleman, taking refuge in\na doorway near at hand, bound up the torn leg of his pantaloons with a\ncostly silk handkerchief that had formed part of his expensive outfit\nfor the advent.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Mr Carker, riding up, with his most\npropitiatory smile. 'I hope you are not hurt?'\n\n'Oh no, thank you,' replied Mr Toots, raising his flushed face, 'it's\nof no consequence' Mr Toots would have signified, if he could, that he\nliked it very much.\n\n'If the dog's teeth have entered the leg, Sir--' began Carker, with a\ndisplay of his own.\n\n'No, thank you,' said Mr Toots, 'it's all quite right. It's very\ncomfortable, thank you.'\n\n'I have the pleasure of knowing Mr Dombey,' observed Carker.\n\n'Have you though?' rejoined the blushing Took\n\n'And you will allow me, perhaps, to apologise, in his absence,' said Mr\nCarker, taking off his hat, 'for such a misadventure, and to wonder how\nit can possibly have happened.'\n\nMr Toots is so much gratified by this politeness, and the lucky chance\nof making friends with a friend of Mr Dombey, that he pulls out his\ncard-case which he never loses an opportunity of using, and hands his\nname and address to Mr Carker: who responds to that courtesy by giving\nhim his own, and with that they part.\n\nAs Mr Carker picks his way so softly past the house, looking up at the\nwindows, and trying to make out the pensive face behind the curtain\nlooking at the children opposite, the rough head of Diogenes came\nclambering up close by it, and the dog, regardless of all soothing,\nbarks and growls, and makes at him from that height, as if he would\nspring down and tear him limb from limb.\n\nWell spoken, Di, so near your Mistress! Another, and another with your\nhead up, your eyes flashing, and your vexed mouth worrying itself, for\nwant of him! Another, as he picks his way along! You have a good scent,\nDi,--cats, boy, cats!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23. Florence solitary, and the Midshipman mysterious\n\n\nFlorence lived alone in the great dreary house, and day succeeded day,\nand still she lived alone; and the blank walls looked down upon her with\na vacant stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and\nbeauty into stone.\n\nNo magic dwelling-place in magic story, shut up in the heart of a thick\nwood, was ever more solitary and deserted to the fancy, than was her\nfather's mansion in its grim reality, as it stood lowering on the\nstreet: always by night, when lights were shining from neighbouring\nwindows, a blot upon its scanty brightness; always by day, a frown upon\nits never-smiling face.\n\nThere were not two dragon sentries keeping ward before the gate of this\nabove, as in magic legend are usually found on duty over the wronged\ninnocence imprisoned; but besides a glowering visage, with its thin lips\nparted wickedly, that surveyed all comers from above the archway of the\ndoor, there was a monstrous fantasy of rusty iron, curling and twisting\nlike a petrifaction of an arbour over threshold, budding in spikes\nand corkscrew points, and bearing, one on either side, two ominous\nextinguishers, that seemed to say, 'Who enter here, leave light behind!'\nThere were no talismanic characters engraven on the portal, but the\nhouse was now so neglected in appearance, that boys chalked the railings\nand the pavement--particularly round the corner where the side wall\nwas--and drew ghosts on the stable door; and being sometimes driven off\nby Mr Towlinson, made portraits of him, in return, with his ears growing\nout horizontally from under his hat. Noise ceased to be, within the\nshadow of the roof. The brass band that came into the street once a\nweek, in the morning, never brayed a note in at those windows; but all\nsuch company, down to a poor little piping organ of weak intellect,\nwith an imbecile party of automaton dancers, waltzing in and out at\nfolding-doors, fell off from it with one accord, and shunned it as a\nhopeless place.\n\nThe spell upon it was more wasting than the spell that used to set\nenchanted houses sleeping once upon a time, but left their waking\nfreshness unimpaired.\n\nThe passive desolation of disuse was everywhere silently manifest about\nit. Within doors, curtains, drooping heavily, lost their old folds and\nshapes, and hung like cumbrous palls. Hecatombs of furniture, still\npiled and covered up, shrunk like imprisoned and forgotten men, and\nchanged insensibly. Mirrors were dim as with the breath of years.\nPatterns of carpets faded and became perplexed and faint, like the\nmemory of those years' trifling incidents. Boards, starting at unwonted\nfootsteps, creaked and shook. Keys rusted in the locks of doors. Damp\nstarted on the walls, and as the stains came out, the pictures seemed to\ngo in and secrete themselves. Mildew and mould began to lurk in closets.\nFungus trees grew in corners of the cellars.  Dust accumulated, nobody\nknew whence nor how; spiders, moths, and grubs were heard of every day.\nAn exploratory blackbeetle now and then was found immovable upon the\nstairs, or in an upper room, as wondering how he got there. Rats began\nto squeak and scuffle in the night time, through dark galleries they\nmined behind the panelling.\n\nThe dreary magnificence of the state rooms, seen imperfectly by the\ndoubtful light admitted through closed shutters, would have answered\nwell enough for an enchanted abode. Such as the tarnished paws of\ngilded lions, stealthily put out from beneath their wrappers; the marble\nlineaments of busts on pedestals, fearfully revealing themselves through\nveils; the clocks that never told the time, or, if wound up by any\nchance, told it wrong, and struck unearthly numbers, which are not\nupon the dial; the accidental tinklings among the pendant lustres, more\nstartling than alarm-bells; the softened sounds and laggard air that\nmade their way among these objects, and a phantom crowd of others,\nshrouded and hooded, and made spectral of shape. But, besides, there was\nthe great staircase, where the lord of the place so rarely set his foot,\nand by which his little child had gone up to Heaven. There were other\nstaircases and passages where no one went for weeks together; there were\ntwo closed rooms associated with dead members of the family, and with\nwhispered recollections of them; and to all the house but Florence,\nthere was a gentle figure moving through the solitude and gloom, that\ngave to every lifeless thing a touch of present human interest and\nwonder.\n\nFor Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day,\nand still she lived alone, and the cold walls looked down upon her with\na vacant stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and\nbeauty into stone.\n\nThe grass began to grow upon the roof, and in the crevices of the\nbasement paving. A scaly crumbling vegetation sprouted round the\nwindow-sills. Fragments of mortar lost their hold upon the insides of\nthe unused chimneys, and came dropping down. The two trees with the\nsmoky trunks were blighted high up, and the withered branches domineered\nabove the leaves, Through the whole building white had turned yellow,\nyellow nearly black; and since the time when the poor lady died, it had\nslowly become a dark gap in the long monotonous street.\n\nBut Florence bloomed there, like the king's fair daughter in the\nstory. Her books, her music, and her daily teachers, were her only real\ncompanions, Susan Nipper and Diogenes excepted: of whom the former, in\nher attendance on the studies of her young mistress, began to grow\nquite learned herself, while the latter, softened possibly by the same\ninfluences, would lay his head upon the window-ledge, and placidly\nopen and shut his eyes upon the street, all through a summer morning;\nsometimes pricking up his head to look with great significance after\nsome noisy dog in a cart, who was barking his way along, and sometimes,\nwith an exasperated and unaccountable recollection of his supposed enemy\nin the neighbourhood, rushing to the door, whence, after a deafening\ndisturbance, he would come jogging back with a ridiculous complacency\nthat belonged to him, and lay his jaw upon the window-ledge again, with\nthe air of a dog who had done a public service.\n\nSo Florence lived in her wilderness of a home, within the circle of her\ninnocent pursuits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. She could go\ndown to her father's rooms now, and think of him, and suffer her loving\nheart humbly to approach him, without fear of repulse. She could look\nupon the objects that had surrounded him in his sorrow, and could nestle\nnear his chair, and not dread the glance that she so well remembered.\nShe could render him such little tokens of her duty and service, as\nputting everything in order for him with her own hands, binding little\nnosegays for table, changing them as one by one they withered and he did\nnot come back, preparing something for him every day, and leaving some\ntimid mark of her presence near his usual seat. To-day, it was a little\npainted stand for his watch; tomorrow she would be afraid to leave it,\nand would substitute some other trifle of her making not so likely to\nattract his eye. Waking in the night, perhaps, she would tremble at the\nthought of his coming home and angrily rejecting it, and would hurry\ndown with slippered feet and quickly beating heart, and bring it away.\nAt another time, she would only lay her face upon his desk, and leave a\nkiss there, and a tear.\n\nStill no one knew of this. Unless the household found it out when she\nwas not there--and they all held Mr Dombey's rooms in awe--it was as\ndeep a secret in her breast as what had gone before it. Florence stole\ninto those rooms at twilight, early in the morning, and at times when\nmeals were served downstairs. And although they were in every nook the\nbetter and the brighter for her care, she entered and passed out as\nquietly as any sunbeam, opting that she left her light behind.\n\nShadowy company attended Florence up and down the echoing house, and\nsat with her in the dismantled rooms. As if her life were an enchanted\nvision, there arose out of her solitude ministering thoughts, that made\nit fanciful and unreal. She imagined so often what her life would have\nbeen if her father could have loved her and she had been a favourite\nchild, that sometimes, for the moment, she almost believed it was so,\nand, borne on by the current of that pensive fiction, seemed to remember\nhow they had watched her brother in his grave together; how they had\nfreely shared his heart between them; how they were united in the dear\nremembrance of him; how they often spoke about him yet; and her kind\nfather, looking at her gently, told her of their common hope and trust\nin God. At other times she pictured to herself her mother yet alive. And\noh the happiness of falling on her neck, and clinging to her with\nthe love and confidence of all her soul! And oh the desolation of the\nsolitary house again, with evening coming on, and no one there!\n\nBut there was one thought, scarcely shaped out to herself, yet fervent\nand strong within her, that upheld Florence when she strove and filled\nher true young heart, so sorely tried, with constancy of purpose. Into\nher mind, as into all others contending with the great affliction of\nour mortal nature, there had stolen solemn wonderings and hopes, arising\nin the dim world beyond the present life, and murmuring, like faint\nmusic, of recognition in the far-off land between her brother and her\nmother: of some present consciousness in both of her: some love and\ncommiseration for her: and some knowledge of her as she went her way\nupon the earth. It was a soothing consolation to Florence to give\nshelter to these thoughts, until one day--it was soon after she had last\nseen her father in his own room, late at night--the fancy came upon her,\nthat, in weeping for his alienated heart, she might stir the spirits of\nthe dead against him. Wild, weak, childish, as it may have been to think\nso, and to tremble at the half-formed thought, it was the impulse of\nher loving nature; and from that hour Florence strove against the cruel\nwound in her breast, and tried to think of him whose hand had made it,\nonly with hope.\n\nHer father did not know--she held to it from that time--how much she\nloved him. She was very young, and had no mother, and had never learned,\nby some fault or misfortune, how to express to him that she loved him.\nShe would be patient, and would try to gain that art in time, and win\nhim to a better knowledge of his only child.\n\nThis became the purpose of her life. The morning sun shone down upon the\nfaded house, and found the resolution bright and fresh within the bosom\nof its solitary mistress, Through all the duties of the day, it\nanimated her; for Florence hoped that the more she knew, and the more\naccomplished she became, the more glad he would be when he came to know\nand like her. Sometimes she wondered, with a swelling heart and rising\ntear, whether she was proficient enough in anything to surprise him when\nthey should become companions. Sometimes she tried to think if there\nwere any kind of knowledge that would bespeak his interest more readily\nthan another. Always: at her books, her music, and her work: in her\nmorning walks, and in her nightly prayers: she had her engrossing aim\nin view. Strange study for a child, to learn the road to a hard parent's\nheart!\n\nThere were many careless loungers through the street, as the summer\nevening deepened into night, who glanced across the road at the sombre\nhouse, and saw the youthful figure at the window, such a contrast to it,\nlooking upward at the stars as they began to shine, who would have slept\nthe worse if they had known on what design she mused so steadfastly. The\nreputation of the mansion as a haunted house, would not have been\nthe gayer with some humble dwellers elsewhere, who were struck by its\nexternal gloom in passing and repassing on their daily avocations, and\nso named it, if they could have read its story in the darkening face.\nBut Florence held her sacred purpose, unsuspected and unaided: and\nstudied only how to bring her father to the understanding that she loved\nhim, and made no appeal against him in any wandering thought.\n\nThus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day,\nand still she lived alone, and the monotonous walls looked down upon her\nwith a stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like intent to stare her youth and\nbeauty into stone.\n\nSusan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one morning, as she\nfolded and sealed a note she had been writing: and showed in her looks\nan approving knowledge of its contents.\n\n'Better late than never, dear Miss Floy,' said Susan, 'and I do say,\nthat even a visit to them old Skettleses will be a Godsend.'\n\n'It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, Susan,' returned\nFlorence, with a mild correction of that young lady's familiar mention\nof the family in question, 'to repeat their invitation so kindly.'\n\nMiss Nipper, who was perhaps the most thoroughgoing partisan on the face\nof the earth, and who carried her partisanship into all matters great or\nsmall, and perpetually waged war with it against society, screwed up\nher lips and shook her head, as a protest against any recognition of\ndisinterestedness in the Skettleses, and a plea in bar that they would\nhave valuable consideration for their kindness, in the company of\nFlorence.\n\n'They know what they're about, if ever people did,' murmured Miss\nNipper, drawing in her breath 'oh! trust them Skettleses for that!'\n\n'I am not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I confess,' said Florence\nthoughtfully: 'but it will be right to go. I think it will be better.'\n\n'Much better,' interposed Susan, with another emphatic shake of her\nhead.\n\n'And so,' said Florence, 'though I would prefer to have gone when there\nwas no one there, instead of in this vacation time, when it seems there\nare some young people staying in the house, I have thankfully said yes.'\n\n'For which I say, Miss Floy, Oh be joyful!' returned Susan, 'Ah! h--h!'\n\nThis last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper frequently wound up a\nsentence, at about that epoch of time, was supposed below the level of\nthe hall to have a general reference to Mr Dombey, and to be expressive\nof a yearning in Miss Nipper to favour that gentleman with a piece of\nher mind. But she never explained it; and it had, in consequence,\nthe charm of mystery, in addition to the advantage of the sharpest\nexpression.\n\n'How long it is before we have any news of Walter, Susan!' observed\nFlorence, after a moment's silence.\n\n'Long indeed, Miss Floy!' replied her maid. 'And Perch said, when he\ncame just now to see for letters--but what signifies what he says!'\nexclaimed Susan, reddening and breaking off. 'Much he knows about it!'\n\nFlorence raised her eyes quickly, and a flush overspread her face.\n\n'If I hadn't,' said Susan Nipper, evidently struggling with some\nlatent anxiety and alarm, and looking full at her young mistress,\nwhile endeavouring to work herself into a state of resentment with the\nunoffending Mr Perch's image, 'if I hadn't more manliness than that\ninsipidest of his sex, I'd never take pride in my hair again, but turn\nit up behind my ears, and wear coarse caps, without a bit of border,\nuntil death released me from my insignificance. I may not be a Amazon,\nMiss Floy, and wouldn't so demean myself by such disfigurement, but\nanyways I'm not a giver up, I hope.'\n\n'Give up! What?' cried Florence, with a face of terror.\n\n'Why, nothing, Miss,' said Susan. 'Good gracious, nothing! It's only\nthat wet curl-paper of a man, Perch, that anyone might almost make\naway with, with a touch, and really it would be a blessed event for all\nparties if someone would take pity on him, and would have the goodness!'\n\n'Does he give up the ship, Susan?' inquired Florence, very pale.\n\n'No, Miss,' returned Susan, 'I should like to see him make so bold as\ndo it to my face! No, Miss, but he goes on about some bothering ginger\nthat Mr Walter was to send to Mrs Perch, and shakes his dismal head, and\nsays he hopes it may be coming; anyhow, he says, it can't come now in\ntime for the intended occasion, but may do for next, which really,' said\nMiss Nipper, with aggravated scorn, 'puts me out of patience with the\nman, for though I can bear a great deal, I am not a camel, neither am\nI,' added Susan, after a moment's consideration, 'if I know myself, a\ndromedary neither.'\n\n'What else does he say, Susan?' inquired Florence, earnestly. 'Won't you\ntell me?'\n\n'As if I wouldn't tell you anything, Miss Floy, and everything!' said\nSusan. 'Why, nothing Miss, he says that there begins to be a general\ntalk about the ship, and that they have never had a ship on that voyage\nhalf so long unheard of, and that the Captain's wife was at the office\nyesterday, and seemed a little put out about it, but anyone could say\nthat, we knew nearly that before.'\n\n'I must visit Walter's uncle,' said Florence, hurriedly, 'before I leave\nhome. I will go and see him this morning. Let us walk there, directly,\nSusan.'\n\nMiss Nipper having nothing to urge against the proposal, but being\nperfectly acquiescent, they were soon equipped, and in the streets, and\non their way towards the little Midshipman.\n\nThe state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to Captain Cuttle's,\non the day when Brogley the broker came into possession, and when there\nseemed to him to be an execution in the very steeples, was pretty much\nthe same as that in which Florence now took her way to Uncle Sol's; with\nthis difference, that Florence suffered the added pain of thinking that\nshe had been, perhaps, the innocent occasion of involving Walter in\nperil, and all to whom he was dear, herself included, in an agony of\nsuspense. For the rest, uncertainty and danger seemed written upon\neverything. The weathercocks on spires and housetops were mysterious\nwith hints of stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers,\nout to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks were drifting,\nperhaps, and helpless men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as\nthe unfathomable waters. When Florence came into the City, and passed\ngentlemen who were talking together, she dreaded to hear them speaking\nof the ship, and saying it was lost. Pictures and prints of vessels\nfighting with the rolling waves filled her with alarm. The smoke and\nclouds, though moving gently, moved too fast for her apprehensions, and\nmade her fear there was a tempest blowing at that moment on the ocean.\n\nSusan Nipper may or may not have been affected similarly, but having her\nattention much engaged in struggles with boys, whenever there was any\npress of people--for, between that grade of human kind and herself,\nthere was some natural animosity that invariably broke out, whenever\nthey came together--it would seem that she had not much leisure on the\nroad for intellectual operations.\n\nArriving in good time abreast of the wooden Midshipman on the opposite\nside of the way, and waiting for an opportunity to cross the street,\nthey were a little surprised at first to see, at the Instrument-maker's\ndoor, a round-headed lad, with his chubby face addressed towards the\nsky, who, as they looked at him, suddenly thrust into his capacious\nmouth two fingers of each hand, and with the assistance of that\nmachinery whistled, with astonishing shrillness, to some pigeons at a\nconsiderable elevation in the air.\n\n'Mrs Richards's eldest, Miss!' said Susan, 'and the worrit of Mrs\nRichards's life!'\n\nAs Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated prospects of her\nson and heir, Florence was prepared for the meeting: so, a favourable\nmoment presenting itself, they both hastened across, without any\nfurther contemplation of Mrs Richards's bane. That sporting character,\nunconscious of their approach, again whistled with his utmost might, and\nthen yelled in a rapture of excitement, 'Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!' which\nidentification had such an effect upon the conscience-stricken pigeons,\nthat instead of going direct to some town in the North of England, as\nappeared to have been their original intention, they began to wheel and\nfalter; whereupon Mrs Richards's first born pierced them with another\nwhistle, and again yelled, in a voice that rose above the turmoil of the\nstreet, 'Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!'\n\nFrom this transport, he was abruptly recalled to terrestrial objects, by\na poke from Miss Nipper, which sent him into the shop.\n\n'Is this the way you show your penitence, when Mrs Richards has been\nfretting for you months and months?' said Susan, following the poke.\n'Where's Mr Gills?'\n\nRob, who smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss Nipper when he\nsaw Florence following, put his knuckles to his hair, in honour of the\nlatter, and said to the former, that Mr Gills was out.'\n\n'Fetch him home,' said Miss Nipper, with authority, 'and say that my\nyoung lady's here.'\n\n'I don't know where he's gone,' said Rob.\n\n'Is that your penitence?' cried Susan, with stinging sharpness.\n\n'Why how can I go and fetch him when I don't know where to go?'\nwhimpered the baited Rob. 'How can you be so unreasonable?'\n\n'Did Mr Gills say when he should be home?' asked Florence.\n\n'Yes, Miss,' replied Rob, with another application of his knuckles to\nhis hair. 'He said he should be home early in the afternoon; in about a\ncouple of hours from now, Miss.'\n\n'Is he very anxious about his nephew?' inquired Susan.\n\n'Yes, Miss,' returned Rob, preferring to address himself to Florence and\nslighting Nipper; 'I should say he was, very much so. He ain't indoors,\nMiss, not a quarter of an hour together. He can't settle in one place\nfive minutes. He goes about, like a--just like a stray,' said Rob,\nstooping to get a glimpse of the pigeons through the window, and\nchecking himself, with his fingers half-way to his mouth, on the verge\nof another whistle.\n\n'Do you know a friend of Mr Gills, called Captain Cuttle?' inquired\nFlorence, after a moment's reflection.\n\n'Him with a hook, Miss?' rejoined Rob, with an illustrative twist of his\nleft hand. Yes, Miss. He was here the day before yesterday.'\n\n'Has he not been here since?' asked Susan.\n\n'No, Miss,' returned Rob, still addressing his reply to Florence.\n\n'Perhaps Walter's Uncle has gone there, Susan,' observed Florence,\nturning to her.\n\n'To Captain Cuttle's, Miss?' interposed Rob; 'no, he's not gone there,\nMiss. Because he left particular word that if Captain Cuttle called, I\nshould tell him how surprised he was, not to have seen him yesterday,\nand should make him stop till he came back.'\n\n'Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives?' asked Florence.\n\nRob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy parchment book\non the shop desk, read the address aloud.\n\nFlorence again turned to her maid and took counsel with her in a low\nvoice, while Rob the round-eyed, mindful of his patron's secret charge,\nlooked on and listened. Florence proposed that they could go to Captain\nCuttle's house; hear from his own lips, what he thought of the absence\nof any tidings of the Son and Heir; and bring him, if they could, to\ncomfort Uncle Sol. Susan at first objected slightly, on the score of\ndistance; but a hackney-coach being mentioned by her mistress, withdrew\nthat opposition, and gave in her assent. There were some minutes of\ndiscussion between them before they came to this conclusion, during\nwhich the staring Rob paid close attention to both speakers, and\ninclined his ear to each by turns, as if he were appointed arbitrator of\nthe argument.\n\nIn time, Rob was despatched for a coach, the visitors keeping shop\nmeanwhile; and when he brought it, they got into it, leaving word for\nUncle Sol that they would be sure to call again, on their way back. Rob\nhaving stared after the coach until it was as invisible as the\npigeons had now become, sat down behind the desk with a most assiduous\ndemeanour; and in order that he might forget nothing of what had\ntranspired, made notes of it on various small scraps of paper, with\na vast expenditure of ink. There was no danger of these documents\nbetraying anything, if accidentally lost; for long before a word was\ndry, it became as profound a mystery to Rob, as if he had had no part\nwhatever in its production.\n\nWhile he was yet busy with these labours, the hackney-coach, after\nencountering unheard-of difficulties from swivel-bridges, soft roads,\nimpassable canals, caravans of casks, settlements of scarlet-beans and\nlittle wash-houses, and many such obstacles abounding in that country,\nstopped at the corner of Brig Place. Alighting here, Florence and Susan\nNipper walked down the street, and sought out the abode of Captain\nCuttle.\n\nIt happened by evil chance to be one of Mrs MacStinger's great cleaning\ndays. On these occasions, Mrs MacStinger was knocked up by the policeman\nat a quarter before three in the morning, and rarely such before twelve\no'clock next night. The chief object of this institution appeared to be,\nthat Mrs MacStinger should move all the furniture into the back garden\nat early dawn, walk about the house in pattens all day, and move the\nfurniture back again after dark. These ceremonies greatly fluttered\nthose doves the young MacStingers, who were not only unable at such\ntimes to find any resting-place for the soles of their feet, but\ngenerally came in for a good deal of pecking from the maternal bird\nduring the progress of the solemnities.\n\nAt the moment when Florence and Susan Nipper presented themselves at Mrs\nMacStinger's door, that worthy but redoubtable female was in the act of\nconveying Alexander MacStinger, aged two years and three months, along\nthe passage, for forcible deposition in a sitting posture on the street\npavement: Alexander being black in the face with holding his breath\nafter punishment, and a cool paving-stone being usually found to act as\na powerful restorative in such cases.\n\nThe feelings of Mrs MacStinger, as a woman and a mother, were outraged\nby the look of pity for Alexander which she observed on Florence's face.\nTherefore, Mrs MacStinger asserting those finest emotions of our nature,\nin preference to weakly gratifying her curiosity, shook and buffeted\nAlexander both before and during the application of the paving-stone,\nand took no further notice of the strangers.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Ma'am,' said Florence, when the child had found his\nbreath again, and was using it. 'Is this Captain Cuttle's house?'\n\n'No,' said Mrs MacStinger.\n\n'Not Number Nine?' asked Florence, hesitating.\n\n'Who said it wasn't Number Nine?' said Mrs MacStinger.\n\nSusan Nipper instantly struck in, and begged to inquire what Mrs\nMacStinger meant by that, and if she knew whom she was talking to.\n\nMrs MacStinger in retort, looked at her all over. 'What do you want with\nCaptain Cuttle, I should wish to know?' said Mrs MacStinger.\n\n'Should you? Then I'm sorry that you won't be satisfied,' returned Miss\nNipper.\n\n'Hush, Susan! If you please!' said Florence. 'Perhaps you can have the\ngoodness to tell us where Captain Cuttle lives, Ma'am as he don't live\nhere.'\n\n'Who says he don't live here?' retorted the implacable MacStinger. 'I\nsaid it wasn't Cap'en Cuttle's house--and it ain't his house--and forbid\nit, that it ever should be his house--for Cap'en Cuttle don't know how\nto keep a house--and don't deserve to have a house--it's my house--and\nwhen I let the upper floor to Cap'en Cuttle, oh I do a thankless thing,\nand cast pearls before swine!'\n\nMrs MacStinger pitched her voice for the upper windows in offering these\nremarks, and cracked off each clause sharply by itself as if from\na rifle possessing an infinity of barrels. After the last shot, the\nCaptain's voice was heard to say, in feeble remonstrance from his own\nroom, 'Steady below!'\n\n'Since you want Cap'en Cuttle, there he is!' said Mrs MacStinger, with\nan angry motion of her hand. On Florence making bold to enter, without\nany more parley, and on Susan following, Mrs MacStinger recommenced her\npedestrian exercise in pattens, and Alexander MacStinger (still on\nthe paving-stone), who had stopped in his crying to attend to the\nconversation, began to wail again, entertaining himself during that\ndismal performance, which was quite mechanical, with a general survey of\nthe prospect, terminating in the hackney-coach.\n\nThe Captain in his own apartment was sitting with his hands in his\npockets and his legs drawn up under his chair, on a very small desolate\nisland, lying about midway in an ocean of soap and water. The Captain's\nwindows had been cleaned, the walls had been cleaned, the stove had been\ncleaned, and everything the stove excepted, was wet, and shining with\nsoft soap and sand: the smell of which dry-saltery impregnated the\nair. In the midst of the dreary scene, the Captain, cast away upon his\nisland, looked round on the waste of waters with a rueful countenance,\nand seemed waiting for some friendly bark to come that way, and take him\noff.\n\nBut when the Captain, directing his forlorn visage towards the door, saw\nFlorence appear with her maid, no words can describe his astonishment.\nMrs MacStinger's eloquence having rendered all other sounds but\nimperfectly distinguishable, he had looked for no rarer visitor than the\npotboy or the milkman; wherefore, when Florence appeared, and coming to\nthe confines of the island, put her hand in his, the Captain stood up,\naghast, as if he supposed her, for the moment, to be some young member\nof the Flying Dutchman's family.\n\nInstantly recovering his self-possession, however, the Captain's first\ncare was to place her on dry land, which he happily accomplished, with\none motion of his arm. Issuing forth, then, upon the main, Captain\nCuttle took Miss Nipper round the waist, and bore her to the island\nalso. Captain Cuttle, then, with great respect and admiration, raised\nthe hand of Florence to his lips, and standing off a little (for the\nisland was not large enough for three), beamed on her from the soap and\nwater like a new description of Triton.\n\n'You are amazed to see us, I am sure,' said Florence, with a smile.\n\nThe inexpressibly gratified Captain kissed his hook in reply, and\ngrowled, as if a choice and delicate compliment were included in the\nwords, 'Stand by! Stand by!'\n\n'But I couldn't rest,' said Florence, 'without coming to ask you what\nyou think about dear Walter--who is my brother now--and whether there is\nanything to fear, and whether you will not go and console his poor Uncle\nevery day, until we have some intelligence of him?'\n\nAt these words Captain Cuttle, as by an involuntary gesture, clapped\nhis hand to his head, on which the hard glazed hat was not, and looked\ndiscomfited.\n\n'Have you any fears for Walter's safety?' inquired Florence, from whose\nface the Captain (so enraptured he was with it) could not take his eyes:\nwhile she, in her turn, looked earnestly at him, to be assured of the\nsincerity of his reply.\n\n'No, Heart's-delight,' said Captain Cuttle, 'I am not afeard. Wal'r is a\nlad as'll go through a deal o' hard weather. Wal'r is a lad as'll bring\nas much success to that 'ere brig as a lad is capable on. Wal'r,' said\nthe Captain, his eyes glistening with the praise of his young friend,\nand his hook raised to announce a beautiful quotation, 'is what you may\ncall a out'ard and visible sign of an in'ard and spirited grasp, and\nwhen found make a note of.'\n\nFlorence, who did not quite understand this, though the Captain\nevidently thought it full of meaning, and highly satisfactory, mildly\nlooked to him for something more.\n\n'I am not afeard, my Heart's-delight,' resumed the Captain, 'There's\nbeen most uncommon bad weather in them latitudes, there's no denyin',\nand they have drove and drove and been beat off, may be t'other side\nthe world. But the ship's a good ship, and the lad's a good lad; and it\nain't easy, thank the Lord,' the Captain made a little bow, 'to break\nup hearts of oak, whether they're in brigs or buzzums. Here we have 'em\nboth ways, which is bringing it up with a round turn, and so I ain't a\nbit afeard as yet.'\n\n'As yet?' repeated Florence.\n\n'Not a bit,' returned the Captain, kissing his iron hand; 'and afore\nI begin to be, my Hearts-delight, Wal'r will have wrote home from\nthe island, or from some port or another, and made all taut and\nship-shape.' And with regard to old Sol Gills, here the Captain became\nsolemn, 'who I'll stand by, and not desert until death do us part,\nand when the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow--overhaul the\nCatechism,' said the Captain parenthetically, 'and there you'll find\nthem expressions--if it would console Sol Gills to have the opinion of a\nseafaring man as has got a mind equal to any undertaking that he puts\nit alongside of, and as was all but smashed in his 'prenticeship, and of\nwhich the name is Bunsby, that 'ere man shall give him such an opinion\nin his own parlour as'll stun him. Ah!' said Captain Cuttle, vauntingly,\n'as much as if he'd gone and knocked his head again a door!'\n\n'Let us take this gentleman to see him, and let us hear what he says,'\ncried Florence. 'Will you go with us now? We have a coach here.'\n\nAgain the Captain clapped his hand to his head, on which the hard\nglazed hat was not, and looked discomfited. But at this instant a most\nremarkable phenomenon occurred. The door opening, without any note of\npreparation, and apparently of itself, the hard glazed hat in question\nskimmed into the room like a bird, and alighted heavily at the Captain's\nfeet. The door then shut as violently as it had opened, and nothing\nensued in explanation of the prodigy.\n\nCaptain Cuttle picked up his hat, and having turned it over with a look\nof interest and welcome, began to polish it on his sleeve. While doing\nso, the Captain eyed his visitors intently, and said in a low voice,\n\n'You see I should have bore down on Sol Gills yesterday, and this\nmorning, but she--she took it away and kept it. That's the long and short\nof the subject.'\n\n'Who did, for goodness sake?' asked Susan Nipper.\n\n'The lady of the house, my dear,' returned the Captain, in a gruff\nwhisper, and making signals of secrecy. 'We had some words about the\nswabbing of these here planks, and she--In short,' said the Captain,\neyeing the door, and relieving himself with a long breath, 'she stopped\nmy liberty.'\n\n'Oh! I wish she had me to deal with!' said Susan, reddening with the\nenergy of the wish. 'I'd stop her!'\n\n'Would you, do you, my dear?' rejoined the Captain, shaking his head\ndoubtfully, but regarding the desperate courage of the fair aspirant\nwith obvious admiration. 'I don't know. It's difficult navigation. She's\nvery hard to carry on with, my dear. You never can tell how she'll head,\nyou see. She's full one minute, and round upon you next. And when she in\na tartar,' said the Captain, with the perspiration breaking out upon\nhis forehead. There was nothing but a whistle emphatic enough for the\nconclusion of the sentence, so the Captain whistled tremulously. After\nwhich he again shook his head, and recurring to his admiration of Miss\nNipper's devoted bravery, timidly repeated, 'Would you, do you think, my\ndear?'\n\nSusan only replied with a bridling smile, but that was so very full of\ndefiance, that there is no knowing how long Captain Cuttle might have\nstood entranced in its contemplation, if Florence in her anxiety had not\nagain proposed their immediately resorting to the oracular Bunsby. Thus\nreminded of his duty, Captain Cuttle Put on the glazed hat firmly, took\nup another knobby stick, with which he had supplied the place of that\none given to Walter, and offering his arm to Florence, prepared to cut\nhis way through the enemy.\n\nIt turned out, however, that Mrs MacStinger had already changed her\ncourse, and that she headed, as the Captain had remarked she often did,\nin quite a new direction. For when they got downstairs, they found that\nexemplary woman beating the mats on the doorsteps, with Alexander,\nstill upon the paving-stone, dimly looming through a fog of dust; and\nso absorbed was Mrs MacStinger in her household occupation, that when\nCaptain Cuttle and his visitors passed, she beat the harder, and neither\nby word nor gesture showed any consciousness of their vicinity. The\nCaptain was so well pleased with this easy escape--although the effect\nof the door-mats on him was like a copious administration of snuff, and\nmade him sneeze until the tears ran down his face--that he could hardly\nbelieve his good fortune; but more than once, between the door and the\nhackney-coach, looked over his shoulder, with an obvious apprehension of\nMrs MacStinger's giving chase yet.\n\nHowever, they got to the corner of Brig Place without any molestation\nfrom that terrible fire-ship; and the Captain mounting the\ncoach-box--for his gallantry would not allow him to ride inside with the\nladies, though besought to do so--piloted the driver on his course for\nCaptain Bunsby's vessel, which was called the Cautious Clara, and was\nlying hard by Ratcliffe.\n\nArrived at the wharf off which this great commander's ship was jammed\nin among some five hundred companions, whose tangled rigging looked\nlike monstrous cobwebs half swept down, Captain Cuttle appeared at the\ncoach-window, and invited Florence and Miss Nipper to accompany him\non board; observing that Bunsby was to the last degree soft-hearted\nin respect of ladies, and that nothing would so much tend to bring his\nexpansive intellect into a state of harmony as their presentation to the\nCautious Clara.\n\nFlorence readily consented; and the Captain, taking her little hand\nin his prodigious palm, led her, with a mixed expression of patronage,\npaternity, pride, and ceremony, that was pleasant to see, over several\nvery dirty decks, until, coming to the Clara, they found that cautious\ncraft (which lay outside the tier) with her gangway removed, and\nhalf-a-dozen feet of river interposed between herself and her nearest\nneighbour. It appeared, from Captain Cuttle's explanation, that the\ngreat Bunsby, like himself, was cruelly treated by his landlady, and\nthat when her usage of him for the time being was so hard that he could\nbear it no longer, he set this gulf between them as a last resource.\n\n'Clara a-hoy!' cried the Captain, putting a hand to each side of his\nmouth.\n\n'A-hoy!' cried a boy, like the Captain's echo, tumbling up from below.\n\n'Bunsby aboard?' cried the Captain, hailing the boy in a stentorian\nvoice, as if he were half-a-mile off instead of two yards.\n\n'Ay, ay!' cried the boy, in the same tone.\n\nThe boy then shoved out a plank to Captain Cuttle, who adjusted it\ncarefully, and led Florence across: returning presently for Miss Nipper.\nSo they stood upon the deck of the Cautious Clara, in whose standing\nrigging, divers fluttering articles of dress were curing, in company\nwith a few tongues and some mackerel.\n\nImmediately there appeared, coming slowly up above the bulk-head of the\ncabin, another bulk-head--human, and very large--with one stationary eye\nin the mahogany face, and one revolving one, on the principle of some\nlighthouses. This head was decorated with shaggy hair, like oakum,\nwhich had no governing inclination towards the north, east, west, or\nsouth, but inclined to all four quarters of the compass, and to every\npoint upon it. The head was followed by a perfect desert of chin, and by\na shirt-collar and neckerchief, and by a dreadnought pilot-coat, and by\na pair of dreadnought pilot-trousers, whereof the waistband was so very\nbroad and high, that it became a succedaneum for a waistcoat: being\nornamented near the wearer's breastbone with some massive wooden\nbuttons, like backgammon men. As the lower portions of these pantaloons\nbecame revealed, Bunsby stood confessed; his hands in their pockets,\nwhich were of vast size; and his gaze directed, not to Captain Cuttle or\nthe ladies, but the mast-head.\n\nThe profound appearance of this philosopher, who was bulky and strong,\nand on whose extremely red face an expression of taciturnity sat\nenthroned, not inconsistent with his character, in which that quality\nwas proudly conspicuous, almost daunted Captain Cuttle, though on\nfamiliar terms with him. Whispering to Florence that Bunsby had never\nin his life expressed surprise, and was considered not to know what it\nmeant, the Captain watched him as he eyed his mast-head, and afterwards\nswept the horizon; and when the revolving eye seemed to be coming round\nin his direction, said:\n\n'Bunsby, my lad, how fares it?'\n\nA deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have no connexion with\nBunsby, and certainly had not the least effect upon his face, replied,\n'Ay, ay, shipmet, how goes it?' At the same time Bunsby's right hand and\narm, emerging from a pocket, shook the Captain's, and went back again.\n\n'Bunsby,' said the Captain, striking home at once, 'here you are; a man\nof mind, and a man as can give an opinion. Here's a young lady as wants\nto take that opinion, in regard of my friend Wal'r; likewise my t'other\nfriend, Sol Gills, which is a character for you to come within hail of,\nbeing a man of science, which is the mother of invention, and knows no\nlaw. Bunsby, will you wear, to oblige me, and come along with us?'\n\nThe great commander, who seemed by expression of his visage to be always\non the look-out for something in the extremest distance, and to have no\nocular knowledge of anything within ten miles, made no reply whatever.\n\n'Here is a man,' said the Captain, addressing himself to his fair\nauditors, and indicating the commander with his outstretched hook, 'that\nhas fell down, more than any man alive; that has had more accidents\nhappen to his own self than the Seamen's Hospital to all hands; that\ntook as many spars and bars and bolts about the outside of his head\nwhen he was young, as you'd want a order for on Chatham-yard to build\na pleasure yacht with; and yet that his opinions in that way, it's my\nbelief, for there ain't nothing like 'em afloat or ashore.'\n\nThe stolid commander appeared by a very slight vibration in his elbows,\nto express some satisfaction in this encomium; but if his face had\nbeen as distant as his gaze was, it could hardly have enlightened\nthe beholders less in reference to anything that was passing in his\nthoughts.\n\n'Shipmet,' said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping down to look out\nunder some interposing spar, 'what'll the ladies drink?'\n\nCaptain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such an inquiry in\nconnection with Florence, drew the sage aside, and seeming to explain in\nhis ear, accompanied him below; where, that he might not take offence,\nthe Captain drank a dram himself, which Florence and Susan, glancing\ndown the open skylight, saw the sage, with difficulty finding room for\nhimself between his berth and a very little brass fireplace, serve out\nfor self and friend. They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle,\ntriumphing in the success of his enterprise, conducted Florence back to\nthe coach, while Bunsby followed, escorting Miss Nipper, whom he\nhugged upon the way (much to that young lady's indignation) with his\npilot-coated arm, like a blue bear.\n\nThe Captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much in having secured\nhim, and having got that mind into a hackney-coach, that he could not\nrefrain from often peeping in at Florence through the little window\nbehind the driver, and testifying his delight in smiles, and also in\ntaps upon his forehead, to hint to her that the brain of Bunsby was\nhard at it. In the meantime, Bunsby, still hugging Miss Nipper (for his\nfriend, the Captain, had not exaggerated the softness of his heart),\nuniformly preserved his gravity of deportment, and showed no other\nconsciousness of her or anything.\n\nUncle Sol, who had come home, received them at the door, and ushered\nthem immediately into the little back parlour: strangely altered by the\nabsence of Walter. On the table, and about the room, were the charts\nand maps on which the heavy-hearted Instrument-maker had again and again\ntracked the missing vessel across the sea, and on which, with a pair of\ncompasses that he still had in his hand, he had been measuring, a minute\nbefore, how far she must have driven, to have driven here or there:\nand trying to demonstrate that a long time must elapse before hope was\nexhausted.\n\n'Whether she can have run,' said Uncle Sol, looking wistfully over the\nchart; 'but no, that's almost impossible or whether she can have been\nforced by stress of weather,--but that's not reasonably likely. Or\nwhether there is any hope she so far changed her course as--but even I\ncan hardly hope that!' With such broken suggestions, poor old Uncle Sol\nroamed over the great sheet before him, and could not find a speck of\nhopeful probability in it large enough to set one small point of the\ncompasses upon.\n\nFlorence saw immediately--it would have been difficult to help\nseeing--that there was a singular, indescribable change in the old\nman, and that while his manner was far more restless and unsettled\nthan usual, there was yet a curious, contradictory decision in it, that\nperplexed her very much. She fancied once that he spoke wildly, and at\nrandom; for on her saying she regretted not to have seen him when she\nhad been there before that morning, he at first replied that he had\nbeen to see her, and directly afterwards seemed to wish to recall that\nanswer.\n\n'You have been to see me?' said Florence. 'To-day?'\n\n'Yes, my dear young lady,' returned Uncle Sol, looking at her and away\nfrom her in a confused manner. 'I wished to see you with my own eyes,\nand to hear you with my own ears, once more before--' There he stopped.\n\n'Before when? Before what?' said Florence, putting her hand upon his\narm.\n\n'Did I say \"before?\"' replied old Sol. 'If I did, I must have meant\nbefore we should have news of my dear boy.'\n\n'You are not well,' said Florence, tenderly. 'You have been so very\nanxious I am sure you are not well.'\n\n'I am as well,' returned the old man, shutting up his right hand, and\nholding it out to show her: 'as well and firm as any man at my time of\nlife can hope to be. See! It's steady. Is its master not as capable of\nresolution and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so. We shall\nsee.'\n\nThere was that in his manner more than in his words, though they\nremained with her too, which impressed Florence so much, that she would\nhave confided her uneasiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if\nthe Captain had not seized that moment for expounding the state\nof circumstance, on which the opinion of the sagacious Bunsby was\nrequested, and entreating that profound authority to deliver the same.\n\nBunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to somewhere about the\nhalf-way house between London and Gravesend, two or three times put out\nhis rough right arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration round\nthe fair form of Miss Nipper; but that young female having withdrawn\nherself, in displeasure, to the opposite side of the table, the soft\nheart of the Commander of the Cautious Clara met with no response to its\nimpulses. After sundry failures in this wise, the Commander, addressing\nhimself to nobody, thus spake; or rather the voice within him said\nof its own accord, and quite independent of himself, as if he were\npossessed by a gruff spirit:\n\n'My name's Jack Bunsby!'\n\n'He was christened John,' cried the delighted Captain Cuttle. 'Hear\nhim!'\n\n'And what I says,' pursued the voice, after some deliberation, 'I stands\nto.'\n\nThe Captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the auditory, and\nseemed to say, 'Now he's coming out. This is what I meant when I brought\nhim.'\n\n'Whereby,' proceeded the voice, 'why not? If so, what odds? Can any man\nsay otherwise? No. Awast then!'\n\nWhen it had pursued its train of argument to this point, the voice\nstopped, and rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus:\n\n'Do I believe that this here Son and Heir's gone down, my lads? Mayhap.\nDo I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen' George's Channel,\nmaking for the Downs, what's right ahead of him? The Goodwins. He\nisn't forced to run upon the Goodwins, but he may. The bearings of this\nobservation lays in the application on it. That ain't no part of my\nduty. Awast then, keep a bright look-out for'ard, and good luck to you!'\n\nThe voice here went out of the back parlour and into the street, taking\nthe Commander of the Cautious Clara with it, and accompanying him on\nboard again with all convenient expedition, where he immediately turned\nin, and refreshed his mind with a nap.\n\nThe students of the sage's precepts, left to their own application\nof his wisdom--upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bunsby\ntripod, as it is perchance of some other oracular stools--looked upon\none another in a little uncertainty; while Rob the Grinder, who had\ntaken the innocent freedom of peering in, and listening, through the\nskylight in the roof, came softly down from the leads, in a state of\nvery dense confusion. Captain Cuttle, however, whose admiration of\nBunsby was, if possible, enhanced by the splendid manner in which he\nhad justified his reputation and come through this solemn reference,\nproceeded to explain that Bunsby meant nothing but confidence; that\nBunsby had no misgivings; and that such an opinion as that man had\ngiven, coming from such a mind as his, was Hope's own anchor, with good\nroads to cast it in. Florence endeavoured to believe that the Captain\nwas right; but the Nipper, with her arms tight folded, shook her head\nin resolute denial, and had no more trust in Bunsby than in Mr Perch\nhimself.\n\nThe philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty much where he had\nfound him, for he still went roaming about the watery world, compasses\nin hand, and discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a\nwhisper in his ear from Florence, while the old man was absorbed in this\npursuit, that Captain Cuttle laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder.\n\n'What cheer, Sol Gills?' cried the Captain, heartily.\n\n'But so-so, Ned,' returned the Instrument-maker. 'I have been\nremembering, all this afternoon, that on the very day when my boy\nentered Dombey's House, and came home late to dinner, sitting just there\nwhere you stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I could hardly\nturn him from the subject.'\n\nBut meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed with earnest scrutiny\nupon his face, the old man stopped and smiled.\n\n'Stand by, old friend!' cried the Captain. 'Look alive! I tell you what,\nSol Gills; arter I've convoyed Heart's-delight safe home,' here the\nCaptain kissed his hook to Florence, 'I'll come back and take you in tow\nfor the rest of this blessed day. You'll come and eat your dinner along\nwith me, Sol, somewheres or another.'\n\n'Not to-day, Ned!' said the old man quickly, and appearing to be\nunaccountably startled by the proposition. 'Not to-day. I couldn't do\nit!'\n\n'Why not?' returned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment.\n\n'I--I have so much to do. I--I mean to think of, and arrange. I couldn't\ndo it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn my mind\nto many things to-day.'\n\nThe Captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and\nagain at the Instrument-maker. 'To-morrow, then,' he suggested, at last.\n\n'Yes, yes. To-morrow,' said the old man. 'Think of me to-morrow. Say\nto-morrow.'\n\n'I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,' stipulated the Captain.\n\n'Yes, yes. The first thing tomorrow morning,' said old Sol; 'and now\ngood-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you!'\n\nSqueezing both the Captain's hands, with uncommon fervour, as he said\nit, the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put\nthem to his lips; then hurried her out to the coach with very singular\nprecipitation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain Cuttle\nthat the Captain lingered behind, and instructed Rob to be particularly\ngentle and attentive to his master until the morning: which injunction\nhe strengthened with the payment of one shilling down, and the promise\nof another sixpence before noon next day. This kind office performed,\nCaptain Cuttle, who considered himself the natural and lawful body-guard\nof Florence, mounted the box with a mighty sense of his trust, and\nescorted her home. At parting, he assured her that he would stand by Sol\nGills, close and true; and once again inquired of Susan Nipper, unable\nto forget her gallant words in reference to Mrs MacStinger, 'Would you,\ndo you think my dear, though?'\n\nWhen the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain's thoughts\nreverted to the old Instrument-maker, and he felt uncomfortable.\nTherefore, instead of going home, he walked up and down the street\nseveral times, and, eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at a\ncertain angular little tavern in the City, with a public parlour like\na wedge, to which glazed hats much resorted. The Captain's principal\nintention was to pass Sol Gills's, after dark, and look in through the\nwindow: which he did, The parlour door stood open, and he could see his\nold friend writing busily and steadily at the table within, while the\nlittle Midshipman, already sheltered from the night dews, watched\nhim from the counter; under which Rob the Grinder made his own bed,\npreparatory to shutting the shop. Reassured by the tranquillity that\nreigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner, the Captain headed\nfor Brig Place, resolving to weigh anchor betimes in the morning.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24. The Study of a Loving Heart\n\n\nSir Barnet and Lady Skettles, very good people, resided in a pretty\nvilla at Fulham, on the banks of the Thames; which was one of the most\ndesirable residences in the world when a rowing-match happened to be\ngoing past, but had its little inconveniences at other times, among\nwhich may be enumerated the occasional appearance of the river in the\ndrawing-room, and the contemporaneous disappearance of the lawn and\nshrubbery.\n\nSir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through\nan antique gold snuffbox, and a ponderous silk pocket-kerchief, which\nhe had an imposing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a banner\nand using with both hands at once. Sir Barnet's object in life was\nconstantly to extend the range of his acquaintance. Like a heavy body\ndropped into water--not to disparage so worthy a gentleman by the\ncomparison--it was in the nature of things that Sir Barnet must spread\nan ever widening circle about him, until there was no room left.\nOr, like a sound in air, the vibration of which, according to the\nspeculation of an ingenious modern philosopher, may go on travelling for\never through the interminable fields of space, nothing but coming to the\nend of his moral tether could stop Sir Barnet Skettles in his voyage of\ndiscovery through the social system.\n\nSir Barnet was proud of making people acquainted with people. He liked\nthe thing for its own sake, and it advanced his favourite object too.\nFor example, if Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a law\nrecruit, or a country gentleman, and ensnared him to his hospitable\nvilla, Sir Barnet would say to him, on the morning after his arrival,\n'Now, my dear Sir, is there anybody you would like to know? Who is there\nyou would wish to meet? Do you take any interest in writing people, or\nin painting or sculpturing people, or in acting people, or in anything\nof that sort?' Possibly the patient answered yes, and mentioned\nsomebody, of whom Sir Barnet had no more personal knowledge than of\nPtolemy the Great. Sir Barnet replied, that nothing on earth was easier,\nas he knew him very well: immediately called on the aforesaid somebody,\nleft his card, wrote a short note,--'My dear Sir--penalty of your\neminent position--friend at my house naturally desirous--Lady Skettles\nand myself participate--trust that genius being superior to ceremonies,\nyou will do us the distinguished favour of giving us the pleasure,' etc,\netc.--and so killed a brace of birds with one stone, dead as door-nails.\n\nWith the snuff-box and banner in full force, Sir Barnet Skettles\npropounded his usual inquiry to Florence on the first morning of\nher visit. When Florence thanked him, and said there was no one in\nparticular whom she desired to see, it was natural she should think with\na pang, of poor lost Walter. When Sir Barnet Skettles, urging his kind\noffer, said, 'My dear Miss Dombey, are you sure you can remember no one\nwhom your good Papa--to whom I beg you present the best compliments of\nmyself and Lady Skettles when you write--might wish you to know?' it was\nnatural, perhaps, that her poor head should droop a little, and that her\nvoice should tremble as it softly answered in the negative.\n\nSkettles Junior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and sobered down as to\nhis spirits, was at home for the holidays, and appeared to feel himself\naggrieved by the solicitude of his excellent mother that he should be\nattentive to Florence. Another and a deeper injury under which the soul\nof young Barnet chafed, was the company of Dr and Mrs Blimber, who had\nbeen invited on a visit to the paternal roof-tree, and of whom the young\ngentleman often said he would have preferred their passing the vacation\nat Jericho.\n\n'Is there anybody you can suggest now, Doctor Blimber?' said Sir Barnet\nSkettles, turning to that gentleman.\n\n'You are very kind, Sir Barnet,' returned Doctor Blimber. 'Really I am\nnot aware that there is, in particular. I like to know my fellow-men in\ngeneral, Sir Barnet. What does Terence say? Anyone who is the parent of\na son is interesting to me.'\n\n'Has Mrs Blimber any wish to see any remarkable person?' asked Sir\nBarnet, courteously.\n\nMrs Blimber replied, with a sweet smile and a shake of her sky-blue cap,\nthat if Sir Barnet could have made her known to Cicero, she would have\ntroubled him; but such an introduction not being feasible, and she\nalready enjoying the friendship of himself and his amiable lady, and\npossessing with the Doctor her husband their joint confidence in regard\nto their dear son--here young Barnet was observed to curl his nose--she\nasked no more.\n\nSir Barnet was fain, under these circumstances, to content himself for\nthe time with the company assembled. Florence was glad of that; for she\nhad a study to pursue among them, and it lay too near her heart, and was\ntoo precious and momentous, to yield to any other interest.\n\nThere were some children staying in the house. Children who were as\nfrank and happy with fathers and with mothers as those rosy faces\nopposite home. Children who had no restraint upon their love, and freely\nshowed it. Florence sought to learn their secret; sought to find out\nwhat it was she had missed; what simple art they knew, and she knew not;\nhow she could be taught by them to show her father that she loved him,\nand to win his love again.\n\nMany a day did Florence thoughtfully observe these children. On many\na bright morning did she leave her bed when the glorious sun rose, and\nwalking up and down upon the river's bank, before anyone in the house\nwas stirring, look up at the windows of their rooms, and think of them,\nasleep, so gently tended and affectionately thought of. Florence would\nfeel more lonely then, than in the great house all alone; and would\nthink sometimes that she was better there than here, and that there was\ngreater peace in hiding herself than in mingling with others of her age,\nand finding how unlike them all she was. But attentive to her study,\nthough it touched her to the quick at every little leaf she turned in\nthe hard book, Florence remained among them, and tried, with patient\nhope, to gain the knowledge that she wearied for.\n\nAh! how to gain it! how to know the charm in its beginning! There were\ndaughters here, who rose up in the morning, and lay down to rest at\nnight, possessed of fathers' hearts already. They had no repulse to\novercome, no coldness to dread, no frown to smooth away. As the morning\nadvanced, and the windows opened one by one, and the dew began to dry\nupon the flowers and and youthful feet began to move upon the lawn,\nFlorence, glancing round at the bright faces, thought what was there\nshe could learn from these children? It was too late to learn from them;\neach could approach her father fearlessly, and put up her lips to meet\nthe ready kiss, and wind her arm about the neck that bent down to caress\nher. She could not begin by being so bold. Oh! could it be that there\nwas less and less hope as she studied more and more!\n\nShe remembered well, that even the old woman who had robbed her when\na little child--whose image and whose house, and all she had said and\ndone, were stamped upon her recollection, with the enduring sharpness\nof a fearful impression made at that early period of life--had spoken\nfondly of her daughter, and how terribly even she had cried out in the\npain of hopeless separation from her child. But her own mother, she\nwould think again, when she recalled this, had loved her well. Then,\nsometimes, when her thoughts reverted swiftly to the void between\nherself and her father, Florence would tremble, and the tears would\nstart upon her face, as she pictured to herself her mother living on,\nand coming also to dislike her, because of her wanting the unknown grace\nthat should conciliate that father naturally, and had never done so\nfrom her cradle. She knew that this imagination did wrong to her mother's\nmemory, and had no truth in it, or base to rest upon; and yet she tried\nso hard to justify him, and to find the whole blame in herself, that she\ncould not resist its passing, like a wild cloud, through the distance of\nher mind.\n\nThere came among the other visitors, soon after Florence, one beautiful\ngirl, three or four years younger than she, who was an orphan child, and\nwho was accompanied by her aunt, a grey-haired lady, who spoke much to\nFlorence, and who greatly liked (but that they all did) to hear her sing\nof an evening, and would always sit near her at that time, with motherly\ninterest. They had only been two days in the house, when Florence, being\nin an arbour in the garden one warm morning, musingly observant of a\nyouthful group upon the turf, through some intervening boughs,--and\nwreathing flowers for the head of one little creature among them who was\nthe pet and plaything of the rest, heard this same lady and her niece,\nin pacing up and down a sheltered nook close by, speak of herself.\n\n'Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?' said the child.\n\n'No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is living.'\n\n'Is she in mourning for her poor Mama, now?' inquired the child quickly.\n\n'No; for her only brother.'\n\n'Has she no other brother?'\n\n'None.'\n\n'No sister?'\n\n'None,'\n\n'I am very, very sorry!' said the little girl\n\nAs they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats, and had been silent\nin the meantime, Florence, who had risen when she heard her name, and\nhad gathered up her flowers to go and meet them, that they might know of\nher being within hearing, resumed her seat and work, expecting to hear\nno more; but the conversation recommenced next moment.\n\n'Florence is a favourite with everyone here, and deserves to be, I am\nsure,' said the child, earnestly. 'Where is her Papa?'\n\nThe aunt replied, after a moment's pause, that she did not know. Her\ntone of voice arrested Florence, who had started from her seat again;\nand held her fastened to the spot, with her work hastily caught up\nto her bosom, and her two hands saving it from being scattered on the\nground.\n\n'He is in England, I hope, aunt?' said the child.\n\n'I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed.'\n\n'Has he ever been here?'\n\n'I believe not. No.'\n\n'Is he coming here to see her?'\n\n'I believe not.'\n\n'Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?' asked the child.\n\nThe flowers that Florence held to her breast began to fall when she\nheard those words, so wonderingly spoke She held them closer; and her\nface hung down upon them.\n\n'Kate,' said the lady, after another moment of silence, 'I will tell you\nthe whole truth about Florence as I have heard it, and believe it to be.\nTell no one else, my dear, because it may be little known here, and your\ndoing so would give her pain.'\n\n'I never will!' exclaimed the child.\n\n'I know you never will,' returned the lady. 'I can trust you as myself.\nI fear then, Kate, that Florence's father cares little for her, very\nseldom sees her, never was kind to her in her life, and now quite shuns\nher and avoids her. She would love him dearly if he would suffer her,\nbut he will not--though for no fault of hers; and she is greatly to be\nloved and pitied by all gentle hearts.'\n\nMore of the flowers that Florence held fell scattering on the ground;\nthose that remained were wet, but not with dew; and her face dropped\nupon her laden hands.\n\n'Poor Florence! Dear, good Florence!' cried the child.\n\n'Do you know why I have told you this, Kate?' said the lady.\n\n'That I may be very kind to her, and take great care to try to please\nher. Is that the reason, aunt?'\n\n'Partly,' said the lady, 'but not all. Though we see her so cheerful;\nwith a pleasant smile for everyone; ready to oblige us all, and bearing\nher part in every amusement here: she can hardly be quite happy, do you\nthink she can, Kate?'\n\n'I am afraid not,' said the little girl.\n\n'And you can understand,' pursued the lady, 'why her observation of\nchildren who have parents who are fond of them, and proud of them--like\nmany here, just now--should make her sorrowful in secret?'\n\n'Yes, dear aunt,' said the child, 'I understand that very well. Poor\nFlorence!'\n\nMore flowers strayed upon the ground, and those she yet held to her\nbreast trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them.\n\n'My Kate,' said the lady, whose voice was serious, but very calm and\nsweet, and had so impressed Florence from the first moment of her\nhearing it, 'of all the youthful people here, you are her natural and\nharmless friend; you have not the innocent means, that happier children\nhave--'\n\n'There are none happier, aunt!' exclaimed the child, who seemed to cling\nabout her.\n\n'--As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding her of her misfortune.\nTherefore I would have you, when you try to be her little friend,\ntry all the more for that, and feel that the bereavement you\nsustained--thank Heaven! before you knew its weight--gives you claim and\nhold upon poor Florence.'\n\n'But I am not without a parent's love, aunt, and I never have been,'\nsaid the child, 'with you.'\n\n'However that may be, my dear,' returned the lady, 'your misfortune is a\nlighter one than Florence's; for not an orphan in the wide world can be\nso deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living parent's love.'\n\nThe flowers were scattered on the ground like dust; the empty hands were\nspread upon the face; and orphaned Florence, shrinking down upon the\nground, wept long and bitterly.\n\nBut true of heart and resolute in her good purpose, Florence held to it\nas her dying mother held by her upon the day that gave Paul life. He did\nnot know how much she loved him. However long the time in coming, and\nhowever slow the interval, she must try to bring that knowledge to her\nfather's heart one day or other. Meantime she must be careful in no\nthoughtless word, or look, or burst of feeling awakened by any chance\ncircumstance, to complain against him, or to give occasion for these\nwhispers to his prejudice.\n\nEven in the response she made the orphan child, to whom she was\nattracted strongly, and whom she had such occasion to remember, Florence\nwas mindful of him. If she singled her out too plainly (Florence\nthought) from among the rest, she would confirm--in one mind certainly:\nperhaps in more--the belief that he was cruel and unnatural. Her own\ndelight was no set-off to this. What she had overheard was a reason,\nnot for soothing herself, but for saving him; and Florence did it, in\npursuance of the study of her heart.\n\nShe did so always. If a book were read aloud, and there were anything\nin the story that pointed at an unkind father, she was in pain for their\napplication of it to him; not for herself. So with any trifle of an\ninterlude that was acted, or picture that was shown, or game that was\nplayed, among them. The occasions for such tenderness towards him were\nso many, that her mind misgave her often, it would indeed be better to\ngo back to the old house, and live again within the shadow of its dull\nwalls, undisturbed. How few who saw sweet Florence, in her spring of\nwomanhood, the modest little queen of those small revels, imagined what\na load of sacred care lay heavy in her breast! How few of those who\nstiffened in her father's freezing atmosphere, suspected what a heap of\nfiery coals was piled upon his head!\n\nFlorence pursued her study patiently, and, failing to acquire the secret\nof the nameless grace she sought, among the youthful company who were\nassembled in the house, often walked out alone, in the early morning,\namong the children of the poor. But still she found them all too far\nadvanced to learn from. They had won their household places long ago,\nand did not stand without, as she did, with a bar across the door.\n\nThere was one man whom she several times observed at work very early,\nand often with a girl of about her own age seated near him. He was a\nvery poor man, who seemed to have no regular employment, but now went\nroaming about the banks of the river when the tide was low, looking out\nfor bits and scraps in the mud; and now worked at the unpromising\nlittle patch of garden-ground before his cottage; and now tinkered up\na miserable old boat that belonged to him; or did some job of that kind\nfor a neighbour, as chance occurred. Whatever the man's labour, the\ngirl was never employed; but sat, when she was with him, in a listless,\nmoping state, and idle.\n\nFlorence had often wished to speak to this man; yet she had never taken\ncourage to do so, as he made no movement towards her. But one morning\nwhen she happened to come upon him suddenly, from a by-path among some\npollard willows which terminated in the little shelving piece of stony\nground that lay between his dwelling and the water, where he was bending\nover a fire he had made to caulk the old boat which was lying bottom\nupwards, close by, he raised his head at the sound of her footstep, and\ngave her Good morning.\n\n'Good morning,' said Florence, approaching nearer, 'you are at work\nearly.'\n\n'I'd be glad to be often at work earlier, Miss, if I had work to do.'\n\n'Is it so hard to get?' asked Florence.\n\n'I find it so,' replied the man.\n\nFlorence glanced to where the girl was sitting, drawn together, with her\nelbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, and said:\n\n'Is that your daughter?'\n\nHe raised his head quickly, and looking towards the girl with a\nbrightened face, nodded to her, and said 'Yes,' Florence looked towards\nher too, and gave her a kind salutation; the girl muttered something in\nreturn, ungraciously and sullenly.\n\n'Is she in want of employment also?' said Florence.\n\nThe man shook his head. 'No, Miss,' he said. 'I work for both,'\n\n'Are there only you two, then?' inquired Florence.\n\n'Only us two,' said the man. 'Her mother his been dead these ten year.\nMartha!' (he lifted up his head again, and whistled to her) 'won't you\nsay a word to the pretty young lady?'\n\nThe girl made an impatient gesture with her cowering shoulders, and\nturned her head another way. Ugly, misshapen, peevish, ill-conditioned,\nragged, dirty--but beloved! Oh yes! Florence had seen her father's look\ntowards her, and she knew whose look it had no likeness to.\n\n'I'm afraid she's worse this morning, my poor girl!' said the man,\nsuspending his work, and contemplating his ill-favoured child, with a\ncompassion that was the more tender for being rougher.\n\n'She is ill, then!' said Florence.\n\nThe man drew a deep sigh. 'I don't believe my Martha's had five short\ndays' good health,' he answered, looking at her still, 'in as many long\nyears.'\n\n'Ay! and more than that, John,' said a neighbour, who had come down to\nhelp him with the boat.\n\n'More than that, you say, do you?' cried the other, pushing back his\nbattered hat, and drawing his hand across his forehead. 'Very like. It\nseems a long, long time.'\n\n'And the more the time,' pursued the neighbour, 'the more you've\nfavoured and humoured her, John, till she's got to be a burden to\nherself, and everybody else.'\n\n'Not to me,' said her father, falling to his work. 'Not to me.'\n\nFlorence could feel--who better?--how truly he spoke. She drew a little\ncloser to him, and would have been glad to touch his rugged hand, and\nthank him for his goodness to the miserable object that he looked upon\nwith eyes so different from any other man's.\n\n'Who would favour my poor girl--to call it favouring--if I didn't?' said\nthe father.\n\n'Ay, ay,' cried the neighbour. 'In reason, John. But you! You rob\nyourself to give to her. You bind yourself hand and foot on her account.\nYou make your life miserable along of her. And what does she care! You\ndon't believe she knows it?'\n\nThe father lifted up his head again, and whistled to her. Martha made\nthe same impatient gesture with her crouching shoulders, in reply; and\nhe was glad and happy.\n\n'Only for that, Miss,' said the neighbour, with a smile, in which there\nwas more of secret sympathy than he expressed; 'only to get that, he\nnever lets her out of his sight!'\n\n'Because the day'll come, and has been coming a long while,' observed\nthe other, bending low over his work, 'when to get half as much from\nthat unfort'nate child of mine--to get the trembling of a finger, or the\nwaving of a hair--would be to raise the dead.'\n\nFlorence softly put some money near his hand on the old boat, and left\nhim.\n\nAnd now Florence began to think, if she were to fall ill, if she were to\nfade like her dear brother, would he then know that she had loved him;\nwould she then grow dear to him; would he come to her bedside, when she\nwas weak and dim of sight, and take her into his embrace, and cancel all\nthe past? Would he so forgive her, in that changed condition, for not\nhaving been able to lay open her childish heart to him, as to make it\neasy to relate with what emotions she had gone out of his room that\nnight; what she had meant to say if she had had the courage; and how she\nhad endeavoured, afterwards, to learn the way she never knew in infancy?\n\nYes, she thought if she were dying, he would relent. She thought, that\nif she lay, serene and not unwilling to depart, upon the bed that was\ncurtained round with recollections of their darling boy, he would be\ntouched home, and would say, 'Dear Florence, live for me, and we will\nlove each other as we might have done, and be as happy as we might have\nbeen these many years!' She thought that if she heard such words from\nhim, and had her arms clasped round him, she could answer with a smile,\n'It is too late for anything but this; I never could be happier, dear\nfather!' and so leave him, with a blessing on her lips.\n\nThe golden water she remembered on the wall, appeared to Florence, in\nthe light of such reflections, only as a current flowing on to rest,\nand to a region where the dear ones, gone before, were waiting, hand in\nhand; and often when she looked upon the darker river rippling at her\nfeet, she thought with awful wonder, but not terror, of that river which\nher brother had so often said was bearing him away.\n\nThe father and his sick daughter were yet fresh in Florence's mind, and,\nindeed, that incident was not a week old, when Sir Barnet and his lady\ngoing out walking in the lanes one afternoon, proposed to her to bear\nthem company. Florence readily consenting, Lady Skettles ordered out\nyoung Barnet as a matter of course. For nothing delighted Lady Skettles\nso much, as beholding her eldest son with Florence on his arm.\n\nBarnet, to say the truth, appeared to entertain an opposite sentiment on\nthe subject, and on such occasions frequently expressed himself audibly,\nthough indefinitely, in reference to 'a parcel of girls.' As it was not\neasy to ruffle her sweet temper, however, Florence generally reconciled\nthe young gentleman to his fate after a few minutes, and they strolled\non amicably: Lady Skettles and Sir Barnet following, in a state of\nperfect complacency and high gratification.\n\nThis was the order of procedure on the afternoon in question; and\nFlorence had almost succeeded in overruling the present objections\nof Skettles Junior to his destiny, when a gentleman on horseback came\nriding by, looked at them earnestly as he passed, drew in his rein,\nwheeled round, and came riding back again, hat in hand.\n\nThe gentleman had looked particularly at Florence; and when the little\nparty stopped, on his riding back, he bowed to her, before saluting Sir\nBarnet and his lady. Florence had no remembrance of having ever seen\nhim, but she started involuntarily when he came near her, and drew back.\n\n'My horse is perfectly quiet, I assure you,' said the gentleman.\n\nIt was not that, but something in the gentleman himself--Florence could\nnot have said what--that made her recoil as if she had been stung.\n\n'I have the honour to address Miss Dombey, I believe?' said the\ngentleman, with a most persuasive smile. On Florence inclining her head,\nhe added, 'My name is Carker. I can hardly hope to be remembered by Miss\nDombey, except by name. Carker.'\n\nFlorence, sensible of a strange inclination to shiver, though the day\nwas hot, presented him to her host and hostess; by whom he was very\ngraciously received.\n\n'I beg pardon,' said Mr Carker, 'a thousand times! But I am going down\ntomorrow morning to Mr Dombey, at Leamington, and if Miss Dombey can\nentrust me with any commission, need I say how very happy I shall be?'\n\nSir Barnet immediately divining that Florence would desire to write a\nletter to her father, proposed to return, and besought Mr Carker to come\nhome and dine in his riding gear. Mr Carker had the misfortune to be\nengaged to dinner, but if Miss Dombey wished to write, nothing would\ndelight him more than to accompany them back, and to be her faithful\nslave in waiting as long as she pleased. As he said this with his widest\nsmile, and bent down close to her to pat his horse's neck, Florence\nmeeting his eyes, saw, rather than heard him say, 'There is no news of\nthe ship!'\n\nConfused, frightened, shrinking from him, and not even sure that he\nhad said those words, for he seemed to have shown them to her in some\nextraordinary manner through his smile, instead of uttering them,\nFlorence faintly said that she was obliged to him, but she would not\nwrite; she had nothing to say.\n\n'Nothing to send, Miss Dombey?' said the man of teeth.\n\n'Nothing,' said Florence, 'but my--but my dear love--if you please.'\n\nDisturbed as Florence was, she raised her eyes to his face with\nan imploring and expressive look, that plainly besought him, if he\nknew--which he as plainly did--that any message between her and her\nfather was an uncommon charge, but that one most of all, to spare her.\nMr Carker smiled and bowed low, and being charged by Sir Barnet with the\nbest compliments of himself and Lady Skettles, took his leave, and rode\naway: leaving a favourable impression on that worthy couple. Florence\nwas seized with such a shudder as he went, that Sir Barnet, adopting the\npopular superstition, supposed somebody was passing over her grave. Mr\nCarker turning a corner, on the instant, looked back, and bowed, and\ndisappeared, as if he rode off to the churchyard straight, to do it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25. Strange News of Uncle Sol\n\n\nCaptain Cuttle, though no sluggard, did not turn out so early on the\nmorning after he had seen Sol Gills, through the shop-window, writing in\nthe parlour, with the Midshipman upon the counter, and Rob the Grinder\nmaking up his bed below it, but that the clocks struck six as he raised\nhimself on his elbow, and took a survey of his little chamber. The\nCaptain's eyes must have done severe duty, if he usually opened them as\nwide on awaking as he did that morning; and were but roughly rewarded\nfor their vigilance, if he generally rubbed them half as hard. But the\noccasion was no common one, for Rob the Grinder had certainly never\nstood in the doorway of Captain Cuttle's room before, and in it he stood\nthen, panting at the Captain, with a flushed and touzled air of Bed\nabout him, that greatly heightened both his colour and expression.\n\n'Holloa!' roared the Captain. 'What's the matter?'\n\nBefore Rob could stammer a word in answer, Captain Cuttle turned out,\nall in a heap, and covered the boy's mouth with his hand.\n\n'Steady, my lad,' said the Captain, 'don't ye speak a word to me as\nyet!'\n\nThe Captain, looking at his visitor in great consternation, gently\nshouldered him into the next room, after laying this injunction upon\nhim; and disappearing for a few moments, forthwith returned in the blue\nsuit. Holding up his hand in token of the injunction not yet being taken\noff, Captain Cuttle walked up to the cupboard, and poured himself out\na dram; a counterpart of which he handed to the messenger. The Captain\nthen stood himself up in a corner, against the wall, as if to forestall\nthe possibility of being knocked backwards by the communication that was\nto be made to him; and having swallowed his liquor, with his eyes fixed\non the messenger, and his face as pale as his face could be, requested\nhim to 'heave ahead.'\n\n'Do you mean, tell you, Captain?' asked Rob, who had been greatly\nimpressed by these precautions.\n\n'Ay!' said the Captain.\n\n'Well, Sir,' said Rob, 'I ain't got much to tell. But look here!'\n\nRob produced a bundle of keys. The Captain surveyed them, remained in\nhis corner, and surveyed the messenger.\n\n'And look here!' pursued Rob.\n\nThe boy produced a sealed packet, which Captain Cuttle stared at as he\nhad stared at the keys.\n\n'When I woke this morning, Captain,' said Rob, 'which was about a\nquarter after five, I found these on my pillow. The shop-door was\nunbolted and unlocked, and Mr Gills gone.'\n\n'Gone!' roared the Captain.\n\n'Flowed, Sir,' returned Rob.\n\nThe Captain's voice was so tremendous, and he came out of his corner\nwith such way on him, that Rob retreated before him into another corner:\nholding out the keys and packet, to prevent himself from being run down.\n\n'\"For Captain Cuttle,\" Sir,' cried Rob, 'is on the keys, and on the\npacket too. Upon my word and honour, Captain Cuttle, I don't know\nanything more about it. I wish I may die if I do! Here's a sitiwation\nfor a lad that's just got a sitiwation,' cried the unfortunate Grinder,\nscrewing his cuff into his face: 'his master bolted with his place, and\nhim blamed for it!'\n\nThese lamentations had reference to Captain Cuttle's gaze, or\nrather glare, which was full of vague suspicions, threatenings, and\ndenunciations. Taking the proffered packet from his hand, the Captain\nopened it and read as follows:--\n\n'\"My dear Ned Cuttle. Enclosed is my will!\"' The Captain turned it over,\nwith a doubtful look--'\"and Testament\"--Where's the Testament?' said the\nCaptain, instantly impeaching the ill-fated Grinder. 'What have you done\nwith that, my lad?'\n\n'I never see it,' whimpered Rob. 'Don't keep on suspecting an innocent\nlad, Captain. I never touched the Testament.'\n\nCaptain Cuttle shook his head, implying that somebody must be made\nanswerable for it; and gravely proceeded:\n\n'\"Which don't break open for a year, or until you have decisive\nintelligence of my dear Walter, who is dear to you, Ned, too, I am\nsure.\"' The Captain paused and shook his head in some emotion; then, as\na re-establishment of his dignity in this trying position, looked with\nexceeding sternness at the Grinder. '\"If you should never hear of me, or\nsee me more, Ned, remember an old friend as he will remember you to\nthe last--kindly; and at least until the period I have mentioned has\nexpired, keep a home in the old place for Walter. There are no debts,\nthe loan from Dombey's House is paid off and all my keys I send with\nthis. Keep this quiet, and make no inquiry for me; it is useless. So no\nmore, dear Ned, from your true friend, Solomon Gills.\"' The Captain took\na long breath, and then read these words written below: '\"The boy Rob,\nwell recommended, as I told you, from Dombey's House. If all else should\ncome to the hammer, take care, Ned, of the little Midshipman.\"'\n\nTo convey to posterity any idea of the manner in which the Captain,\nafter turning this letter over and over, and reading it a score of\ntimes, sat down in his chair, and held a court-martial on the subject in\nhis own mind, would require the united genius of all the great men,\nwho, discarding their own untoward days, have determined to go down to\nposterity, and have never got there. At first the Captain was too much\nconfounded and distressed to think of anything but the letter itself;\nand even when his thoughts began to glance upon the various attendant\nfacts, they might, perhaps, as well have occupied themselves with their\nformer theme, for any light they reflected on them. In this state of\nmind, Captain Cuttle having the Grinder before the court, and no one\nelse, found it a great relief to decide, generally, that he was an\nobject of suspicion: which the Captain so clearly expressed in his\nvisage, that Rob remonstrated.\n\n'Oh, don't, Captain!' cried the Grinder. 'I wonder how you can! what\nhave I done to be looked at, like that?'\n\n'My lad,' said Captain Cuttle, 'don't you sing out afore you're hurt.\nAnd don't you commit yourself, whatever you do.'\n\n'I haven't been and committed nothing, Captain!' answered Rob.\n\n'Keep her free, then,' said the Captain, impressively, 'and ride easy.'\n\nWith a deep sense of the responsibility imposed upon him, and the\nnecessity of thoroughly fathoming this mysterious affair as became a man\nin his relations with the parties, Captain Cuttle resolved to go down\nand examine the premises, and to keep the Grinder with him. Considering\nthat youth as under arrest at present, the Captain was in some doubt\nwhether it might not be expedient to handcuff him, or tie his ankles\ntogether, or attach a weight to his legs; but not being clear as to the\nlegality of such formalities, the Captain decided merely to hold him by\nthe shoulder all the way, and knock him down if he made any objection.\n\nHowever, he made none, and consequently got to the Instrument-maker's\nhouse without being placed under any more stringent restraint. As the\nshutters were not yet taken down, the Captain's first care was to\nhave the shop opened; and when the daylight was freely admitted, he\nproceeded, with its aid, to further investigation.\n\nThe Captain's first care was to establish himself in a chair in the\nshop, as President of the solemn tribunal that was sitting within\nhim; and to require Rob to lie down in his bed under the counter, show\nexactly where he discovered the keys and packet when he awoke, how\nhe found the door when he went to try it, how he started off to Brig\nPlace--cautiously preventing the latter imitation from being carried\nfarther than the threshold--and so on to the end of the chapter. When\nall this had been done several times, the Captain shook his head and\nseemed to think the matter had a bad look.\n\nNext, the Captain, with some indistinct idea of finding a body,\ninstituted a strict search over the whole house; groping in the cellars\nwith a lighted candle, thrusting his hook behind doors, bringing his\nhead into violent contact with beams, and covering himself with cobwebs.\nMounting up to the old man's bed-room, they found that he had not been\nin bed on the previous night, but had merely lain down on the coverlet,\nas was evident from the impression yet remaining there.\n\n'And I think, Captain,' said Rob, looking round the room, 'that when Mr\nGills was going in and out so often, these last few days, he was taking\nlittle things away, piecemeal, not to attract attention.'\n\n'Ay!' said the Captain, mysteriously. 'Why so, my lad?'\n\n'Why,' returned Rob, looking about, 'I don't see his shaving tackle. Nor\nhis brushes, Captain. Nor no shirts. Nor yet his shoes.'\n\nAs each of these articles was mentioned, Captain Cuttle took particular\nnotice of the corresponding department of the Grinder, lest he should\nappear to have been in recent use, or should prove to be in present\npossession thereof. But Rob had no occasion to shave, was not brushed,\nand wore the clothes he had on for a long time past, beyond all\npossibility of a mistake.\n\n'And what should you say,' said the Captain--'not committing\nyourself--about his time of sheering off? Hey?'\n\n'Why, I think, Captain,' returned Rob, 'that he must have gone pretty\nsoon after I began to snore.'\n\n'What o'clock was that?' said the Captain, prepared to be very\nparticular about the exact time.\n\n'How can I tell, Captain!' answered Rob. 'I only know that I'm a heavy\nsleeper at first, and a light one towards morning; and if Mr Gills had\ncome through the shop near daybreak, though ever so much on tiptoe, I'm\npretty sure I should have heard him shut the door at all events.'\n\nOn mature consideration of this evidence, Captain Cuttle began to think\nthat the Instrument-maker must have vanished of his own accord; to which\nlogical conclusion he was assisted by the letter addressed to himself,\nwhich, as being undeniably in the old man's handwriting, would seem,\nwith no great forcing, to bear the construction, that he arranged of his\nown will to go, and so went. The Captain had next to consider where and\nwhy? and as there was no way whatsoever that he saw to the solution of\nthe first difficulty, he confined his meditations to the second.\n\nRemembering the old man's curious manner, and the farewell he had taken\nof him; unaccountably fervent at the time, but quite intelligible now: a\nterrible apprehension strengthened on the Captain, that, overpowered\nby his anxieties and regrets for Walter, he had been driven to commit\nsuicide. Unequal to the wear and tear of daily life, as he had\noften professed himself to be, and shaken as he no doubt was by the\nuncertainty and deferred hope he had undergone, it seemed no violently\nstrained misgiving, but only too probable.\n\nFree from debt, and with no fear for his personal liberty, or the seizure\nof his goods, what else but such a state of madness could have hurried\nhim away alone and secretly? As to his carrying some apparel with him, if\nhe had really done so--and they were not even sure of that--he might have\ndone so, the Captain argued, to prevent inquiry, to distract attention\nfrom his probable fate, or to ease the very mind that was now revolving\nall these possibilities. Such, reduced into plain language, and condensed\nwithin a small compass, was the final result and substance of Captain\nCuttle's deliberations: which took a long time to arrive at this pass,\nand were, like some more public deliberations, very discursive and\ndisorderly.\n\nDejected and despondent in the extreme, Captain Cuttle felt it just to\nrelease Rob from the arrest in which he had placed him, and to enlarge\nhim, subject to a kind of honourable inspection which he still resolved\nto exercise; and having hired a man, from Brogley the Broker, to sit in\nthe shop during their absence, the Captain, taking Rob with him, issued\nforth upon a dismal quest after the mortal remains of Solomon Gills.\n\nNot a station-house, or bone-house, or work-house in the metropolis\nescaped a visitation from the hard glazed hat. Along the wharves, among\nthe shipping on the bank-side, up the river, down the river, here,\nthere, everywhere, it went gleaming where men were thickest, like the\nhero's helmet in an epic battle. For a whole week the Captain read of\nall the found and missing people in all the newspapers and handbills,\nand went forth on expeditions at all hours of the day to identify\nSolomon Gills, in poor little ship-boys who had fallen overboard, and in\ntall foreigners with dark beards who had taken poison--'to make sure,'\nCaptain Cuttle said, 'that it wam't him.' It is a sure thing that it\nnever was, and that the good Captain had no other satisfaction.\n\nCaptain Cuttle at last abandoned these attempts as hopeless, and set\nhimself to consider what was to be done next. After several new perusals\nof his poor friend's letter, he considered that the maintenance of 'a\nhome in the old place for Walter' was the primary duty imposed upon him.\nTherefore, the Captain's decision was, that he would keep house on\nthe premises of Solomon Gills himself, and would go into the\ninstrument-business, and see what came of it.\n\nBut as this step involved the relinquishment of his apartments at Mrs\nMacStinger's, and he knew that resolute woman would never hear of his\ndeserting them, the Captain took the desperate determination of running\naway.\n\n'Now, look ye here, my lad,' said the Captain to Rob, when he had\nmatured this notable scheme, 'to-morrow, I shan't be found in this here\nroadstead till night--not till arter midnight p'rhaps. But you keep\nwatch till you hear me knock, and the moment you do, turn-to, and open\nthe door.'\n\n'Very good, Captain,' said Rob.\n\n'You'll continue to be rated on these here books,' pursued the Captain\ncondescendingly, 'and I don't say but what you may get promotion, if\nyou and me should pull together with a will. But the moment you hear me\nknock to-morrow night, whatever time it is, turn-to and show yourself\nsmart with the door.'\n\n'I'll be sure to do it, Captain,' replied Rob.\n\n'Because you understand,' resumed the Captain, coming back again to\nenforce this charge upon his mind, 'there may be, for anything I can\nsay, a chase; and I might be took while I was waiting, if you didn't\nshow yourself smart with the door.'\n\nRob again assured the Captain that he would be prompt and wakeful;\nand the Captain having made this prudent arrangement, went home to Mrs\nMacStinger's for the last time.\n\nThe sense the Captain had of its being the last time, and of the awful\npurpose hidden beneath his blue waistcoat, inspired him with such a\nmortal dread of Mrs MacStinger, that the sound of that lady's foot\ndownstairs at any time of the day, was sufficient to throw him into\na fit of trembling. It fell out, too, that Mrs MacStinger was in a\ncharming temper--mild and placid as a house--lamb; and Captain Cuttle's\nconscience suffered terrible twinges, when she came up to inquire if she\ncould cook him nothing for his dinner.\n\n'A nice small kidney-pudding now, Cap'en Cuttle,' said his landlady: 'or\na sheep's heart. Don't mind my trouble.'\n\n'No thank'ee, Ma'am,' returned the Captain.\n\n'Have a roast fowl,' said Mrs MacStinger, 'with a bit of weal stuffing\nand some egg sauce. Come, Cap'en Cuttle! Give yourself a little treat!'\n\n'No thank'ee, Ma'am,' returned the Captain very humbly.\n\n'I'm sure you're out of sorts, and want to be stimulated,' said Mrs\nMacStinger. 'Why not have, for once in a way, a bottle of sherry wine?'\n\n'Well, Ma'am,' rejoined the Captain, 'if you'd be so good as take a\nglass or two, I think I would try that. Would you do me the favour,\nMa'am,' said the Captain, torn to pieces by his conscience, 'to accept a\nquarter's rent ahead?'\n\n'And why so, Cap'en Cuttle?' retorted Mrs MacStinger--sharply, as the\nCaptain thought.\n\nThe Captain was frightened to dead 'If you would Ma'am,' he said with\nsubmission, 'it would oblige me. I can't keep my money very well. It\npays itself out. I should take it kind if you'd comply.'\n\n'Well, Cap'en Cuttle,' said the unconscious MacStinger, rubbing her\nhands, 'you can do as you please. It's not for me, with my family, to\nrefuse, no more than it is to ask.'\n\n'And would you, Ma'am,' said the Captain, taking down the tin canister\nin which he kept his cash, from the top shelf of the cupboard, 'be so\ngood as offer eighteen-pence a-piece to the little family all round? If\nyou could make it convenient, Ma'am, to pass the word presently for them\nchildren to come for'ard, in a body, I should be glad to see 'em.'\n\nThese innocent MacStingers were so many daggers to the Captain's breast,\nwhen they appeared in a swarm, and tore at him with the confiding\ntrustfulness he so little deserved. The eye of Alexander MacStinger, who\nhad been his favourite, was insupportable to the Captain; the voice of\nJuliana MacStinger, who was the picture of her mother, made a coward of\nhim.\n\nCaptain Cuttle kept up appearances, nevertheless, tolerably well, and\nfor an hour or two was very hardly used and roughly handled by the young\nMacStingers: who in their childish frolics, did a little damage also\nto the glazed hat, by sitting in it, two at a time, as in a nest, and\ndrumming on the inside of the crown with their shoes. At length the\nCaptain sorrowfully dismissed them: taking leave of these cherubs with\nthe poignant remorse and grief of a man who was going to execution.\n\nIn the silence of night, the Captain packed up his heavier property in a\nchest, which he locked, intending to leave it there, in all probability\nfor ever, but on the forlorn chance of one day finding a man\nsufficiently bold and desperate to come and ask for it. Of his lighter\nnecessaries, the Captain made a bundle; and disposed his plate about his\nperson, ready for flight. At the hour of midnight, when Brig Place was\nburied in slumber, and Mrs MacStinger was lulled in sweet oblivion, with\nher infants around her, the guilty Captain, stealing down on tiptoe, in\nthe dark, opened the door, closed it softly after him, and took to his\nheels.\n\nPursued by the image of Mrs MacStinger springing out of bed, and,\nregardless of costume, following and bringing him back; pursued also by\na consciousness of his enormous crime; Captain Cuttle held on at a great\npace, and allowed no grass to grow under his feet, between Brig Place\nand the Instrument-maker's door. It opened when he knocked--for Rob\nwas on the watch--and when it was bolted and locked behind him, Captain\nCuttle felt comparatively safe.\n\n'Whew!' cried the Captain, looking round him. 'It's a breather!'\n\n'Nothing the matter, is there, Captain?' cried the gaping Rob.\n\n'No, no!' said Captain Cuttle, after changing colour, and listening to\na passing footstep in the street. 'But mind ye, my lad; if any lady,\nexcept either of them two as you see t'other day, ever comes and asks\nfor Cap'en Cuttle, be sure to report no person of that name known, nor\nnever heard of here; observe them orders, will you?'\n\n'I'll take care, Captain,' returned Rob.\n\n'You might say--if you liked,' hesitated the Captain, 'that you'd\nread in the paper that a Cap'en of that name was gone to Australia,\nemigrating, along with a whole ship's complement of people as had all\nswore never to come back no more.'\n\nRob nodded his understanding of these instructions; and Captain Cuttle\npromising to make a man of him, if he obeyed orders, dismissed him,\nyawning, to his bed under the counter, and went aloft to the chamber of\nSolomon Gills.\n\nWhat the Captain suffered next day, whenever a bonnet passed, or how\noften he darted out of the shop to elude imaginary MacStingers, and\nsought safety in the attic, cannot be told. But to avoid the fatigues\nattendant on this means of self-preservation, the Captain curtained the\nglass door of communication between the shop and parlour, on the inside;\nfitted a key to it from the bunch that had been sent to him; and cut a\nsmall hole of espial in the wall. The advantage of this fortification is\nobvious. On a bonnet appearing, the Captain instantly slipped into his\ngarrison, locked himself up, and took a secret observation of the enemy.\nFinding it a false alarm, the Captain instantly slipped out again. And\nthe bonnets in the street were so very numerous, and alarms were\nso inseparable from their appearance, that the Captain was almost\nincessantly slipping in and out all day long.\n\nCaptain Cuttle found time, however, in the midst of this fatiguing\nservice to inspect the stock; in connexion with which he had the\ngeneral idea (very laborious to Rob) that too much friction could not\nbe bestowed upon it, and that it could not be made too bright. He also\nticketed a few attractive-looking articles at a venture, at prices\nranging from ten shillings to fifty pounds, and exposed them in the\nwindow to the great astonishment of the public.\n\nAfter effecting these improvements, Captain Cuttle, surrounded by the\ninstruments, began to feel scientific: and looked up at the stars at\nnight, through the skylight, when he was smoking his pipe in the little\nback parlour before going to bed, as if he had established a kind of\nproperty in them. As a tradesman in the City, too, he began to have an\ninterest in the Lord Mayor, and the Sheriffs, and in Public Companies;\nand felt bound to read the quotations of the Funds every day, though he\nwas unable to make out, on any principle of navigation, what the figures\nmeant, and could have very well dispensed with the fractions. Florence,\nthe Captain waited on, with his strange news of Uncle Sol, immediately\nafter taking possession of the Midshipman; but she was away from home.\nSo the Captain sat himself down in his altered station of life, with no\ncompany but Rob the Grinder; and losing count of time, as men do when\ngreat changes come upon them, thought musingly of Walter, and of Solomon\nGills, and even of Mrs MacStinger herself, as among the things that had\nbeen.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26. Shadows of the Past and Future\n\n\n'Your most obedient, Sir,' said the Major. 'Damme, Sir, a friend of my\nfriend Dombey's is a friend of mine, and I'm glad to see you!'\n\n'I am infinitely obliged, Carker,' explained Mr Dombey, 'to Major\nBagstock, for his company and conversation. Major Bagstock has rendered\nme great service, Carker.'\n\nMr Carker the Manager, hat in hand, just arrived at Leamington, and\njust introduced to the Major, showed the Major his whole double range\nof teeth, and trusted he might take the liberty of thanking him with\nall his heart for having effected so great an Improvement in Mr Dombey's\nlooks and spirits.\n\n'By Gad, Sir,' said the Major, in reply, 'there are no thanks due to\nme, for it's a give and take affair. A great creature like our friend\nDombey, Sir,' said the Major, lowering his voice, but not lowering it so\nmuch as to render it inaudible to that gentleman, 'cannot help improving\nand exalting his friends. He strengthens and invigorates a man, Sir,\ndoes Dombey, in his moral nature.'\n\nMr Carker snapped at the expression. In his moral nature. Exactly. The\nvery words he had been on the point of suggesting.\n\n'But when my friend Dombey, Sir,' added the Major, 'talks to you of\nMajor Bagstock, I must crave leave to set him and you right. He means\nplain Joe, Sir--Joey B.--Josh. Bagstock--Joseph--rough and tough Old J.,\nSir. At your service.'\n\nMr Carker's excessively friendly inclinations towards the Major, and Mr\nCarker's admiration of his roughness, toughness, and plainness, gleamed\nout of every tooth in Mr Carker's head.\n\n'And now, Sir,' said the Major, 'you and Dombey have the devil's own\namount of business to talk over.'\n\n'By no means, Major,' observed Mr Dombey.\n\n'Dombey,' said the Major, defiantly, 'I know better; a man of your\nmark--the Colossus of commerce--is not to be interrupted. Your moments\nare precious. We shall meet at dinner-time. In the interval, old Joseph\nwill be scarce. The dinner-hour is a sharp seven, Mr Carker.'\n\nWith that, the Major, greatly swollen as to his face, withdrew; but\nimmediately putting in his head at the door again, said:\n\n'I beg your pardon. Dombey, have you any message to 'em?'\n\nMr Dombey in some embarrassment, and not without a glance at the\ncourteous keeper of his business confidence, entrusted the Major with\nhis compliments.\n\n'By the Lord, Sir,' said the Major, 'you must make it something warmer\nthan that, or old Joe will be far from welcome.'\n\n'Regards then, if you will, Major,' returned Mr Dombey.\n\n'Damme, Sir,' said the Major, shaking his shoulders and his great cheeks\njocularly: 'make it something warmer than that.'\n\n'What you please, then, Major,' observed Mr Dombey.\n\n'Our friend is sly, Sir, sly, Sir, de-vilish sly,' said the Major,\nstaring round the door at Carker. 'So is Bagstock.' But stopping in the\nmidst of a chuckle, and drawing himself up to his full height, the Major\nsolemnly exclaimed, as he struck himself on the chest, 'Dombey! I envy\nyour feelings. God bless you!' and withdrew.\n\n'You must have found the gentleman a great resource,' said Carker,\nfollowing him with his teeth.\n\n'Very great indeed,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'He has friends here, no doubt,' pursued Carker. 'I perceive, from\nwhat he has said, that you go into society here. Do you know,' smiling\nhorribly, 'I am so very glad that you go into society!'\n\nMr Dombey acknowledged this display of interest on the part of his\nsecond in command, by twirling his watch-chain, and slightly moving his\nhead.\n\n'You were formed for society,' said Carker. 'Of all the men I know, you\nare the best adapted, by nature and by position, for society. Do you\nknow I have been frequently amazed that you should have held it at arm's\nlength so long!'\n\n'I have had my reasons, Carker. I have been alone, and indifferent to\nit. But you have great social qualifications yourself, and are the more\nlikely to have been surprised.'\n\n'Oh! I!' returned the other, with ready self-disparagement. 'It's\nquite another matter in the case of a man like me. I don't come into\ncomparison with you.'\n\nMr Dombey put his hand to his neckcloth, settled his chin in it,\ncoughed, and stood looking at his faithful friend and servant for a few\nmoments in silence.\n\n'I shall have the pleasure, Carker,' said Mr Dombey at length: making as\nif he swallowed something a little too large for his throat: 'to present\nyou to my--to the Major's friends. Highly agreeable people.'\n\n'Ladies among them, I presume?' insinuated the smooth Manager.\n\n'They are all--that is to say, they are both--ladies,' replied Mr\nDombey.\n\n'Only two?' smiled Carker.\n\n'They are only two. I have confined my visits to their residence, and\nhave made no other acquaintance here.'\n\n'Sisters, perhaps?' quoth Carker.\n\n'Mother and daughter,' replied Mr Dombey.\n\nAs Mr Dombey dropped his eyes, and adjusted his neckcloth again, the\nsmiling face of Mr Carker the Manager became in a moment, and without\nany stage of transition, transformed into a most intent and frowning\nface, scanning his closely, and with an ugly sneer. As Mr Dombey raised\nhis eyes, it changed back, no less quickly, to its old expression, and\nshowed him every gum of which it stood possessed.\n\n'You are very kind,' said Carker, 'I shall be delighted to know them.\nSpeaking of daughters, I have seen Miss Dombey.'\n\nThere was a sudden rush of blood to Mr Dombey's face.\n\n'I took the liberty of waiting on her,' said Carker, 'to inquire if she\ncould charge me with any little commission. I am not so fortunate as to\nbe the bearer of any but her--but her dear love.'\n\nWolf's face that it was then, with even the hot tongue revealing itself\nthrough the stretched mouth, as the eyes encountered Mr Dombey's!\n\n'What business intelligence is there?' inquired the latter gentleman,\nafter a silence, during which Mr Carker had produced some memoranda and\nother papers.\n\n'There is very little,' returned Carker. 'Upon the whole we have not had\nour usual good fortune of late, but that is of little moment to you. At\nLloyd's, they give up the Son and Heir for lost. Well, she was insured,\nfrom her keel to her masthead.'\n\n'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, taking a chair near him, 'I cannot say that\nyoung man, Gay, ever impressed me favourably--'\n\n'Nor me,' interposed the Manager.\n\n'--But I wish,' said Mr Dombey, without heeding the interruption, 'he had\nnever gone on board that ship. I wish he had never been sent out.\n\n'It is a pity you didn't say so, in good time, is it not?' retorted\nCarker, coolly. 'However, I think it's all for the best. I really, think\nit's all for the best. Did I mention that there was something like a\nlittle confidence between Miss Dombey and myself?'\n\n'No,' said Mr Dombey, sternly.\n\n'I have no doubt,' returned Mr Carker, after an impressive pause, 'that\nwherever Gay is, he is much better where he is, than at home here. If\nI were, or could be, in your place, I should be satisfied of that. I\nam quite satisfied of it myself. Miss Dombey is confiding and\nyoung--perhaps hardly proud enough, for your daughter--if she have a\nfault. Not that that is much though, I am sure. Will you check these\nbalances with me?'\n\nMr Dombey leaned back in his chair, instead of bending over the papers\nthat were laid before him, and looked the Manager steadily in the face.\nThe Manager, with his eyelids slightly raised, affected to be glancing\nat his figures, and to await the leisure of his principal. He showed\nthat he affected this, as if from great delicacy, and with a design to\nspare Mr Dombey's feelings; and the latter, as he looked at him, was\ncognizant of his intended consideration, and felt that but for it, this\nconfidential Carker would have said a great deal more, which he, Mr\nDombey, was too proud to ask for. It was his way in business, often.\nLittle by little, Mr Dombey's gaze relaxed, and his attention became\ndiverted to the papers before him; but while busy with the occupation\nthey afforded him, he frequently stopped, and looked at Mr Carker again.\nWhenever he did so, Mr Carker was demonstrative, as before, in his\ndelicacy, and impressed it on his great chief more and more.\n\nWhile they were thus engaged; and under the skilful culture of the\nManager, angry thoughts in reference to poor Florence brooded and bred\nin Mr Dombey's breast, usurping the place of the cold dislike that\ngenerally reigned there; Major Bagstock, much admired by the old ladies\nof Leamington, and followed by the Native, carrying the usual amount\nof light baggage, straddled along the shady side of the way, to make a\nmorning call on Mrs Skewton. It being midday when the Major reached the\nbower of Cleopatra, he had the good fortune to find his Princess on her\nusual sofa, languishing over a cup of coffee, with the room so darkened\nand shaded for her more luxurious repose, that Withers, who was in\nattendance on her, loomed like a phantom page.\n\n'What insupportable creature is this, coming in?' said Mrs Skewton, 'I\ncannot hear it. Go away, whoever you are!'\n\n'You have not the heart to banish J. B., Ma'am!' said the Major halting\nmidway, to remonstrate, with his cane over his shoulder.\n\n'Oh it's you, is it? On second thoughts, you may enter,' observed\nCleopatra.\n\nThe Major entered accordingly, and advancing to the sofa pressed her\ncharming hand to his lips.\n\n'Sit down,' said Cleopatra, listlessly waving her fan, 'a long way off.\nDon't come too near me, for I am frightfully faint and sensitive this\nmorning, and you smell of the Sun. You are absolutely tropical.'\n\n'By George, Ma'am,' said the Major, 'the time has been when Joseph\nBagstock has been grilled and blistered by the Sun; then time was, when\nhe was forced, Ma'am, into such full blow, by high hothouse heat in\nthe West Indies, that he was known as the Flower. A man never heard of\nBagstock, Ma'am, in those days; he heard of the Flower--the Flower of\nOurs. The Flower may have faded, more or less, Ma'am,' observed the\nMajor, dropping into a much nearer chair than had been indicated by\nhis cruel Divinity, 'but it is a tough plant yet, and constant as the\nevergreen.'\n\nHere the Major, under cover of the dark room, shut up one eye, rolled\nhis head like a Harlequin, and, in his great self-satisfaction, perhaps\nwent nearer to the confines of apoplexy than he had ever gone before.\n\n'Where is Mrs Granger?' inquired Cleopatra of her page.\n\nWithers believed she was in her own room.\n\n'Very well,' said Mrs Skewton. 'Go away, and shut the door. I am\nengaged.'\n\nAs Withers disappeared, Mrs Skewton turned her head languidly towards\nthe Major, without otherwise moving, and asked him how his friend was.\n\n'Dombey, Ma'am,' returned the Major, with a facetious gurgling in his\nthroat, 'is as well as a man in his condition can be. His condition is\na desperate one, Ma'am. He is touched, is Dombey! Touched!' cried the\nMajor. 'He is bayonetted through the body.'\n\nCleopatra cast a sharp look at the Major, that contrasted forcibly with\nthe affected drawl in which she presently said:\n\n'Major Bagstock, although I know but little of the world,--nor can I\nreally regret my experience, for I fear it is a false place, full of\nwithering conventionalities: where Nature is but little regarded, and\nwhere the music of the heart, and the gushing of the soul, and all that\nsort of thing, which is so truly poetical, is seldom heard,--I cannot\nmisunderstand your meaning. There is an allusion to Edith--to my\nextremely dear child,' said Mrs Skewton, tracing the outline of her\neyebrows with her forefinger, 'in your words, to which the tenderest of\nchords vibrates excessively.'\n\n'Bluntness, Ma'am,' returned the Major, 'has ever been the\ncharacteristic of the Bagstock breed. You are right. Joe admits it.'\n\n'And that allusion,' pursued Cleopatra, 'would involve one of the\nmost--if not positively the most--touching, and thrilling, and sacred\nemotions of which our sadly-fallen nature is susceptible, I conceive.'\n\nThe Major laid his hand upon his lips, and wafted a kiss to Cleopatra,\nas if to identify the emotion in question.\n\n'I feel that I am weak. I feel that I am wanting in that energy, which\nshould sustain a Mama: not to say a parent: on such a subject,' said\nMrs Skewton, trimming her lips with the laced edge of her\npocket-handkerchief; 'but I can hardly approach a topic so excessively\nmomentous to my dearest Edith without a feeling of faintness.\nNevertheless, bad man, as you have boldly remarked upon it, and as it\nhas occasioned me great anguish:' Mrs Skewton touched her left side with\nher fan: 'I will not shrink from my duty.'\n\nThe Major, under cover of the dimness, swelled, and swelled, and rolled\nhis purple face about, and winked his lobster eye, until he fell into a\nfit of wheezing, which obliged him to rise and take a turn or two about\nthe room, before his fair friend could proceed.\n\n'Mr Dombey,' said Mrs Skewton, when she at length resumed, 'was obliging\nenough, now many weeks ago, to do us the honour of visiting us here;\nin company, my dear Major, with yourself. I acknowledge--let me be\nopen--that it is my failing to be the creature of impulse, and to wear\nmy heart as it were, outside. I know my failing full well. My enemy\ncannot know it better. But I am not penitent; I would rather not be\nfrozen by the heartless world, and am content to bear this imputation\njustly.'\n\nMrs Skewton arranged her tucker, pinched her wiry throat to give it a\nsoft surface, and went on, with great complacency.\n\n'It gave me (my dearest Edith too, I am sure) infinite pleasure\nto receive Mr Dombey. As a friend of yours, my dear Major, we were\nnaturally disposed to be prepossessed in his favour; and I fancied\nthat I observed an amount of Heart in Mr Dombey, that was excessively\nrefreshing.'\n\n'There is devilish little heart in Dombey now, Ma'am,' said the Major.\n\n'Wretched man!' cried Mrs Skewton, looking at him languidly, 'pray be\nsilent.'\n\n'J. B. is dumb, Ma'am,' said the Major.\n\n'Mr Dombey,' pursued Cleopatra, smoothing the rosy hue upon her cheeks,\n'accordingly repeated his visit; and possibly finding some attraction\nin the simplicity and primitiveness of our tastes--for there is always\na charm in nature--it is so very sweet--became one of our little circle\nevery evening. Little did I think of the awful responsibility into which\nI plunged when I encouraged Mr Dombey--to'--\n\n'To beat up these quarters, Ma'am,' suggested Major Bagstock.\n\n'Coarse person!' said Mrs Skewton, 'you anticipate my meaning, though in\nodious language.'\n\nHere Mrs Skewton rested her elbow on the little table at her side,\nand suffering her wrist to droop in what she considered a graceful and\nbecoming manner, dangled her fan to and fro, and lazily admired her hand\nwhile speaking.\n\n'The agony I have endured,' she said mincingly, 'as the truth has by\ndegrees dawned upon me, has been too exceedingly terrific to dilate\nupon. My whole existence is bound up in my sweetest Edith; and to\nsee her change from day to day--my beautiful pet, who has positively\ngarnered up her heart since the death of that most delightful creature,\nGranger--is the most affecting thing in the world.'\n\nMrs Skewton's world was not a very trying one, if one might judge of it\nby the influence of its most affecting circumstance upon her; but this\nby the way.\n\n'Edith,' simpered Mrs Skewton, 'who is the perfect pearl of my life, is\nsaid to resemble me. I believe we are alike.'\n\n'There is one man in the world who never will admit that anyone\nresembles you, Ma'am,' said the Major; 'and that man's name is Old Joe\nBagstock.'\n\nCleopatra made as if she would brain the flatterer with her fan, but\nrelenting, smiled upon him and proceeded:\n\n'If my charming girl inherits any advantages from me, wicked one!': the\nMajor was the wicked one: 'she inherits also my foolish nature. She has\ngreat force of character--mine has been said to be immense, though I\ndon't believe it--but once moved, she is susceptible and sensitive\nto the last extent. What are my feelings when I see her pining! They\ndestroy me.\n\nThe Major advancing his double chin, and pursing up his blue lips into a\nsoothing expression, affected the profoundest sympathy.\n\n'The confidence,' said Mrs Skewton, 'that has subsisted between us--the\nfree development of soul, and openness of sentiment--is touching to\nthink of. We have been more like sisters than Mama and child.'\n\n'J. B.'s own sentiment,' observed the Major, 'expressed by J. B. fifty\nthousand times!'\n\n'Do not interrupt, rude man!' said Cleopatra. 'What are my feelings,\nthen, when I find that there is one subject avoided by us! That there is\na what's-his-name--a gulf--opened between us. That my own artless Edith\nis changed to me! They are of the most poignant description, of course.'\n\nThe Major left his chair, and took one nearer to the little table.\n\n'From day to day I see this, my dear Major,' proceeded Mrs Skewton.\n'From day to day I feel this. From hour to hour I reproach myself for\nthat excess of faith and trustfulness which has led to such distressing\nconsequences; and almost from minute to minute, I hope that Mr Dombey\nmay explain himself, and relieve the torture I undergo, which is\nextremely wearing. But nothing happens, my dear Major; I am the slave\nof remorse--take care of the coffee-cup: you are so very awkward--my\ndarling Edith is an altered being; and I really don't see what is to be\ndone, or what good creature I can advise with.'\n\nMajor Bagstock, encouraged perhaps by the softened and confidential\ntone into which Mrs Skewton, after several times lapsing into it for\na moment, seemed now to have subsided for good, stretched out his hand\nacross the little table, and said with a leer,\n\n'Advise with Joe, Ma'am.'\n\n'Then, you aggravating monster,' said Cleopatra, giving one hand to\nthe Major, and tapping his knuckles with her fan, which she held in the\nother: 'why don't you talk to me? you know what I mean. Why don't you\ntell me something to the purpose?'\n\nThe Major laughed, and kissed the hand she had bestowed upon him, and\nlaughed again immensely.\n\n'Is there as much Heart in Mr Dombey as I gave him credit for?'\nlanguished Cleopatra tenderly. 'Do you think he is in earnest, my dear\nMajor? Would you recommend his being spoken to, or his being left alone?\nNow tell me, like a dear man, what would you advise.'\n\n'Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, Ma'am?' chuckled the Major,\nhoarsely.\n\n'Mysterious creature!' returned Cleopatra, bringing her fan to bear upon\nthe Major's nose. 'How can we marry him?'\n\n'Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, Ma'am, I say?' chuckled the Major\nagain.\n\nMrs Skewton returned no answer in words, but smiled upon the Major with\nso much archness and vivacity, that that gallant officer considering\nhimself challenged, would have imprinted a kiss on her exceedingly red\nlips, but for her interposing the fan with a very winning and juvenile\ndexterity. It might have been in modesty; it might have been in\napprehension of some danger to their bloom.\n\n'Dombey, Ma'am,' said the Major, 'is a great catch.'\n\n'Oh, mercenary wretch!' cried Cleopatra, with a little shriek, 'I am\nshocked.'\n\n'And Dombey, Ma'am,' pursued the Major, thrusting forward his head, and\ndistending his eyes, 'is in earnest. Joseph says it; Bagstock knows it;\nJ. B. keeps him to the mark. Leave Dombey to himself, Ma'am. Dombey is\nsafe, Ma'am. Do as you have done; do no more; and trust to J. B. for the\nend.'\n\n'You really think so, my dear Major?' returned Cleopatra, who had eyed\nhim very cautiously, and very searchingly, in spite of her listless\nbearing.\n\n'Sure of it, Ma'am,' rejoined the Major. 'Cleopatra the peerless,\nand her Antony Bagstock, will often speak of this, triumphantly,\nwhen sharing the elegance and wealth of Edith Dombey's establishment.\nDombey's right-hand man, Ma'am,' said the Major, stopping abruptly in a\nchuckle, and becoming serious, 'has arrived.'\n\n'This morning?' said Cleopatra.\n\n'This morning, Ma'am,' returned the Major. 'And Dombey's anxiety for his\narrival, Ma'am, is to be referred--take J. B.'s word for this; for Joe\nis devilish sly'--the Major tapped his nose, and screwed up one of his\neyes tight: which did not enhance his native beauty--'to his desire that\nwhat is in the wind should become known to him' without Dombey's telling\nand consulting him. For Dombey is as proud, Ma'am,' said the Major, 'as\nLucifer.'\n\n'A charming quality,' lisped Mrs Skewton; 'reminding one of dearest\nEdith.'\n\n'Well, Ma'am,' said the Major. 'I have thrown out hints already, and the\nright-hand man understands 'em; and I'll throw out more, before the day\nis done. Dombey projected this morning a ride to Warwick Castle, and\nto Kenilworth, to-morrow, to be preceded by a breakfast with us. I\nundertook the delivery of this invitation. Will you honour us so far,\nMa'am?' said the Major, swelling with shortness of breath and slyness,\nas he produced a note, addressed to the Honourable Mrs Skewton, by\nfavour of Major Bagstock, wherein hers ever faithfully, Paul Dombey,\nbesought her and her amiable and accomplished daughter to consent to\nthe proposed excursion; and in a postscript unto which, the same ever\nfaithfully Paul Dombey entreated to be recalled to the remembrance of\nMrs Granger.\n\n'Hush!' said Cleopatra, suddenly, 'Edith!'\n\nThe loving mother can scarcely be described as resuming her insipid and\naffected air when she made this exclamation; for she had never cast it\noff; nor was it likely that she ever would or could, in any other\nplace than in the grave. But hurriedly dismissing whatever shadow of\nearnestness, or faint confession of a purpose, laudable or wicked,\nthat her face, or voice, or manner: had, for the moment, betrayed, she\nlounged upon the couch, her most insipid and most languid self again, as\nEdith entered the room.\n\nEdith, so beautiful and stately, but so cold and so repelling. Who,\nslightly acknowledging the presence of Major Bagstock, and directing\na keen glance at her mother, drew back the from a window, and sat down\nthere, looking out.\n\n'My dearest Edith,' said Mrs Skewton, 'where on earth have you been? I\nhave wanted you, my love, most sadly.'\n\n'You said you were engaged, and I stayed away,' she answered, without\nturning her head.\n\n'It was cruel to Old Joe, Ma'am,' said the Major in his gallantry.\n\n'It was very cruel, I know,' she said, still looking out--and said with\nsuch calm disdain, that the Major was discomfited, and could think of\nnothing in reply.\n\n'Major Bagstock, my darling Edith,' drawled her mother, 'who is\ngenerally the most useless and disagreeable creature in the world: as\nyou know--'\n\n'It is surely not worthwhile, Mama,' said Edith, looking round, 'to\nobserve these forms of speech. We are quite alone. We know each other.'\n\nThe quiet scorn that sat upon her handsome face--a scorn that evidently\nlighted on herself, no less than them--was so intense and deep, that\nher mother's simper, for the instant, though of a hardy constitution,\ndrooped before it.\n\n'My darling girl,' she began again.\n\n'Not woman yet?' said Edith, with a smile.\n\n'How very odd you are to-day, my dear! Pray let me say, my love,\nthat Major Bagstock has brought the kindest of notes from Mr Dombey,\nproposing that we should breakfast with him to-morrow, and ride to\nWarwick and Kenilworth. Will you go, Edith?'\n\n'Will I go!' she repeated, turning very red, and breathing quickly as\nshe looked round at her mother.\n\n'I knew you would, my own, observed the latter carelessly. 'It is, as\nyou say, quite a form to ask. Here is Mr Dombey's letter, Edith.'\n\n'Thank you. I have no desire to read it,' was her answer.\n\n'Then perhaps I had better answer it myself,' said Mrs Skewton, 'though\nI had thought of asking you to be my secretary, darling.' As Edith made\nno movement, and no answer, Mrs Skewton begged the Major to wheel her\nlittle table nearer, and to set open the desk it contained, and to take\nout pen and paper for her; all which congenial offices of gallantry the\nMajor discharged, with much submission and devotion.\n\n'Your regards, Edith, my dear?' said Mrs Skewton, pausing, pen in hand,\nat the postscript.\n\n'What you will, Mama,' she answered, without turning her head, and with\nsupreme indifference.\n\nMrs Skewton wrote what she would, without seeking for any more explicit\ndirections, and handed her letter to the Major, who receiving it as a\nprecious charge, made a show of laying it near his heart, but was fain\nto put it in the pocket of his pantaloons on account of the insecurity\nof his waistcoat The Major then took a very polished and chivalrous\nfarewell of both ladies, which the elder one acknowledged in her usual\nmanner, while the younger, sitting with her face addressed to the\nwindow, bent her head so slightly that it would have been a greater\ncompliment to the Major to have made no sign at all, and to have left\nhim to infer that he had not been heard or thought of.\n\n'As to alteration in her, Sir,' mused the Major on his way back; on\nwhich expedition--the afternoon being sunny and hot--he ordered the\nNative and the light baggage to the front, and walked in the shadow\nof that expatriated prince: 'as to alteration, Sir, and pining, and so\nforth, that won't go down with Joseph Bagstock, None of that, Sir. It\nwon't do here. But as to there being something of a division between\n'em--or a gulf as the mother calls it--damme, Sir, that seems true\nenough. And it's odd enough! Well, Sir!' panted the Major, 'Edith\nGranger and Dombey are well matched; let 'em fight it out! Bagstock\nbacks the winner!'\n\nThe Major, by saying these latter words aloud, in the vigour of his\nthoughts, caused the unhappy Native to stop, and turn round, in the\nbelief that he was personally addressed. Exasperated to the last degree\nby this act of insubordination, the Major (though he was swelling with\nenjoyment of his own humour), at the moment of its occurrence instantly\nthrust his cane among the Native's ribs, and continued to stir him up,\nat short intervals, all the way to the hotel.\n\nNor was the Major less exasperated as he dressed for dinner, during\nwhich operation the dark servant underwent the pelting of a shower of\nmiscellaneous objects, varying in size from a boot to a hairbrush, and\nincluding everything that came within his master's reach. For the Major\nplumed himself on having the Native in a perfect state of drill, and\nvisited the least departure from strict discipline with this kind of\nfatigue duty. Add to this, that he maintained the Native about his\nperson as a counter-irritant against the gout, and all other vexations,\nmental as well as bodily; and the Native would appear to have earned his\npay--which was not large.\n\nAt length, the Major having disposed of all the missiles that were\nconvenient to his hand, and having called the Native so many new names\nas must have given him great occasion to marvel at the resources of\nthe English language, submitted to have his cravat put on; and being\ndressed, and finding himself in a brisk flow of spirits after this\nexercise, went downstairs to enliven 'Dombey' and his right-hand man.\n\nDombey was not yet in the room, but the right-hand man was there, and\nhis dental treasures were, as usual, ready for the Major.\n\n'Well, Sir!' said the Major. 'How have you passed the time since I had\nthe happiness of meeting you? Have you walked at all?'\n\n'A saunter of barely half an hour's duration,' returned Carker. 'We have\nbeen so much occupied.'\n\n'Business, eh?' said the Major.\n\n'A variety of little matters necessary to be gone through,' replied\nCarker. 'But do you know--this is quite unusual with me, educated in\na distrustful school, and who am not generally disposed to be\ncommunicative,' he said, breaking off, and speaking in a charming tone\nof frankness--'but I feel quite confidential with you, Major Bagstock.'\n\n'You do me honour, Sir,' returned the Major. 'You may be.'\n\n'Do you know, then,' pursued Carker, 'that I have not found my\nfriend--our friend, I ought rather to call him--'\n\n'Meaning Dombey, Sir?' cried the Major. 'You see me, Mr Carker, standing\nhere! J. B.?'\n\nHe was puffy enough to see, and blue enough; and Mr Carker intimated the\nhe had that pleasure.\n\n'Then you see a man, Sir, who would go through fire and water to serve\nDombey,' returned Major Bagstock.\n\nMr Carker smiled, and said he was sure of it. 'Do you know, Major,' he\nproceeded: 'to resume where I left off: that I have not found our friend\nso attentive to business today, as usual?'\n\n'No?' observed the delighted Major.\n\n'I have found him a little abstracted, and with his attention disposed\nto wander,' said Carker.\n\n'By Jove, Sir,' cried the Major, 'there's a lady in the case.'\n\n'Indeed, I begin to believe there really is,' returned Carker; 'I\nthought you might be jesting when you seemed to hint at it; for I know\nyou military men'--\n\nThe Major gave the horse's cough, and shook his head and shoulders, as\nmuch as to say, 'Well! we are gay dogs, there's no denying.' He then\nseized Mr Carker by the button-hole, and with starting eyes whispered in\nhis ear, that she was a woman of extraordinary charms, Sir. That she was\na young widow, Sir. That she was of a fine family, Sir. That Dombey was\nover head and ears in love with her, Sir, and that it would be a good\nmatch on both sides; for she had beauty, blood, and talent, and Dombey\nhad fortune; and what more could any couple have? Hearing Mr Dombey's\nfootsteps without, the Major cut himself short by saying, that Mr Carker\nwould see her tomorrow morning, and would judge for himself; and between\nhis mental excitement, and the exertion of saying all this in wheezy\nwhispers, the Major sat gurgling in the throat and watering at the eyes,\nuntil dinner was ready.\n\nThe Major, like some other noble animals, exhibited himself to great\nadvantage at feeding-time. On this occasion, he shone resplendent at\none end of the table, supported by the milder lustre of Mr Dombey at\nthe other; while Carker on one side lent his ray to either light, or\nsuffered it to merge into both, as occasion arose.\n\nDuring the first course or two, the Major was usually grave; for the\nNative, in obedience to general orders, secretly issued, collected every\nsauce and cruet round him, and gave him a great deal to do, in taking\nout the stoppers, and mixing up the contents in his plate. Besides\nwhich, the Native had private zests and flavours on a side-table,\nwith which the Major daily scorched himself; to say nothing of strange\nmachines out of which he spirited unknown liquids into the Major's\ndrink. But on this occasion, Major Bagstock, even amidst these many\noccupations, found time to be social; and his sociality consisted in\nexcessive slyness for the behoof of Mr Carker, and the betrayal of Mr\nDombey's state of mind.\n\n'Dombey,' said the Major, 'you don't eat; what's the matter?'\n\n'Thank you,' returned the gentleman, 'I am doing very well; I have no\ngreat appetite today.'\n\n'Why, Dombey, what's become of it?' asked the Major. 'Where's it gone?\nYou haven't left it with our friends, I'll swear, for I can answer for\ntheir having none to-day at luncheon. I can answer for one of 'em, at\nleast: I won't say which.'\n\nThen the Major winked at Carker, and became so frightfully sly, that his\ndark attendant was obliged to pat him on the back, without orders, or he\nwould probably have disappeared under the table.\n\nIn a later stage of the dinner: that is to say, when the Native stood\nat the Major's elbow ready to serve the first bottle of champagne: the\nMajor became still slyer.\n\n'Fill this to the brim, you scoundrel,' said the Major, holding up his\nglass. 'Fill Mr Carker's to the brim too. And Mr Dombey's too. By Gad,\ngentlemen,' said the Major, winking at his new friend, while Mr Dombey\nlooked into his plate with a conscious air, 'we'll consecrate this\nglass of wine to a Divinity whom Joe is proud to know, and at a distance\nhumbly and reverently to admire. Edith,' said the Major, 'is her name;\nangelic Edith!'\n\n'To angelic Edith!' cried the smiling Carker.\n\n'Edith, by all means,' said Mr Dombey.\n\nThe entrance of the waiters with new dishes caused the Major to be\nslyer yet, but in a more serious vein. 'For though among ourselves, Joe\nBagstock mingles jest and earnest on this subject, Sir,' said the Major,\nlaying his finger on his lips, and speaking half apart to Carker, 'he\nholds that name too sacred to be made the property of these fellows, or\nof any fellows. Not a word, Sir, while they are here!'\n\nThis was respectful and becoming on the Major's part, and Mr Dombey\nplainly felt it so. Although embarrassed in his own frigid way, by the\nMajor's allusions, Mr Dombey had no objection to such rallying, it was\nclear, but rather courted it. Perhaps the Major had been pretty near the\ntruth, when he had divined that morning that the great man who was too\nhaughty formally to consult with, or confide in his prime minister, on\nsuch a matter, yet wished him to be fully possessed of it. Let this\nbe how it may, he often glanced at Mr Carker while the Major plied his\nlight artillery, and seemed watchful of its effect upon him.\n\nBut the Major, having secured an attentive listener, and a smiler who\nhad not his match in all the world--'in short, a devilish intelligent\nand able fellow,' as he often afterwards declared--was not going to let\nhim off with a little slyness personal to Mr Dombey. Therefore, on the\nremoval of the cloth, the Major developed himself as a choice spirit\nin the broader and more comprehensive range of narrating regimental\nstories, and cracking regimental jokes, which he did with such prodigal\nexuberance, that Carker was (or feigned to be) quite exhausted with\nlaughter and admiration: while Mr Dombey looked on over his starched\ncravat, like the Major's proprietor, or like a stately showman who was\nglad to see his bear dancing well.\n\nWhen the Major was too hoarse with meat and drink, and the display\nof his social powers, to render himself intelligible any longer, they\nadjourned to coffee. After which, the Major inquired of Mr Carker the\nManager, with little apparent hope of an answer in the affirmative, if\nhe played picquet.\n\n'Yes, I play picquet a little,' said Mr Carker.\n\n'Backgammon, perhaps?' observed the Major, hesitating.\n\n'Yes, I play backgammon a little too,' replied the man of teeth.\n\n'Carker plays at all games, I believe,' said Mr Dombey, laying himself\non a sofa like a man of wood, without a hinge or a joint in him; 'and\nplays them well.'\n\nIn sooth, he played the two in question, to such perfection, that the\nMajor was astonished, and asked him, at random, if he played chess.\n\n'Yes, I play chess a little,' answered Carker. 'I have sometimes played,\nand won a game--it's a mere trick--without seeing the board.'\n\n'By Gad, Sir!' said the Major, staring, 'you are a contrast to Dombey,\nwho plays nothing.'\n\n'Oh! He!' returned the Manager. 'He has never had occasion to acquire\nsuch little arts. To men like me, they are sometimes useful. As at\npresent, Major Bagstock, when they enable me to take a hand with you.'\n\nIt might be only the false mouth, so smooth and wide; and yet there\nseemed to lurk beneath the humility and subserviency of this short\nspeech, a something like a snarl; and, for a moment, one might have\nthought that the white teeth were prone to bite the hand they fawned\nupon. But the Major thought nothing about it; and Mr Dombey lay\nmeditating with his eyes half shut, during the whole of the play, which\nlasted until bed-time.\n\nBy that time, Mr Carker, though the winner, had mounted high into the\nMajor's good opinion, insomuch that when he left the Major at his own\nroom before going to bed, the Major as a special attention, sent the\nNative--who always rested on a mattress spread upon the ground at his\nmaster's door--along the gallery, to light him to his room in state.\n\nThere was a faint blur on the surface of the mirror in Mr Carker's\nchamber, and its reflection was, perhaps, a false one. But it showed,\nthat night, the image of a man, who saw, in his fancy, a crowd of\npeople slumbering on the ground at his feet, like the poor Native at his\nmaster's door: who picked his way among them: looking down, maliciously\nenough: but trod upon no upturned face--as yet.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27. Deeper Shadows\n\n\nMr Carker the Manager rose with the lark, and went out, walking in the\nsummer day. His meditations--and he meditated with contracted brows\nwhile he strolled along--hardly seemed to soar as high as the lark, or\nto mount in that direction; rather they kept close to their nest upon\nthe earth, and looked about, among the dust and worms. But there was not\na bird in the air, singing unseen, farther beyond the reach of human eye\nthan Mr Carker's thoughts. He had his face so perfectly under control,\nthat few could say more, in distinct terms, of its expression, than that\nit smiled or that it pondered. It pondered now, intently. As the lark\nrose higher, he sank deeper in thought. As the lark poured out her\nmelody clearer and stronger, he fell into a graver and profounder\nsilence. At length, when the lark came headlong down, with an\naccumulating stream of song, and dropped among the green wheat near him,\nrippling in the breath of the morning like a river, he sprang up from\nhis reverie, and looked round with a sudden smile, as courteous and\nas soft as if he had had numerous observers to propitiate; nor did he\nrelapse, after being thus awakened; but clearing his face, like one who\nbethought himself that it might otherwise wrinkle and tell tales, went\nsmiling on, as if for practice.\n\nPerhaps with an eye to first impressions, Mr Carker was very carefully\nand trimly dressed, that morning. Though always somewhat formal, in his\ndress, in imitation of the great man whom he served, he stopped short of\nthe extent of Mr Dombey's stiffness: at once perhaps because he knew\nit to be ludicrous, and because in doing so he found another means of\nexpressing his sense of the difference and distance between them. Some\npeople quoted him indeed, in this respect, as a pointed commentary,\nand not a flattering one, on his icy patron--but the world is prone\nto misconstruction, and Mr Carker was not accountable for its bad\npropensity.\n\nClean and florid: with his light complexion, fading as it were, in the\nsun, and his dainty step enhancing the softness of the turf: Mr Carker\nthe Manager strolled about meadows, and green lanes, and glided among\navenues of trees, until it was time to return to breakfast. Taking a\nnearer way back, Mr Carker pursued it, airing his teeth, and said aloud\nas he did so, 'Now to see the second Mrs Dombey!'\n\nHe had strolled beyond the town, and re-entered it by a pleasant walk,\nwhere there was a deep shade of leafy trees, and where there were a few\nbenches here and there for those who chose to rest. It not being a place\nof general resort at any hour, and wearing at that time of the still\nmorning the air of being quite deserted and retired, Mr Carker had it,\nor thought he had it, all to himself. So, with the whim of an idle man,\nto whom there yet remained twenty minutes for reaching a destination\neasily able in ten, Mr Carker threaded the great boles of the trees,\nand went passing in and out, before this one and behind that, weaving a\nchain of footsteps on the dewy ground.\n\nBut he found he was mistaken in supposing there was no one in the grove,\nfor as he softly rounded the trunk of one large tree, on which the\nobdurate bark was knotted and overlapped like the hide of a rhinoceros\nor some kindred monster of the ancient days before the Flood, he saw\nan unexpected figure sitting on a bench near at hand, about which, in\nanother moment, he would have wound the chain he was making.\n\nIt was that of a lady, elegantly dressed and very handsome, whose dark\nproud eyes were fixed upon the ground, and in whom some passion or\nstruggle was raging. For as she sat looking down, she held a corner of\nher under lip within her mouth, her bosom heaved, her nostril quivered,\nher head trembled, indignant tears were on her cheek, and her foot was\nset upon the moss as though she would have crushed it into nothing. And\nyet almost the self-same glance that showed him this, showed him the\nself-same lady rising with a scornful air of weariness and lassitude,\nand turning away with nothing expressed in face or figure but careless\nbeauty and imperious disdain.\n\nA withered and very ugly old woman, dressed not so much like a gipsy as\nlike any of that medley race of vagabonds who tramp about the country,\nbegging, and stealing, and tinkering, and weaving rushes, by turns, or\nall together, had been observing the lady, too; for, as she rose, this\nsecond figure strangely confronting the first, scrambled up from the\nground--out of it, it almost appeared--and stood in the way.\n\n'Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady,' said the old woman, munching\nwith her jaws, as if the Death's Head beneath her yellow skin were\nimpatient to get out.\n\n'I can tell it for myself,' was the reply.\n\n'Ay, ay, pretty lady; but not right. You didn't tell it right when you\nwere sitting there. I see you! Give me a piece of silver, pretty lady,\nand I'll tell your fortune true. There's riches, pretty lady, in your\nface.'\n\n'I know,' returned the lady, passing her with a dark smile, and a proud\nstep. 'I knew it before.\n\n'What! You won't give me nothing?' cried the old woman. 'You won't give\nme nothing to tell your fortune, pretty lady? How much will you give me\nto tell it, then? Give me something, or I'll call it after you!' croaked\nthe old woman, passionately.\n\nMr Carker, whom the lady was about to pass close, slinking against his\ntree as she crossed to gain the path, advanced so as to meet her, and\npulling off his hat as she went by, bade the old woman hold her peace.\nThe lady acknowledged his interference with an inclination of the head,\nand went her way.\n\n'You give me something then, or I'll call it after her!' screamed\nthe old woman, throwing up her arms, and pressing forward against his\noutstretched hand. 'Or come,' she added, dropping her voice suddenly,\nlooking at him earnestly, and seeming in a moment to forget the object\nof her wrath, 'give me something, or I'll call it after you!'\n\n'After me, old lady!' returned the Manager, putting his hand in his\npocket.\n\n'Yes,' said the woman, steadfast in her scrutiny, and holding out her\nshrivelled hand. 'I know!'\n\n'What do you know?' demanded Carker, throwing her a shilling. 'Do you\nknow who the handsome lady is?'\n\nMunching like that sailor's wife of yore, who had chestnuts in her lap,\nand scowling like the witch who asked for some in vain, the old woman\npicked the shilling up, and going backwards, like a crab, or like a heap\nof crabs: for her alternately expanding and contracting hands might\nhave represented two of that species, and her creeping face, some\nhalf-a-dozen more: crouched on the veinous root of an old tree, pulled\nout a short black pipe from within the crown of her bonnet, lighted it\nwith a match, and smoked in silence, looking fixedly at her questioner.\n\nMr Carker laughed, and turned upon his heel.\n\n'Good!' said the old woman. 'One child dead, and one child living: one\nwife dead, and one wife coming. Go and meet her!'\n\nIn spite of himself, the Manager looked round again, and stopped. The\nold woman, who had not removed her pipe, and was munching and mumbling\nwhile she smoked, as if in conversation with an invisible familiar,\npointed with her finger in the direction he was going, and laughed.\n\n'What was that you said, Bedlamite?' he demanded.\n\nThe woman mumbled, and chattered, and smoked, and still pointed\nbefore him; but remained silent Muttering a farewell that was not\ncomplimentary, Mr Carker pursued his way; but as he turned out of that\nplace, and looked over his shoulder at the root of the old tree, he\ncould yet see the finger pointing before him, and thought he heard the\nwoman screaming, 'Go and meet her!'\n\nPreparations for a choice repast were completed, he found, at the hotel;\nand Mr Dombey, and the Major, and the breakfast, were awaiting the\nladies. Individual constitution has much to do with the development of\nsuch facts, no doubt; but in this case, appetite carried it hollow over\nthe tender passion; Mr Dombey being very cool and collected, and the\nMajor fretting and fuming in a state of violent heat and irritation.\nAt length the door was thrown open by the Native, and, after a pause,\noccupied by her languishing along the gallery, a very blooming, but not\nvery youthful lady, appeared.\n\n'My dear Mr Dombey,' said the lady, 'I am afraid we are late, but\nEdith has been out already looking for a favourable point of view for a\nsketch, and kept me waiting for her. Falsest of Majors,' giving him her\nlittle finger, 'how do you do?'\n\n'Mrs Skewton,' said Mr Dombey, 'let me gratify my friend Carker:' Mr\nDombey unconsciously emphasised the word friend, as saying \"no really; I\ndo allow him to take credit for that distinction:\" 'by presenting him to\nyou. You have heard me mention Mr Carker.'\n\n'I am charmed, I am sure,' said Mrs Skewton, graciously.\n\nMr Carker was charmed, of course. Would he have been more charmed on Mr\nDombey's behalf, if Mrs Skewton had been (as he at first supposed her)\nthe Edith whom they had toasted overnight?\n\n'Why, where, for Heaven's sake, is Edith?' exclaimed Mrs Skewton,\nlooking round. 'Still at the door, giving Withers orders about the\nmounting of those drawings! My dear Mr Dombey, will you have the\nkindness'--\n\nMr Dombey was already gone to seek her. Next moment he returned, bearing\non his arm the same elegantly dressed and very handsome lady whom Mr\nCarker had encountered underneath the trees.\n\n'Carker--' began Mr Dombey. But their recognition of each other was so\nmanifest, that Mr Dombey stopped surprised.\n\n'I am obliged to the gentleman,' said Edith, with a stately bend, 'for\nsparing me some annoyance from an importunate beggar just now.'\n\n'I am obliged to my good fortune,' said Mr Carker, bowing low, 'for the\nopportunity of rendering so slight a service to one whose servant I am\nproud to be.'\n\nAs her eye rested on him for an instant, and then lighted on the ground,\nhe saw in its bright and searching glance a suspicion that he had not\ncome up at the moment of his interference, but had secretly observed\nher sooner. As he saw that, she saw in his eye that her distrust was not\nwithout foundation.\n\n'Really,' cried Mrs Skewton, who had taken this opportunity of\ninspecting Mr Carker through her glass, and satisfying herself (as she\nlisped audibly to the Major) that he was all heart; 'really now, this is\none of the most enchanting coincidences that I ever heard of. The idea!\nMy dearest Edith, there is such an obvious destiny in it, that really\none might almost be induced to cross one's arms upon one's frock, and\nsay, like those wicked Turks, there is no What's-his-name but Thingummy,\nand What-you-may-call-it is his prophet!'\n\nEdith designed no revision of this extraordinary quotation from the\nKoran, but Mr Dombey felt it necessary to offer a few polite remarks.\n\n'It gives me great pleasure,' said Mr Dombey, with cumbrous gallantry,\n'that a gentleman so nearly connected with myself as Carker is, should\nhave had the honour and happiness of rendering the least assistance to\nMrs Granger.' Mr Dombey bowed to her. 'But it gives me some pain, and\nit occasions me to be really envious of Carker;' he unconsciously laid\nstress on these words, as sensible that they must appear to involve a\nvery surprising proposition; 'envious of Carker, that I had not that\nhonour and that happiness myself.' Mr Dombey bowed again. Edith, saving\nfor a curl of her lip, was motionless.\n\n'By the Lord, Sir,' cried the Major, bursting into speech at sight of\nthe waiter, who was come to announce breakfast, 'it's an extraordinary\nthing to me that no one can have the honour and happiness of shooting\nall such beggars through the head without being brought to book for\nit. But here's an arm for Mrs Granger if she'll do J. B. the honour to\naccept it; and the greatest service Joe can render you, Ma'am, just now,\nis, to lead you into table!'\n\nWith this, the Major gave his arm to Edith; Mr Dombey led the way with\nMrs Skewton; Mrs Carker went last, smiling on the party.\n\n'I am quite rejoiced, Mr Carker,' said the lady-mother, at breakfast,\nafter another approving survey of him through her glass, 'that you have\ntimed your visit so happily, as to go with us to-day. It is the most\nenchanting expedition!'\n\n'Any expedition would be enchanting in such society,' returned Carker;\n'but I believe it is, in itself, full of interest.'\n\n'Oh!' cried Mrs Skewton, with a faded little scream of rapture,\n'the Castle is charming!--associations of the Middle Ages--and all\nthat--which is so truly exquisite. Don't you dote upon the Middle Ages,\nMr Carker?'\n\n'Very much, indeed,' said Mr Carker.\n\n'Such charming times!' cried Cleopatra. 'So full of faith! So vigorous\nand forcible! So picturesque! So perfectly removed from commonplace!\nOh dear! If they would only leave us a little more of the poetry of\nexistence in these terrible days!'\n\nMrs Skewton was looking sharp after Mr Dombey all the time she said\nthis, who was looking at Edith: who was listening, but who never lifted\nup her eyes.\n\n'We are dreadfully real, Mr Carker,' said Mrs Skewton; 'are we not?'\n\nFew people had less reason to complain of their reality than Cleopatra,\nwho had as much that was false about her as could well go to the\ncomposition of anybody with a real individual existence. But Mr Carker\ncommiserated our reality nevertheless, and agreed that we were very\nhardly used in that regard.\n\n'Pictures at the Castle, quite divine!' said Cleopatra. 'I hope you dote\nupon pictures?'\n\n'I assure you, Mrs Skewton,' said Mr Dombey, with solemn encouragement\nof his Manager, 'that Carker has a very good taste for pictures; quite\na natural power of appreciating them. He is a very creditable artist\nhimself. He will be delighted, I am sure, with Mrs Granger's taste and\nskill.'\n\n'Damme, Sir!' cried Major Bagstock, 'my opinion is, that you're the\nadmirable Carker, and can do anything.'\n\n'Oh!' smiled Carker, with humility, 'you are much too sanguine, Major\nBagstock. I can do very little. But Mr Dombey is so generous in his\nestimation of any trivial accomplishment a man like myself may find it\nalmost necessary to acquire, and to which, in his very different\nsphere, he is far superior, that--' Mr Carker shrugged his shoulders,\ndeprecating further praise, and said no more.\n\nAll this time, Edith never raised her eyes, unless to glance towards\nher mother when that lady's fervent spirit shone forth in words. But as\nCarker ceased, she looked at Mr Dombey for a moment. For a moment only;\nbut with a transient gleam of scornful wonder on her face, not lost on\none observer, who was smiling round the board.\n\nMr Dombey caught the dark eyelash in its descent, and took the\nopportunity of arresting it.\n\n'You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately?' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Several times.'\n\n'The visit will be tedious to you, I am afraid.'\n\n'Oh no; not at all.'\n\n'Ah! You are like your cousin Feenix, my dearest Edith,' said Mrs\nSkewton. 'He has been to Warwick Castle fifty times, if he has been\nthere once; yet if he came to Leamington to-morrow--I wish he would,\ndear angel!--he would make his fifty-second visit next day.'\n\n'We are all enthusiastic, are we not, Mama?' said Edith, with a cold\nsmile.\n\n'Too much so, for our peace, perhaps, my dear,' returned her mother;\n'but we won't complain. Our own emotions are our recompense. If, as your\ncousin Feenix says, the sword wears out the what's-its-name--'\n\n'The scabbard, perhaps,' said Edith.\n\n'Exactly--a little too fast, it is because it is bright and glowing, you\nknow, my dearest love.'\n\nMrs Skewton heaved a gentle sigh, supposed to cast a shadow on the\nsurface of that dagger of lath, whereof her susceptible bosom was the\nsheath: and leaning her head on one side, in the Cleopatra manner,\nlooked with pensive affection on her darling child.\n\nEdith had turned her face towards Mr Dombey when he first addressed her,\nand had remained in that attitude, while speaking to her mother, and\nwhile her mother spoke to her, as though offering him her attention, if\nhe had anything more to say. There was something in the manner of this\nsimple courtesy: almost defiant, and giving it the character of being\nrendered on compulsion, or as a matter of traffic to which she was a\nreluctant party again not lost upon that same observer who was smiling\nround the board. It set him thinking of her as he had first seen her,\nwhen she had believed herself to be alone among the trees.\n\nMr Dombey having nothing else to say, proposed--the breakfast being\nnow finished, and the Major gorged, like any Boa Constrictor--that they\nshould start. A barouche being in waiting, according to the orders of\nthat gentleman, the two ladies, the Major and himself, took their seats\nin it; the Native and the wan page mounted the box, Mr Towlinson being\nleft behind; and Mr Carker, on horseback, brought up the rear.\n\nMr Carker cantered behind the carriage at the distance of a hundred yards\nor so, and watched it, during all the ride, as if he were a cat, indeed,\nand its four occupants, mice. Whether he looked to one side of the road,\nor to the other--over distant landscape, with its smooth undulations,\nwind-mills, corn, grass, bean fields, wild-flowers, farm-yards, hayricks,\nand the spire among the wood--or upwards in the sunny air, where\nbutterflies were sporting round his head, and birds were pouring out\ntheir songs--or downward, where the shadows of the branches interlaced,\nand made a trembling carpet on the road--or onward, where the overhanging\ntrees formed aisles and arches, dim with the softened light that steeped\nthrough leaves--one corner of his eye was ever on the formal head of Mr\nDombey, addressed towards him, and the feather in the bonnet, drooping\nso neglectfully and scornfully between them; much as he had seen the\nhaughty eyelids droop; not least so, when the face met that now fronting\nit. Once, and once only, did his wary glance release these objects; and\nthat was, when a leap over a low hedge, and a gallop across a field,\nenabled him to anticipate the carriage coming by the road, and to be\nstanding ready, at the journey's end, to hand the ladies out. Then, and\nbut then, he met her glance for an instant in her first surprise; but\nwhen he touched her, in alighting, with his soft white hand, it\noverlooked him altogether as before.\n\nMrs Skewton was bent on taking charge of Mr Carker herself, and showing\nhim the beauties of the Castle. She was determined to have his arm, and\nthe Major's too. It would do that incorrigible creature: who was the\nmost barbarous infidel in point of poetry: good to be in such company.\nThis chance arrangement left Mr Dombey at liberty to escort Edith: which\nhe did: stalking before them through the apartments with a gentlemanly\nsolemnity.\n\n'Those darling byegone times, Mr Carker,' said Cleopatra, 'with their\ndelicious fortresses, and their dear old dungeons, and their delightful\nplaces of torture, and their romantic vengeances, and their picturesque\nassaults and sieges, and everything that makes life truly charming! How\ndreadfully we have degenerated!'\n\n'Yes, we have fallen off deplorably,' said Mr Carker.\n\nThe peculiarity of their conversation was, that Mrs Skewton, in spite of\nher ecstasies, and Mr Carker, in spite of his urbanity, were both\nintent on watching Mr Dombey and Edith. With all their conversational\nendowments, they spoke somewhat distractedly, and at random, in\nconsequence.\n\n'We have no Faith left, positively,' said Mrs Skewton, advancing her\nshrivelled ear; for Mr Dombey was saying something to Edith. 'We have no\nFaith in the dear old Barons, who were the most delightful creatures--or\nin the dear old Priests, who were the most warlike of men--or even in\nthe days of that inestimable Queen Bess, upon the wall there, which were\nso extremely golden. Dear creature! She was all Heart And that charming\nfather of hers! I hope you dote on Harry the Eighth!'\n\n'I admire him very much,' said Carker.\n\n'So bluff!' cried Mrs Skewton, 'wasn't he? So burly. So truly English.\nSuch a picture, too, he makes, with his dear little peepy eyes, and his\nbenevolent chin!'\n\n'Ah, Ma'am!' said Carker, stopping short; 'but if you speak of pictures,\nthere's a composition! What gallery in the world can produce the\ncounterpart of that?'\n\nAs the smiling gentleman thus spake, he pointed through a doorway to\nwhere Mr Dombey and Edith were standing alone in the centre of another\nroom.\n\nThey were not interchanging a word or a look. Standing together, arm\nin arm, they had the appearance of being more divided than if seas had\nrolled between them. There was a difference even in the pride of the\ntwo, that removed them farther from each other, than if one had been\nthe proudest and the other the humblest specimen of humanity in all\ncreation. He, self-important, unbending, formal, austere. She, lovely\nand graceful, in an uncommon degree, but totally regardless of herself\nand him and everything around, and spurning her own attractions with her\nhaughty brow and lip, as if they were a badge or livery she hated. So\nunmatched were they, and opposed, so forced and linked together by a\nchain which adverse hazard and mischance had forged: that fancy might\nhave imagined the pictures on the walls around them, startled by the\nunnatural conjunction, and observant of it in their several expressions.\nGrim knights and warriors looked scowling on them. A churchman, with his\nhand upraised, denounced the mockery of such a couple coming to God's\naltar. Quiet waters in landscapes, with the sun reflected in their\ndepths, asked, if better means of escape were not at hand, was there no\ndrowning left? Ruins cried, 'Look here, and see what We are, wedded to\nuncongenial Time!' Animals, opposed by nature, worried one another, as a\nmoral to them. Loves and Cupids took to flight afraid, and Martyrdom had\nno such torment in its painted history of suffering.\n\nNevertheless, Mrs Skewton was so charmed by the sight to which Mr Carker\ninvoked her attention, that she could not refrain from saying, half\naloud, how sweet, how very full of soul it was! Edith, overhearing,\nlooked round, and flushed indignant scarlet to her hair.\n\n'My dearest Edith knows I was admiring her!' said Cleopatra, tapping\nher, almost timidly, on the back with her parasol. 'Sweet pet!'\n\nAgain Mr Carker saw the strife he had witnessed so unexpectedly among\nthe trees. Again he saw the haughty languor and indifference come over\nit, and hide it like a cloud.\n\nShe did not raise her eyes to him; but with a slight peremptory motion\nof them, seemed to bid her mother come near. Mrs Skewton thought it\nexpedient to understand the hint, and advancing quickly, with her two\ncavaliers, kept near her daughter from that time.\n\nMr Carker now, having nothing to distract his attention, began to\ndiscourse upon the pictures and to select the best, and point them\nout to Mr Dombey: speaking with his usual familiar recognition of Mr\nDombey's greatness, and rendering homage by adjusting his eye-glass for\nhim, or finding out the right place in his catalogue, or holding his\nstick, or the like. These services did not so much originate with Mr\nCarker, in truth, as with Mr Dombey himself, who was apt to assert his\nchieftainship by saying, with subdued authority, and in an easy way--for\nhim--'Here, Carker, have the goodness to assist me, will you?' which the\nsmiling gentleman always did with pleasure.\n\nThey made the tour of the pictures, the walls, crow's nest, and so\nforth; and as they were still one little party, and the Major was rather\nin the shade: being sleepy during the process of digestion: Mr Carker\nbecame communicative and agreeable. At first, he addressed himself for\nthe most part to Mrs Skewton; but as that sensitive lady was in such\necstasies with the works of art, after the first quarter of an hour,\nthat she could do nothing but yawn (they were such perfect inspirations,\nshe observed as a reason for that mark of rapture), he transferred his\nattentions to Mr Dombey. Mr Dombey said little beyond an occasional\n'Very true, Carker,' or 'Indeed, Carker,' but he tacitly encouraged\nCarker to proceed, and inwardly approved of his behaviour very much:\ndeeming it as well that somebody should talk, and thinking that\nhis remarks, which were, as one might say, a branch of the parent\nestablishment, might amuse Mrs Granger. Mr Carker, who possessed an\nexcellent discretion, never took the liberty of addressing that lady,\ndirect; but she seemed to listen, though she never looked at him;\nand once or twice, when he was emphatic in his peculiar humility, the\ntwilight smile stole over her face, not as a light, but as a deep black\nshadow.\n\nWarwick Castle being at length pretty well exhausted, and the Major very\nmuch so: to say nothing of Mrs Skewton, whose peculiar demonstrations of\ndelight had become very frequent Indeed: the carriage was again put\nin requisition, and they rode to several admired points of view in the\nneighbourhood. Mr Dombey ceremoniously observed of one of these, that\na sketch, however slight, from the fair hand of Mrs Granger, would be a\nremembrance to him of that agreeable day: though he wanted no artificial\nremembrance, he was sure (here Mr Dombey made another of his bows),\nwhich he must always highly value. Withers the lean having Edith's\nsketch-book under his arm, was immediately called upon by Mrs Skewton\nto produce the same: and the carriage stopped, that Edith might make the\ndrawing, which Mr Dombey was to put away among his treasures.\n\n'But I am afraid I trouble you too much,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'By no means. Where would you wish it taken from?' she answered, turning\nto him with the same enforced attention as before.\n\nMr Dombey, with another bow, which cracked the starch in his cravat,\nwould beg to leave that to the Artist.\n\n'I would rather you chose for yourself,' said Edith.\n\n'Suppose then,' said Mr Dombey, 'we say from here. It appears a good\nspot for the purpose, or--Carker, what do you think?'\n\nThere happened to be in the foreground, at some little distance, a\ngrove of trees, not unlike that in which Mr Carker had made his chain\nof footsteps in the morning, and with a seat under one tree, greatly\nresembling, in the general character of its situation, the point where\nhis chain had broken.\n\n'Might I venture to suggest to Mrs Granger,' said Carker, 'that that is\nan interesting--almost a curious--point of view?'\n\nShe followed the direction of his riding-whip with her eyes, and raised\nthem quickly to his face. It was the second glance they had exchanged\nsince their introduction; and would have been exactly like the first,\nbut that its expression was plainer.\n\n'Will you like that?' said Edith to Mr Dombey.\n\n'I shall be charmed,' said Mr Dombey to Edith.\n\nTherefore the carriage was driven to the spot where Mr Dombey was to\nbe charmed; and Edith, without moving from her seat, and opening her\nsketch-book with her usual proud indifference, began to sketch.\n\n'My pencils are all pointless,' she said, stopping and turning them\nover.\n\n'Pray allow me,' said Mr Dombey. 'Or Carker will do it better, as he\nunderstands these things. Carker, have the goodness to see to these\npencils for Mrs Granger.'\n\nMr Carker rode up close to the carriage-door on Mrs Granger's side, and\nletting the rein fall on his horse's neck, took the pencils from her\nhand with a smile and a bow, and sat in the saddle leisurely mending\nthem. Having done so, he begged to be allowed to hold them, and to\nhand them to her as they were required; and thus Mr Carker, with many\ncommendations of Mrs Granger's extraordinary skill--especially in\ntrees--remained--close at her side, looking over the drawing as she made\nit. Mr Dombey in the meantime stood bolt upright in the carriage like a\nhighly respectable ghost, looking on too; while Cleopatra and the Major\ndallied as two ancient doves might do.\n\n'Are you satisfied with that, or shall I finish it a little more?' said\nEdith, showing the sketch to Mr Dombey.\n\nMr Dombey begged that it might not be touched; it was perfection.\n\n'It is most extraordinary,' said Carker, bringing every one of his\nred gums to bear upon his praise. 'I was not prepared for anything so\nbeautiful, and so unusual altogether.'\n\nThis might have applied to the sketcher no less than to the sketch; but\nMr Carker's manner was openness itself--not as to his mouth alone, but\nas to his whole spirit. So it continued to be while the drawing was laid\naside for Mr Dombey, and while the sketching materials were put up;\nthen he handed in the pencils (which were received with a distant\nacknowledgment of his help, but without a look), and tightening his\nrein, fell back, and followed the carriage again.\n\nThinking, perhaps, as he rode, that even this trivial sketch had been\nmade and delivered to its owner, as if it had been bargained for and\nbought. Thinking, perhaps, that although she had assented with such\nperfect readiness to his request, her haughty face, bent over the\ndrawing, or glancing at the distant objects represented in it, had\nbeen the face of a proud woman, engaged in a sordid and miserable\ntransaction. Thinking, perhaps, of such things: but smiling certainly,\nand while he seemed to look about him freely, in enjoyment of the air\nand exercise, keeping always that sharp corner of his eye upon the\ncarriage.\n\nA stroll among the haunted ruins of Kenilworth, and more rides to more\npoints of view: most of which, Mrs Skewton reminded Mr Dombey, Edith had\nalready sketched, as he had seen in looking over her drawings: brought\nthe day's expedition to a close. Mrs Skewton and Edith were driven to\ntheir own lodgings; Mr Carker was graciously invited by Cleopatra to\nreturn thither with Mr Dombey and the Major, in the evening, to hear\nsome of Edith's music; and the three gentlemen repaired to their hotel\nto dinner.\n\nThe dinner was the counterpart of yesterday's, except that the Major was\ntwenty-four hours more triumphant and less mysterious. Edith was toasted\nagain. Mr Dombey was again agreeably embarrassed. And Mr Carker was full\nof interest and praise.\n\nThere were no other visitors at Mrs Skewton's. Edith's drawings were\nstrewn about the room, a little more abundantly than usual perhaps; and\nWithers, the wan page, handed round a little stronger tea. The harp\nwas there; the piano was there; and Edith sang and played. But even the\nmusic was played by Edith to Mr Dombey's order, as it were, in the same\nuncompromising way. As thus.\n\n'Edith, my dearest love,' said Mrs Skewton, half an hour after tea, 'Mr\nDombey is dying to hear you, I know.'\n\n'Mr Dombey has life enough left to say so for himself, Mama, I have no\ndoubt.'\n\n'I shall be immensely obliged,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'What do you wish?'\n\n'Piano?' hesitated Mr Dombey.\n\n'Whatever you please. You have only to choose.'\n\nAccordingly, she began with the piano. It was the same with the harp;\nthe same with her singing; the same with the selection of the pieces\nthat she sang and played. Such frigid and constrained, yet prompt and\npointed acquiescence with the wishes he imposed upon her, and on no one\nelse, was sufficiently remarkable to penetrate through all the mysteries\nof picquet, and impress itself on Mr Carker's keen attention. Nor did he\nlose sight of the fact that Mr Dombey was evidently proud of his power,\nand liked to show it.\n\nNevertheless, Mr Carker played so well--some games with the Major, and\nsome with Cleopatra, whose vigilance of eye in respect of Mr Dombey and\nEdith no lynx could have surpassed--that he even heightened his position\nin the lady-mother's good graces; and when on taking leave he regretted\nthat he would be obliged to return to London next morning, Cleopatra\ntrusted: community of feeling not being met with every day: that it was\nfar from being the last time they would meet.\n\n'I hope so,' said Mr Carker, with an expressive look at the couple in\nthe distance, as he drew towards the door, following the Major. 'I think\nso.'\n\nMr Dombey, who had taken a stately leave of Edith, bent, or made some\napproach to a bend, over Cleopatra's couch, and said, in a low voice:\n\n'I have requested Mrs Granger's permission to call on her to-morrow\nmorning--for a purpose--and she has appointed twelve o'clock. May I hope\nto have the pleasure of finding you at home, Madam, afterwards?'\n\nCleopatra was so much fluttered and moved, by hearing this, of course,\nincomprehensible speech, that she could only shut her eyes, and shake\nher head, and give Mr Dombey her hand; which Mr Dombey, not exactly\nknowing what to do with, dropped.\n\n'Dombey, come along!' cried the Major, looking in at the door. 'Damme,\nSir, old Joe has a great mind to propose an alteration in the name of\nthe Royal Hotel, and that it should be called the Three Jolly Bachelors,\nin honour of ourselves and Carker.' With this, the Major slapped Mr\nDombey on the back, and winking over his shoulder at the ladies, with a\nfrightful tendency of blood to the head, carried him off.\n\nMrs Skewton reposed on her sofa, and Edith sat apart, by her harp, in\nsilence. The mother, trifling with her fan, looked stealthily at the\ndaughter more than once, but the daughter, brooding gloomily with\ndowncast eyes, was not to be disturbed.\n\nThus they remained for a long hour, without a word, until Mrs Skewton's\nmaid appeared, according to custom, to prepare her gradually for night.\nAt night, she should have been a skeleton, with dart and hour-glass,\nrather than a woman, this attendant; for her touch was as the touch\nof Death. The painted object shrivelled underneath her hand; the form\ncollapsed, the hair dropped off, the arched dark eyebrows changed to\nscanty tufts of grey; the pale lips shrunk, the skin became cadaverous\nand loose; an old, worn, yellow, nodding woman, with red eyes, alone\nremained in Cleopatra's place, huddled up, like a slovenly bundle, in a\ngreasy flannel gown.\n\nThe very voice was changed, as it addressed Edith, when they were alone\nagain.\n\n'Why don't you tell me,' it said sharply, 'that he is coming here\nto-morrow by appointment?'\n\n'Because you know it,' returned Edith, 'Mother.'\n\nThe mocking emphasis she laid on that one word!\n\n'You know he has bought me,' she resumed. 'Or that he will, to-morrow.\nHe has considered of his bargain; he has shown it to his friend; he is\neven rather proud of it; he thinks that it will suit him, and may be had\nsufficiently cheap; and he will buy to-morrow. God, that I have lived\nfor this, and that I feel it!'\n\nCompress into one handsome face the conscious self-abasement, and the\nburning indignation of a hundred women, strong in passion and in pride;\nand there it hid itself with two white shuddering arms.\n\n'What do you mean?' returned the angry mother. 'Haven't you from a\nchild--'\n\n'A child!' said Edith, looking at her, 'when was I a child? What\nchildhood did you ever leave to me? I was a woman--artful, designing,\nmercenary, laying snares for men--before I knew myself, or you, or even\nunderstood the base and wretched aim of every new display I learnt You\ngave birth to a woman. Look upon her. She is in her pride tonight.'\n\nAnd as she spoke, she struck her hand upon her beautiful bosom, as\nthough she would have beaten down herself.\n\n'Look at me,' she said, 'who have never known what it is to have an\nhonest heart, and love. Look at me, taught to scheme and plot when\nchildren play; and married in my youth--an old age of design--to one\nfor whom I had no feeling but indifference. Look at me, whom he left a\nwidow, dying before his inheritance descended to him--a judgment on you!\nwell deserved!--and tell me what has been my life for ten years since.'\n\n'We have been making every effort to endeavour to secure to you a good\nestablishment,' rejoined her mother. 'That has been your life. And now\nyou have got it.'\n\n'There is no slave in a market: there is no horse in a fair: so shown\nand offered and examined and paraded, Mother, as I have been, for ten\nshameful years,' cried Edith, with a burning brow, and the same bitter\nemphasis on the one word. 'Is it not so? Have I been made the bye-word\nof all kinds of men? Have fools, have profligates, have boys, have\ndotards, dangled after me, and one by one rejected me, and fallen off,\nbecause you were too plain with all your cunning: yes, and too true,\nwith all those false pretences: until we have almost come to be\nnotorious? The licence of look and touch,' she said, with flashing eyes,\n'have I submitted to it, in half the places of resort upon the map of\nEngland? Have I been hawked and vended here and there, until the last\ngrain of self-respect is dead within me, and I loathe myself? Has been\nmy late childhood? I had none before. Do not tell me that I had, tonight\nof all nights in my life!'\n\n'You might have been well married,' said her mother, 'twenty times at\nleast, Edith, if you had given encouragement enough.'\n\n'No! Who takes me, refuse that I am, and as I well deserve to be,' she\nanswered, raising her head, and trembling in her energy of shame and\nstormy pride, 'shall take me, as this man does, with no art of mine put\nforth to lure him. He sees me at the auction, and he thinks it well to\nbuy me. Let him! When he came to view me--perhaps to bid--he required to\nsee the roll of my accomplishments. I gave it to him. When he would have\nme show one of them, to justify his purchase to his men, I require of\nhim to say which he demands, and I exhibit it. I will do no more. He\nmakes the purchase of his own will, and with his own sense of its worth,\nand the power of his money; and I hope it may never disappoint him. I\nhave not vaunted and pressed the bargain; neither have you, so far as I\nhave been able to prevent you.\n\n'You talk strangely to-night, Edith, to your own Mother.'\n\n'It seems so to me; stranger to me than you,' said Edith. 'But my\neducation was completed long ago. I am too old now, and have fallen too\nlow, by degrees, to take a new course, and to stop yours, and to help\nmyself. The germ of all that purifies a woman's breast, and makes it\ntrue and good, has never stirred in mine, and I have nothing else to\nsustain me when I despise myself.' There had been a touching sadness in\nher voice, but it was gone, when she went on to say, with a curled lip,\n'So, as we are genteel and poor, I am content that we should be made\nrich by these means; all I say is, I have kept the only purpose I have\nhad the strength to form--I had almost said the power, with you at my\nside, Mother--and have not tempted this man on.'\n\n'This man! You speak,' said her mother, 'as if you hated him.'\n\n'And you thought I loved him, did you not?' she answered, stopping on\nher way across the room, and looking round. 'Shall I tell you,' she\ncontinued, with her eyes fixed on her mother, 'who already knows us\nthoroughly, and reads us right, and before whom I have even less of\nself-respect or confidence than before my own inward self; being so much\ndegraded by his knowledge of me?'\n\n'This is an attack, I suppose,' returned her mother coldly, 'on poor,\nunfortunate what's-his-name--Mr Carker! Your want of self-respect and\nconfidence, my dear, in reference to that person (who is very agreeable,\nit strikes me), is not likely to have much effect on your establishment.\nWhy do you look at me so hard? Are you ill?'\n\nEdith suddenly let fall her face, as if it had been stung, and while\nshe pressed her hands upon it, a terrible tremble crept over her whole\nframe. It was quickly gone; and with her usual step, she passed out of\nthe room.\n\nThe maid who should have been a skeleton, then reappeared, and giving\none arm to her mistress, who appeared to have taken off her manner\nwith her charms, and to have put on paralysis with her flannel gown,\ncollected the ashes of Cleopatra, and carried them away in the other,\nready for tomorrow's revivification.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28. Alterations\n\n\n'So the day has come at length, Susan,' said Florence to the excellent\nNipper, 'when we are going back to our quiet home!'\n\nSusan drew in her breath with an amount of expression not easily\ndescribed, further relieving her feelings with a smart cough, answered,\n'Very quiet indeed, Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so.'\n\n'When I was a child,' said Florence, thoughtfully, and after musing for\nsome moments, 'did you ever see that gentleman who has taken the trouble\nto ride down here to speak to me, now three times--three times, I think,\nSusan?'\n\n'Three times, Miss,' returned the Nipper. 'Once when you was out a\nwalking with them Sket--'\n\nFlorence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper checked herself.\n\n'With Sir Barnet and his lady, I mean to say, Miss, and the young\ngentleman. And two evenings since then.'\n\n'When I was a child, and when company used to come to visit Papa, did\nyou ever see that gentleman at home, Susan?' asked Florence.\n\n'Well, Miss,' returned her maid, after considering, 'I really couldn't\nsay I ever did. When your poor dear Ma died, Miss Floy, I was very new\nin the family, you see, and my element:' the Nipper bridled, as opining\nthat her merits had been always designedly extinguished by Mr Dombey:\n'was the floor below the attics.'\n\n'To be sure,' said Florence, still thoughtfully; 'you are not likely to\nhave known who came to the house. I quite forgot.'\n\n'Not, Miss, but what we talked about the family and visitors,' said\nSusan, 'and but what I heard much said, although the nurse before Mrs\nRichards make unpleasant remarks when I was in company, and hint\nat little Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor thing,'\nobserved Susan, with composed forbearance, 'to habits of intoxication,\nfor which she was required to leave, and did.'\n\nFlorence, who was seated at her chamber window, with her face resting\non her hand, sat looking out, and hardly seemed to hear what Susan said,\nshe was so lost in thought.\n\n'At all events, Miss,' said Susan, 'I remember very well that this same\ngentleman, Mr Carker, was almost, if not quite, as great a gentleman\nwith your Papa then, as he is now. It used to be said in the house then,\nMiss, that he was at the head of all your Pa's affairs in the City, and\nmanaged the whole, and that your Pa minded him more than anybody, which,\nbegging your pardon, Miss Floy, he might easy do, for he never minded\nanybody else. I knew that, Pitcher as I might have been.'\n\nSusan Nipper, with an injured remembrance of the nurse before Mrs\nRichards, emphasised 'Pitcher' strongly.\n\n'And that Mr Carker has not fallen off, Miss,' she pursued, 'but has\nstood his ground, and kept his credit with your Pa, I know from what\nis always said among our people by that Perch, whenever he comes to the\nhouse; and though he's the weakest weed in the world, Miss Floy, and no\none can have a moment's patience with the man, he knows what goes on in\nthe City tolerable well, and says that your Pa does nothing without Mr\nCarker, and leaves all to Mr Carker, and acts according to Mr Carker,\nand has Mr Carker always at his elbow, and I do believe that he believes\n(that washiest of Perches!) that after your Pa, the Emperor of India is\nthe child unborn to Mr Carker.'\n\nNot a word of this was lost on Florence, who, with an awakened interest\nin Susan's speech, no longer gazed abstractedly on the prospect without,\nbut looked at her, and listened with attention.\n\n'Yes, Susan,' she said, when that young lady had concluded. 'He is in\nPapa's confidence, and is his friend, I am sure.'\n\nFlorence's mind ran high on this theme, and had done for some days. Mr\nCarker, in the two visits with which he had followed up his first one,\nhad assumed a confidence between himself and her--a right on his part\nto be mysterious and stealthy, in telling her that the ship was still\nunheard of--a kind of mildly restrained power and authority over\nher--that made her wonder, and caused her great uneasiness. She had\nno means of repelling it, or of freeing herself from the web he was\ngradually winding about her; for that would have required some art and\nknowledge of the world, opposed to such address as his; and Florence had\nnone. True, he had said no more to her than that there was no news of\nthe ship, and that he feared the worst; but how he came to know that\nshe was interested in the ship, and why he had the right to signify\nhis knowledge to her, so insidiously and darkly, troubled Florence very\nmuch.\n\nThis conduct on the part of Mr Carker, and her habit of often\nconsidering it with wonder and uneasiness, began to invest him with\nan uncomfortable fascination in Florence's thoughts. A more distinct\nremembrance of his features, voice, and manner: which she sometimes\ncourted, as a means of reducing him to the level of a real personage,\ncapable of exerting no greater charm over her than another: did not\nremove the vague impression. And yet he never frowned, or looked upon\nher with an air of dislike or animosity, but was always smiling and\nserene.\n\nAgain, Florence, in pursuit of her strong purpose with reference to\nher father, and her steady resolution to believe that she was herself\nunwittingly to blame for their so cold and distant relations, would\nrecall to mind that this gentleman was his confidential friend, and\nwould think, with an anxious heart, could her struggling tendency to\ndislike and fear him be a part of that misfortune in her, which had\nturned her father's love adrift, and left her so alone? She dreaded that\nit might be; sometimes believed it was: then she resolved that she\nwould try to conquer this wrong feeling; persuaded herself that she was\nhonoured and encouraged by the notice of her father's friend; and hoped\nthat patient observation of him and trust in him would lead her bleeding\nfeet along that stony road which ended in her father's heart.\n\nThus, with no one to advise her--for she could advise with no one\nwithout seeming to complain against him--gentle Florence tossed on an\nuneasy sea of doubt and hope; and Mr Carker, like a scaly monster of the\ndeep, swam down below, and kept his shining eye upon her.\n\nFlorence had a new reason in all this for wishing to be at home again.\nHer lonely life was better suited to her course of timid hope and doubt;\nand she feared sometimes, that in her absence she might miss some\nhopeful chance of testifying her affection for her father. Heaven knows,\nshe might have set her mind at rest, poor child! on this last point; but\nher slighted love was fluttering within her, and, even in her sleep, it\nflew away in dreams, and nestled, like a wandering bird come home, upon\nher father's neck.\n\nOf Walter she thought often. Ah! how often, when the night was gloomy,\nand the wind was blowing round the house! But hope was strong in her\nbreast. It is so difficult for the young and ardent, even with such\nexperience as hers, to imagine youth and ardour quenched like a weak\nflame, and the bright day of life merging into night, at noon, that hope\nwas strong yet. Her tears fell frequently for Walter's sufferings; but\nrarely for his supposed death, and never long.\n\nShe had written to the old Instrument-maker, but had received no\nanswer to her note: which indeed required none. Thus matters stood with\nFlorence on the morning when she was going home, gladly, to her old\nsecluded life.\n\nDoctor and Mrs Blimber, accompanied (much against his will) by their\nvalued charge, Master Barnet, were already gone back to Brighton, where\nthat young gentleman and his fellow-pilgrims to Parnassus were then, no\ndoubt, in the continual resumption of their studies. The holiday time\nwas past and over; most of the juvenile guests at the villa had taken\ntheir departure; and Florence's long visit was come to an end.\n\nThere was one guest, however, albeit not resident within the house, who\nhad been very constant in his attentions to the family, and who still\nremained devoted to them. This was Mr Toots, who after renewing, some\nweeks ago, the acquaintance he had had the happiness of forming with\nSkettles Junior, on the night when he burst the Blimberian bonds and\nsoared into freedom with his ring on, called regularly every other day,\nand left a perfect pack of cards at the hall-door; so many indeed, that\nthe ceremony was quite a deal on the part of Mr Toots, and a hand at\nwhist on the part of the servant.\n\nMr Toots, likewise, with the bold and happy idea of preventing the\nfamily from forgetting him (but there is reason to suppose that\nthis expedient originated in the teeming brain of the Chicken), had\nestablished a six-oared cutter, manned by aquatic friends of the\nChicken's and steered by that illustrious character in person, who wore\na bright red fireman's coat for the purpose, and concealed the perpetual\nblack eye with which he was afflicted, beneath a green shade. Previous\nto the institution of this equipage, Mr Toots sounded the Chicken on a\nhypothetical case, as, supposing the Chicken to be enamoured of a young\nlady named Mary, and to have conceived the intention of starting a boat\nof his own, what would he call that boat? The Chicken replied, with\ndivers strong asseverations, that he would either christen it Poll or\nThe Chicken's Delight. Improving on this idea, Mr Toots, after deep\nstudy and the exercise of much invention, resolved to call his boat\nThe Toots's Joy, as a delicate compliment to Florence, of which no man\nknowing the parties, could possibly miss the appreciation.\n\nStretched on a crimson cushion in his gallant bark, with his shoes\nin the air, Mr Toots, in the exercise of his project, had come up the\nriver, day after day, and week after week, and had flitted to and fro,\nnear Sir Barnet's garden, and had caused his crew to cut across and\nacross the river at sharp angles, for his better exhibition to any\nlookers-out from Sir Barnet's windows, and had had such evolutions\nperformed by the Toots's Joy as had filled all the neighbouring part\nof the water-side with astonishment. But whenever he saw anyone in Sir\nBarnet's garden on the brink of the river, Mr Toots always feigned to be\npassing there, by a combination of coincidences of the most singular and\nunlikely description.\n\n'How are you, Toots?' Sir Barnet would say, waving his hand from the\nlawn, while the artful Chicken steered close in shore.\n\n'How de do, Sir Barnet?' Mr Toots would answer, 'What a surprising thing\nthat I should see you here!'\n\nMr Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as if, instead of that\nbeing Sir Barnet's house, it were some deserted edifice on the banks of\nthe Nile, or Ganges.\n\n'I never was so surprised!' Mr Toots would exclaim.--'Is Miss Dombey\nthere?'\n\nWhereupon Florence would appear, perhaps.\n\n'Oh, Diogenes is quite well, Miss Dombey,' Toots would cry. 'I called to\nask this morning.'\n\n'Thank you very much!' the pleasant voice of Florence would reply.\n\n'Won't you come ashore, Toots?' Sir Barnet would say then. 'Come! you're\nin no hurry. Come and see us.'\n\n'Oh, it's of no consequence, thank you!' Mr Toots would blushingly\nrejoin. 'I thought Miss Dombey might like to know, that's all.\nGood-bye!' And poor Mr Toots, who was dying to accept the invitation,\nbut hadn't the courage to do it, signed to the Chicken, with an aching\nheart, and away went the Joy, cleaving the water like an arrow.\n\nThe Joy was lying in a state of extraordinary splendour, at the garden\nsteps, on the morning of Florence's departure. When she went downstairs\nto take leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mr Toots awaiting\nher in the drawing-room.\n\n'Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey?' said the stricken Toots, always dreadfully\ndisconcerted when the desire of his heart was gained, and he was\nspeaking to her; 'thank you, I'm very well indeed, I hope you're the\nsame, so was Diogenes yesterday.'\n\n'You are very kind,' said Florence.\n\n'Thank you, it's of no consequence,' retorted Mr Toots. 'I thought\nperhaps you wouldn't mind, in this fine weather, coming home by water,\nMiss Dombey. There's plenty of room in the boat for your maid.'\n\n'I am very much obliged to you,' said Florence, hesitating. 'I really\nam--but I would rather not.'\n\n'Oh, it's of no consequence,' retorted Mr Toots. 'Good morning.'\n\n'Won't you wait and see Lady Skettles?' asked Florence, kindly.\n\n'Oh no, thank you,' returned Mr Toots, 'it's of no consequence at all.'\n\nSo shy was Mr Toots on such occasions, and so flurried! But Lady\nSkettles entering at the moment, Mr Toots was suddenly seized with a\npassion for asking her how she did, and hoping she was very well; nor\ncould Mr Toots by any possibility leave off shaking hands with her,\nuntil Sir Barnet appeared: to whom he immediately clung with the\ntenacity of desperation.\n\n'We are losing, today, Toots,' said Sir Barnet, turning towards\nFlorence, 'the light of our house, I assure you'\n\n'Oh, it's of no conseq--I mean yes, to be sure,' faltered the\nembarrassed Mr Toots. 'Good morning!'\n\nNotwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewell, Mr Toots, instead\nof going away, stood leering about him, vacantly. Florence, to relieve\nhim, bade adieu, with many thanks, to Lady Skettles, and gave her arm to\nSir Barnet.\n\n'May I beg of you, my dear Miss Dombey,' said her host, as he conducted\nher to the carriage, 'to present my best compliments to your dear Papa?'\n\nIt was distressing to Florence to receive the commission, for she felt\nas if she were imposing on Sir Barnet by allowing him to believe that a\nkindness rendered to her, was rendered to her father. As she could not\nexplain, however, she bowed her head and thanked him; and again she\nthought that the dull home, free from such embarrassments, and such\nreminders of her sorrow, was her natural and best retreat.\n\nSuch of her late friends and companions as were yet remaining at the\nvilla, came running from within, and from the garden, to say good-bye.\nThey were all attached to her, and very earnest in taking leave of\nher. Even the household were sorry for her going, and the servants came\nnodding and curtseying round the carriage door. As Florence looked round\non the kind faces, and saw among them those of Sir Barnet and his lady,\nand of Mr Toots, who was chuckling and staring at her from a distance,\nshe was reminded of the night when Paul and she had come from Doctor\nBlimber's: and when the carriage drove away, her face was wet with\ntears.\n\nSorrowful tears, but tears of consolation, too; for all the softer\nmemories connected with the dull old house to which she was returning\nmade it dear to her, as they rose up. How long it seemed since she had\nwandered through the silent rooms: since she had last crept, softly and\nafraid, into those her father occupied: since she had felt the solemn\nbut yet soothing influence of the beloved dead in every action of her\ndaily life! This new farewell reminded her, besides, of her parting\nwith poor Walter: of his looks and words that night: and of the gracious\nblending she had noticed in him, of tenderness for those he left behind,\nwith courage and high spirit. His little history was associated with\nthe old house too, and gave it a new claim and hold upon her heart.\n\nEven Susan Nipper softened towards the home of so many years, as they\nwere on their way towards it. Gloomy as it was, and rigid justice as she\nrendered to its gloom, she forgave it a great deal. 'I shall be glad to\nsee it again, I don't deny, Miss,' said the Nipper. 'There ain't much in\nit to boast of, but I wouldn't have it burnt or pulled down, neither!'\n\n'You'll be glad to go through the old rooms, won't you, Susan?' said\nFlorence, smiling.\n\n'Well, Miss,' returned the Nipper, softening more and more towards the\nhouse, as they approached it nearer, 'I won't deny but what I shall,\nthough I shall hate 'em again, to-morrow, very likely.'\n\nFlorence felt that, for her, there was greater peace within it than\nelsewhere. It was better and easier to keep her secret shut up there,\namong the tall dark walls, than to carry it abroad into the light, and\ntry to hide it from a crowd of happy eyes. It was better to pursue the\nstudy of her loving heart, alone, and find no new discouragements in\nloving hearts about her. It was easier to hope, and pray, and love\non, all uncared for, yet with constancy and patience, in the tranquil\nsanctuary of such remembrances: although it mouldered, rusted, and\ndecayed about her: than in a new scene, let its gaiety be what it would.\nShe welcomed back her old enchanted dream of life, and longed for the\nold dark door to close upon her, once again.\n\nFull of such thoughts, they turned into the long and sombre street.\nFlorence was not on that side of the carriage which was nearest to her\nhome, and as the distance lessened between them and it, she looked out\nof her window for the children over the way.\n\nShe was thus engaged, when an exclamation from Susan caused her to turn\nquickly round.\n\n'Why, Gracious me!' cried Susan, breathless, 'where's our house!'\n\n'Our house!' said Florence.\n\nSusan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust it out again, drew\nit in again as the carriage stopped, and stared at her mistress in\namazement.\n\nThere was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round the house, from\nthe basement to the roof. Loads of bricks and stones, and heaps of\nmortar, and piles of wood, blocked up half the width and length of\nthe broad street at the side. Ladders were raised against the walls;\nlabourers were climbing up and down; men were at work upon the steps of\nthe scaffolding; painters and decorators were busy inside; great rolls\nof ornamental paper were being delivered from a cart at the door; an\nupholsterer's waggon also stopped the way; no furniture was to be seen\nthrough the gaping and broken windows in any of the rooms; nothing but\nworkmen, and the implements of their several trades, swarming from\nthe kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike: bricklayers,\npainters, carpenters, masons: hammer, hod, brush, pickaxe, saw, and\ntrowel: all at work together, in full chorus!\n\nFlorence descended from the coach, half doubting if it were, or could be\nthe right house, until she recognised Towlinson, with a sun-burnt face,\nstanding at the door to receive her.\n\n'There is nothing the matter?' inquired Florence.\n\n'Oh no, Miss.'\n\n'There are great alterations going on.'\n\n'Yes, Miss, great alterations,' said Towlinson.\n\nFlorence passed him as if she were in a dream, and hurried upstairs. The\ngarish light was in the long-darkened drawing-room and there were steps\nand platforms, and men in paper caps, in the high places. Her mother's\npicture was gone with the rest of the moveables, and on the mark where\nit had been, was scrawled in chalk, 'this room in panel. Green and\ngold.' The staircase was a labyrinth of posts and planks like the\noutside of the house, and a whole Olympus of plumbers and glaziers was\nreclining in various attitudes, on the skylight. Her own room was not\nyet touched within, but there were beams and boards raised against\nit without, baulking the daylight. She went up swiftly to that other\nbedroom, where the little bed was; and a dark giant of a man with a pipe\nin his mouth, and his head tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, was staring\nin at the window.\n\nIt was here that Susan Nipper, who had been in quest of Florence, found\nher, and said, would she go downstairs to her Papa, who wished to speak\nto her.\n\n'At home! and wishing to speak to me!' cried Florence, trembling.\n\nSusan, who was infinitely more distraught than Florence herself,\nrepeated her errand; and Florence, pale and agitated, hurried down\nagain, without a moment's hesitation. She thought upon the way down,\nwould she dare to kiss him? The longing of her heart resolved her, and\nshe thought she would.\n\nHer father might have heard that heart beat, when it came into his\npresence. One instant, and it would have beat against his breast.\n\nBut he was not alone. There were two ladies there; and Florence stopped.\nStriving so hard with her emotion, that if her brute friend Di had not\nburst in and overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome home--at\nwhich one of the ladies gave a little scream, and that diverted her\nattention from herself--she would have swooned upon the floor.\n\n'Florence,' said her father, putting out his hand: so stiffly that it\nheld her off: 'how do you do?'\n\nFlorence took the hand between her own, and putting it timidly to her\nlips, yielded to its withdrawal. It touched the door in shutting it,\nwith quite as much endearment as it had touched her.\n\n'What dog is that?' said Mr Dombey, displeased.\n\n'It is a dog, Papa--from Brighton.'\n\n'Well!' said Mr Dombey; and a cloud passed over his face, for he\nunderstood her.\n\n'He is very good-tempered,' said Florence, addressing herself with her\nnatural grace and sweetness to the two lady strangers. 'He is only glad\nto see me. Pray forgive him.'\n\nShe saw in the glance they interchanged, that the lady who had screamed,\nand who was seated, was old; and that the other lady, who stood near her\nPapa, was very beautiful, and of an elegant figure.\n\n'Mrs Skewton,' said her father, turning to the first, and holding out\nhis hand, 'this is my daughter Florence.'\n\n'Charming, I am sure,' observed the lady, putting up her glass. 'So\nnatural! My darling Florence, you must kiss me, if you please.'\n\nFlorence having done so, turned towards the other lady, by whom her\nfather stood waiting.\n\n'Edith,' said Mr Dombey, 'this is my daughter Florence. Florence, this\nlady will soon be your Mama.'\n\nFlorence started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict\nof emotions, among which the tears that name awakened, struggled for a\nmoment with surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of\nfear. Then she cried out, 'Oh, Papa, may you be happy! may you be very,\nvery happy all your life!' and then fell weeping on the lady's bosom.\n\nThere was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who at first had seemed\nto hesitate whether or no she should advance to Florence, held her to\nher breast, and pressed the hand with which she clasped her, close about\nher waist, as if to reassure her and comfort her. Not one word passed\nthe lady's lips. She bent her head down over Florence, and she kissed\nher on the cheek, but she said no word.\n\n'Shall we go on through the rooms,' said Mr Dombey, 'and see how our\nworkmen are doing? Pray allow me, my dear madam.'\n\nHe said this in offering his arm to Mrs Skewton, who had been looking\nat Florence through her glass, as though picturing to herself what she\nmight be made, by the infusion--from her own copious storehouse, no\ndoubt--of a little more Heart and Nature. Florence was still sobbing on\nthe lady's breast, and holding to her, when Mr Dombey was heard to say\nfrom the Conservatory:\n\n'Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she?'\n\n'Edith, my dear!' cried Mrs Skewton, 'where are you? Looking for Mr\nDombey somewhere, I know. We are here, my love.'\n\nThe beautiful lady released her hold of Florence, and pressing her lips\nonce more upon her face, withdrew hurriedly, and joined them. Florence\nremained standing in the same place: happy, sorry, joyful, and in tears,\nshe knew not how, or how long, but all at once: when her new Mama came\nback, and took her in her arms again.\n\n'Florence,' said the lady, hurriedly, and looking into her face with\ngreat earnestness. 'You will not begin by hating me?'\n\n'By hating you, Mama?' cried Florence, winding her arm round her neck,\nand returning the look.\n\n'Hush! Begin by thinking well of me,' said the beautiful lady. 'Begin by\nbelieving that I will try to make you happy, and that I am prepared to\nlove you, Florence. Good-bye. We shall meet again soon. Good-bye! Don't\nstay here, now.'\n\nAgain she pressed her to her breast she had spoken in a rapid manner,\nbut firmly--and Florence saw her rejoin them in the other room.\n\nAnd now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new and\nbeautiful Mama, how to gain her father's love; and in her sleep that\nnight, in her lost old home, her own Mama smiled radiantly upon the\nhope, and blessed it. Dreaming Florence!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29. The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick\n\n\nMiss Tox, all unconscious of any such rare appearances in connexion with\nMr Dombey's house, as scaffoldings and ladders, and men with their heads\ntied up in pocket-handkerchiefs, glaring in at the windows like flying\ngenii or strange birds,--having breakfasted one morning at about this\neventful period of time, on her customary viands; to wit, one French\nroll rasped, one egg new laid (or warranted to be), and one little pot\nof tea, wherein was infused one little silver scoopful of that herb\non behalf of Miss Tox, and one little silver scoopful on behalf of\nthe teapot--a flight of fancy in which good housekeepers delight; went\nupstairs to set forth the bird waltz on the harpsichord, to water and\narrange the plants, to dust the nick-nacks, and, according to her daily\ncustom, to make her little drawing-room the garland of Princess's Place.\n\nMiss Tox endued herself with a pair of ancient gloves, like dead leaves,\nin which she was accustomed to perform these avocations--hidden from\nhuman sight at other times in a table drawer--and went methodically to\nwork; beginning with the bird waltz; passing, by a natural association\nof ideas, to her bird--a very high-shouldered canary, stricken in years,\nand much rumpled, but a piercing singer, as Princess's Place well knew;\ntaking, next in order, the little china ornaments, paper fly-cages, and\nso forth; and coming round, in good time, to the plants, which generally\nrequired to be snipped here and there with a pair of scissors, for some\nbotanical reason that was very powerful with Miss Tox.\n\n\nMiss Tox was slow in coming to the plants, this morning. The weather was\nwarm, the wind southerly; and there was a sigh of the summer-time in\nPrincess's Place, that turned Miss Tox's thoughts upon the country. The\npot-boy attached to the Princess's Arms had come out with a can and\ntrickled water, in a flowering pattern, all over Princess's Place, and it\ngave the weedy ground a fresh scent--quite a growing scent, Miss Tox\nsaid. There was a tiny blink of sun peeping in from the great street\nround the corner, and the smoky sparrows hopped over it and back again,\nbrightening as they passed: or bathed in it, like a stream, and became\nglorified sparrows, unconnected with chimneys. Legends in praise of\nGinger-Beer, with pictorial representations of thirsty customers\nsubmerged in the effervescence, or stunned by the flying corks, were\nconspicuous in the window of the Princess's Arms. They were making late\nhay, somewhere out of town; and though the fragrance had a long way to\ncome, and many counter fragrances to contend with among the dwellings of\nthe poor (may God reward the worthy gentlemen who stickle for the Plague\nas part and parcel of the wisdom of our ancestors, and who do their\nlittle best to keep those dwellings miserable!), yet it was wafted\nfaintly into Princess's Place, whispering of Nature and her wholesome\nair, as such things will, even unto prisoners and captives, and those who\nare desolate and oppressed, in very spite of aldermen and knights to\nboot: at whose sage nod--and how they nod!--the rolling world stands\nstill!\n\nMiss Tox sat down upon the window-seat, and thought of her good Papa\ndeceased--Mr Tox, of the Customs Department of the public service; and\nof her childhood, passed at a seaport, among a considerable quantity of\ncold tar, and some rusticity. She fell into a softened remembrance of\nmeadows, in old time, gleaming with buttercups, like so many\ninverted firmaments of golden stars; and how she had made chains of\ndandelion-stalks for youthful vowers of eternal constancy, dressed\nchiefly in nankeen; and how soon those fetters had withered and broken.\n\nSitting on the window-seat, and looking out upon the sparrows and\nthe blink of sun, Miss Tox thought likewise of her good Mama\ndeceased--sister to the owner of the powdered head and pigtail--of her\nvirtues and her rheumatism. And when a man with bulgy legs, and a rough\nvoice, and a heavy basket on his head that crushed his hat into a mere\nblack muffin, came crying flowers down Princess's Place, making his\ntimid little roots of daisies shudder in the vibration of every yell\nhe gave, as though he had been an ogre, hawking little children, summer\nrecollections were so strong upon Miss Tox, that she shook her head, and\nmurmured she would be comparatively old before she knew it--which seemed\nlikely.\n\nIn her pensive mood, Miss Tox's thoughts went wandering on Mr Dombey's\ntrack; probably because the Major had returned home to his lodgings\nopposite, and had just bowed to her from his window. What other reason\ncould Miss Tox have for connecting Mr Dombey with her summer days\nand dandelion fetters? Was he more cheerful? thought Miss Tox. Was he\nreconciled to the decrees of fate? Would he ever marry again? and if\nyes, whom? What sort of person now!\n\nA flush--it was warm weather--overspread Miss Tox's face, as, while\nentertaining these meditations, she turned her head, and was surprised\nby the reflection of her thoughtful image in the chimney-glass. Another\nflush succeeded when she saw a little carriage drive into Princess's\nPlace, and make straight for her own door. Miss Tox arose, took up her\nscissors hastily, and so coming, at last, to the plants, was very busy\nwith them when Mrs Chick entered the room.\n\n'How is my sweetest friend!' exclaimed Miss Tox, with open arms.\n\nA little stateliness was mingled with Miss Tox's sweetest friend's\ndemeanour, but she kissed Miss Tox, and said, 'Lucretia, thank you, I am\npretty well. I hope you are the same. Hem!'\n\nMrs Chick was labouring under a peculiar little monosyllabic cough; a\nsort of primer, or easy introduction to the art of coughing.\n\n'You call very early, and how kind that is, my dear!' pursued Miss Tox.\n'Now, have you breakfasted?'\n\n'Thank you, Lucretia,' said Mrs Chick, 'I have. I took an early\nbreakfast'--the good lady seemed curious on the subject of Princess's\nPlace, and looked all round it as she spoke--'with my brother, who has\ncome home.'\n\n'He is better, I trust, my love,' faltered Miss Tox.\n\n'He is greatly better, thank you. Hem!'\n\n'My dear Louisa must be careful of that cough' remarked Miss Tox.\n\n'It's nothing,' returned Mrs Chic 'It's merely change of weather. We\nmust expect change.'\n\n'Of weather?' asked Miss Tox, in her simplicity.\n\n'Of everything,' returned Mrs Chick. 'Of course we must. It's a world of\nchange. Anyone would surprise me very much, Lucretia, and would greatly\nalter my opinion of their understanding, if they attempted to contradict\nor evade what is so perfectly evident. Change!' exclaimed Mrs Chick,\nwith severe philosophy. 'Why, my gracious me, what is there that does\nnot change! even the silkworm, who I am sure might be supposed not to\ntrouble itself about such subjects, changes into all sorts of unexpected\nthings continually.'\n\n'My Louisa,' said the mild Miss Tox, 'is ever happy in her\nillustrations.'\n\n'You are so kind, Lucretia,' returned Mrs Chick, a little softened, 'as\nto say so, and to think so, I believe. I hope neither of us may ever\nhave any cause to lessen our opinion of the other, Lucretia.'\n\n'I am sure of it,' returned Miss Tox.\n\nMrs Chick coughed as before, and drew lines on the carpet with the ivory\nend of her parasol. Miss Tox, who had experience of her fair friend, and\nknew that under the pressure of any slight fatigue or vexation she\nwas prone to a discursive kind of irritability, availed herself of the\npause, to change the subject.\n\n'Pardon me, my dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox, 'but have I caught sight of\nthe manly form of Mr Chick in the carriage?'\n\n'He is there,' said Mrs Chick, 'but pray leave him there. He has his\nnewspaper, and would be quite contented for the next two hours. Go on\nwith your flowers, Lucretia, and allow me to sit here and rest.'\n\n'My Louisa knows,' observed Miss Tox, 'that between friends like\nourselves, any approach to ceremony would be out of the question.\nTherefore--' Therefore Miss Tox finished the sentence, not in words but\naction; and putting on her gloves again, which she had taken off, and\narming herself once more with her scissors, began to snip and clip among\nthe leaves with microscopic industry.\n\n'Florence has returned home also,' said Mrs Chick, after sitting silent\nfor some time, with her head on one side, and her parasol sketching on\nthe floor; 'and really Florence is a great deal too old now, to continue\nto lead that solitary life to which she has been accustomed. Of course\nshe is. There can be no doubt about it. I should have very little\nrespect, indeed, for anybody who could advocate a different opinion.\nWhatever my wishes might be, I could not respect them. We cannot command\nour feelings to such an extent as that.'\n\nMiss Tox assented, without being particular as to the intelligibility of\nthe proposition.\n\n'If she's a strange girl,' said Mrs Chick, 'and if my brother Paul\ncannot feel perfectly comfortable in her society, after all the sad\nthings that have happened, and all the terrible disappointments that\nhave been undergone, then, what is the reply? That he must make an\neffort. That he is bound to make an effort. We have always been a family\nremarkable for effort. Paul is at the head of the family; almost the\nonly representative of it left--for what am I--I am of no consequence--'\n\n'My dearest love,' remonstrated Miss Tox.\n\nMrs Chick dried her eyes, which were, for the moment, overflowing; and\nproceeded:\n\n'And consequently he is more than ever bound to make an effort. And\nthough his having done so, comes upon me with a sort of shock--for mine\nis a very weak and foolish nature; which is anything but a blessing I am\nsure; I often wish my heart was a marble slab, or a paving-stone--'\n\n'My sweet Louisa,' remonstrated Miss Tox again.\n\n'Still, it is a triumph to me to know that he is so true to himself, and\nto his name of Dombey; although, of course, I always knew he would be.\nI only hope,' said Mrs Chick, after a pause, 'that she may be worthy of\nthe name too.'\n\nMiss Tox filled a little green watering-pot from a jug, and happening\nto look up when she had done so, was so surprised by the amount of\nexpression Mrs Chick had conveyed into her face, and was bestowing upon\nher, that she put the little watering-pot on the table for the present,\nand sat down near it.\n\n'My dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox, 'will it be the least satisfaction to\nyou, if I venture to observe in reference to that remark, that I, as a\nhumble individual, think your sweet niece in every way most promising?'\n\n'What do you mean, Lucretia?' returned Mrs Chick, with increased\nstateliness of manner. 'To what remark of mine, my dear, do you refer?'\n\n'Her being worthy of her name, my love,' replied Miss Tox.\n\n'If,' said Mrs Chick, with solemn patience, 'I have not expressed\nmyself with clearness, Lucretia, the fault of course is mine. There\nis, perhaps, no reason why I should express myself at all, except the\nintimacy that has subsisted between us, and which I very much hope,\nLucretia--confidently hope--nothing will occur to disturb. Because, why\nshould I do anything else? There is no reason; it would be absurd. But\nI wish to express myself clearly, Lucretia; and therefore to go back\nto that remark, I must beg to say that it was not intended to relate to\nFlorence, in any way.'\n\n'Indeed!' returned Miss Tox.\n\n'No,' said Mrs Chick shortly and decisively.\n\n'Pardon me, my dear,' rejoined her meek friend; 'but I cannot have\nunderstood it. I fear I am dull.'\n\nMrs Chick looked round the room and over the way; at the plants, at the\nbird, at the watering-pot, at almost everything within view, except Miss\nTox; and finally dropping her glance upon Miss Tox, for a moment, on its\nway to the ground, said, looking meanwhile with elevated eyebrows at the\ncarpet:\n\n'When I speak, Lucretia, of her being worthy of the name, I speak of my\nbrother Paul's second wife. I believe I have already said, in effect,\nif not in the very words I now use, that it is his intention to marry a\nsecond wife.'\n\nMiss Tox left her seat in a hurry, and returned to her plants; clipping\namong the stems and leaves, with as little favour as a barber working at\nso many pauper heads of hair.\n\n'Whether she will be fully sensible of the distinction conferred upon\nher,' said Mrs Chick, in a lofty tone, 'is quite another question.\nI hope she may be. We are bound to think well of one another in this\nworld, and I hope she may be. I have not been advised with myself. If\nI had been advised with, I have no doubt my advice would have been\ncavalierly received, and therefore it is infinitely better as it is. I\nmuch prefer it as it is.'\n\nMiss Tox, with head bent down, still clipped among the plants. Mrs\nChick, with energetic shakings of her own head from time to time,\ncontinued to hold forth, as if in defiance of somebody.\n\n'If my brother Paul had consulted with me, which he sometimes does--or\nrather, sometimes used to do; for he will naturally do that no more now,\nand this is a circumstance which I regard as a relief from\nresponsibility,' said Mrs Chick, hysterically, 'for I thank Heaven I am\nnot jealous--' here Mrs Chick again shed tears: 'if my brother Paul had\ncome to me, and had said, \"Louisa, what kind of qualities would you\nadvise me to look out for, in a wife?\" I should certainly have answered,\n\"Paul, you must have family, you must have beauty, you must have dignity,\nyou must have connexion.\" Those are the words I should have used. You\nmight have led me to the block immediately afterwards,' said Mrs Chick,\nas if that consequence were highly probable, 'but I should have used\nthem. I should have said, \"Paul! You to marry a second time without\nfamily! You to marry without beauty! You to marry without dignity! You\nto marry without connexion! There is nobody in the world, not mad, who\ncould dream of daring to entertain such a preposterous idea!\"'\n\nMiss Tox stopped clipping; and with her head among the plants, listened\nattentively. Perhaps Miss Tox thought there was hope in this exordium,\nand the warmth of Mrs Chick.\n\n'I should have adopted this course of argument,' pursued the discreet\nlady, 'because I trust I am not a fool. I make no claim to be considered\na person of superior intellect--though I believe some people have been\nextraordinary enough to consider me so; one so little humoured as I am,\nwould very soon be disabused of any such notion; but I trust I am not a\ndownright fool. And to tell ME,' said Mrs Chick with ineffable disdain,\n'that my brother Paul Dombey could ever contemplate the possibility of\nuniting himself to anybody--I don't care who'--she was more sharp\nand emphatic in that short clause than in any other part of her\ndiscourse--'not possessing these requisites, would be to insult what\nunderstanding I have got, as much as if I was to be told that I was born\nand bred an elephant, which I may be told next,' said Mrs Chick, with\nresignation. 'It wouldn't surprise me at all. I expect it.'\n\nIn the moment's silence that ensued, Miss Tox's scissors gave a feeble\nclip or two; but Miss Tox's face was still invisible, and Miss Tox's\nmorning gown was agitated. Mrs Chick looked sideways at her, through the\nintervening plants, and went on to say, in a tone of bland conviction,\nand as one dwelling on a point of fact that hardly required to be\nstated:\n\n'Therefore, of course my brother Paul has done what was to be expected\nof him, and what anybody might have foreseen he would do, if he entered\nthe marriage state again. I confess it takes me rather by surprise,\nhowever gratifying; because when Paul went out of town I had no idea at\nall that he would form any attachment out of town, and he certainly\nhad no attachment when he left here. However, it seems to be extremely\ndesirable in every point of view. I have no doubt the mother is a most\ngenteel and elegant creature, and I have no right whatever to dispute\nthe policy of her living with them: which is Paul's affair, not\nmine--and as to Paul's choice, herself, I have only seen her picture\nyet, but that is beautiful indeed. Her name is beautiful too,' said Mrs\nChick, shaking her head with energy, and arranging herself in her\nchair; 'Edith is at once uncommon, as it strikes me, and distinguished.\nConsequently, Lucretia, I have no doubt you will be happy to hear that\nthe marriage is to take place immediately--of course, you will:' great\nemphasis again: 'and that you are delighted with this change in the\ncondition of my brother, who has shown you a great deal of pleasant\nattention at various times.'\n\nMiss Tox made no verbal answer, but took up the little watering-pot\nwith a trembling hand, and looked vacantly round as if considering what\narticle of furniture would be improved by the contents. The room door\nopening at this crisis of Miss Tox's feelings, she started, laughed\naloud, and fell into the arms of the person entering; happily insensible\nalike of Mrs Chick's indignant countenance and of the Major at his\nwindow over the way, who had his double-barrelled eye-glass in full\naction, and whose face and figure were dilated with Mephistophelean joy.\n\nNot so the expatriated Native, amazed supporter of Miss Tox's swooning\nform, who, coming straight upstairs, with a polite inquiry touching Miss\nTox's health (in exact pursuance of the Major's malicious instructions),\nhad accidentally arrived in the very nick of time to catch the\ndelicate burden in his arms, and to receive the contents of the little\nwatering-pot in his shoe; both of which circumstances, coupled with his\nconsciousness of being closely watched by the wrathful Major, who had\nthreatened the usual penalty in regard of every bone in his skin in case\nof any failure, combined to render him a moving spectacle of mental and\nbodily distress.\n\nFor some moments, this afflicted foreigner remained clasping Miss Tox\nto his heart, with an energy of action in remarkable opposition to his\ndisconcerted face, while that poor lady trickled slowly down upon him\nthe very last sprinklings of the little watering-pot, as if he were a\ndelicate exotic (which indeed he was), and might be almost expected to\nblow while the gentle rain descended. Mrs Chick, at length recovering\nsufficient presence of mind to interpose, commanded him to drop Miss Tox\nupon the sofa and withdraw; and the exile promptly obeying, she applied\nherself to promote Miss Tox's recovery.\n\nBut none of that gentle concern which usually characterises the\ndaughters of Eve in their tending of each other; none of that\nfreemasonry in fainting, by which they are generally bound together in\na mysterious bond of sisterhood; was visible in Mrs Chick's demeanour.\nRather like the executioner who restores the victim to sensation\nprevious to proceeding with the torture (or was wont to do so, in the\ngood old times for which all true men wear perpetual mourning), did Mrs\nChick administer the smelling-bottle, the slapping on the hands, the\ndashing of cold water on the face, and the other proved remedies. And\nwhen, at length, Miss Tox opened her eyes, and gradually became restored\nto animation and consciousness, Mrs Chick drew off as from a criminal,\nand reversing the precedent of the murdered king of Denmark, regarded\nher more in anger than in sorrow.'\n\n'Lucretia!' said Mrs Chick 'I will not attempt to disguise what I feel.\nMy eyes are opened, all at once. I wouldn't have believed this, if a\nSaint had told it to me.'\n\n'I am foolish to give way to faintness,' Miss Tox faltered. 'I shall be\nbetter presently.'\n\n'You will be better presently, Lucretia!' repeated Mrs Chick, with\nexceeding scorn. 'Do you suppose I am blind? Do you imagine I am in my\nsecond childhood? No, Lucretia! I am obliged to you!'\n\nMiss Tox directed an imploring, helpless kind of look towards her\nfriend, and put her handkerchief before her face.\n\n'If anyone had told me this yesterday,' said Mrs Chick, with majesty,\n'or even half-an-hour ago, I should have been tempted, I almost believe,\nto strike them to the earth. Lucretia Tox, my eyes are opened to you all\nat once. The scales:' here Mrs Chick cast down an imaginary pair, such\nas are commonly used in grocers' shops: 'have fallen from my sight. The\nblindness of my confidence is past, Lucretia. It has been abused and\nplayed, upon, and evasion is quite out of the question now, I assure\nyou.'\n\n'Oh! to what do you allude so cruelly, my love?' asked Miss Tox, through\nher tears.\n\n'Lucretia,' said Mrs Chick, 'ask your own heart. I must entreat you not\nto address me by any such familiar term as you have just used, if you\nplease. I have some self-respect left, though you may think otherwise.'\n\n'Oh, Louisa!' cried Miss Tox. 'How can you speak to me like that?'\n\n'How can I speak to you like that?' retorted Mrs Chick, who, in default\nof having any particular argument to sustain herself upon, relied\nprincipally on such repetitions for her most withering effects. 'Like\nthat! You may well say like that, indeed!'\n\nMiss Tox sobbed pitifully.\n\n'The idea!' said Mrs Chick, 'of your having basked at my brother's\nfireside, like a serpent, and wound yourself, through me, almost into\nhis confidence, Lucretia, that you might, in secret, entertain designs\nupon him, and dare to aspire to contemplate the possibility of his\nuniting himself to you! Why, it is an idea,' said Mrs Chick, with\nsarcastic dignity, 'the absurdity of which almost relieves its\ntreachery.'\n\n'Pray, Louisa,' urged Miss Tox, 'do not say such dreadful things.'\n\n'Dreadful things!' repeated Mrs Chick. 'Dreadful things! Is it not\na fact, Lucretia, that you have just now been unable to command your\nfeelings even before me, whose eyes you had so completely closed?'\n\n'I have made no complaint,' sobbed Miss Tox. 'I have said nothing. If I\nhave been a little overpowered by your news, Louisa, and have ever\nhad any lingering thought that Mr Dombey was inclined to be particular\ntowards me, surely you will not condemn me.'\n\n'She is going to say,' said Mrs Chick, addressing herself to the whole\nof the furniture, in a comprehensive glance of resignation and appeal,\n'She is going to say--I know it--that I have encouraged her!'\n\n'I don't wish to exchange reproaches, dear Louisa,' sobbed Miss Tox. 'Nor\ndo I wish to complain. But, in my own defence--'\n\n'Yes,' cried Mrs Chick, looking round the room with a prophetic smile,\n'that's what she's going to say. I knew it. You had better say it.\nSay it openly! Be open, Lucretia Tox,' said Mrs Chick, with desperate\nsternness, 'whatever you are.'\n\n'In my own defence,' faltered Miss Tox, 'and only in my own defence\nagainst your unkind words, my dear Louisa, I would merely ask you if you\nhaven't often favoured such a fancy, and even said it might happen, for\nanything we could tell?'\n\n'There is a point,' said Mrs Chick, rising, not as if she were going to\nstop at the floor, but as if she were about to soar up, high, into\nher native skies, 'beyond which endurance becomes ridiculous, if not\nculpable. I can bear much; but not too much. What spell was on me when I\ncame into this house this day, I don't know; but I had a presentiment--a\ndark presentiment,' said Mrs Chick, with a shiver, 'that something was\ngoing to happen. Well may I have had that foreboding, Lucretia, when my\nconfidence of many years is destroyed in an instant, when my eyes are\nopened all at once, and when I find you revealed in your true colours.\nLucretia, I have been mistaken in you. It is better for us both that\nthis subject should end here. I wish you well, and I shall ever wish you\nwell. But, as an individual who desires to be true to herself in her own\npoor position, whatever that position may be, or may not be--and as the\nsister of my brother--and as the sister-in-law of my brother's wife--and\nas a connexion by marriage of my brother's wife's mother--may I be\npermitted to add, as a Dombey?--I can wish you nothing else but good\nmorning.'\n\nThese words, delivered with cutting suavity, tempered and chastened by a\nlofty air of moral rectitude, carried the speaker to the door. There she\ninclined her head in a ghostly and statue-like manner, and so withdrew\nto her carriage, to seek comfort and consolation in the arms of Mr\nChick, her lord.\n\nFiguratively speaking, that is to say; for the arms of Mr Chick were\nfull of his newspaper. Neither did that gentleman address his eyes\ntowards his wife otherwise than by stealth. Neither did he offer any\nconsolation whatever. In short, he sat reading, and humming fag ends\nof tunes, and sometimes glancing furtively at her without delivering\nhimself of a word, good, bad, or indifferent.\n\nIn the meantime Mrs Chick sat swelling and bridling, and tossing her\nhead, as if she were still repeating that solemn formula of farewell\nto Lucretia Tox. At length, she said aloud, 'Oh the extent to which her\neyes had been opened that day!'\n\n'To which your eyes have been opened, my dear!' repeated Mr Chick.\n\n'Oh, don't talk to me!' said Mrs Chic 'if you can bear to see me in\nthis state, and not ask me what the matter is, you had better hold your\ntongue for ever.'\n\n'What is the matter, my dear?' asked Mr Chick\n\n'To think,' said Mrs Chick, in a state of soliloquy, 'that she should\never have conceived the base idea of connecting herself with our family\nby a marriage with Paul! To think that when she was playing at horses\nwith that dear child who is now in his grave--I never liked it at the\ntime--she should have been hiding such a double-faced design! I\nwonder she was never afraid that something would happen to her. She is\nfortunate if nothing does.'\n\n'I really thought, my dear,' said Mr Chick slowly, after rubbing the\nbridge of his nose for some time with his newspaper, 'that you had\ngone on the same tack yourself, all along, until this morning; and had\nthought it would be a convenient thing enough, if it could have been\nbrought about.'\n\nMrs Chick instantly burst into tears, and told Mr Chick that if he\nwished to trample upon her with his boots, he had better do It.\n\n'But with Lucretia Tox I have done,' said Mrs Chick, after abandoning\nherself to her feelings for some minutes, to Mr Chick's great terror.\n'I can bear to resign Paul's confidence in favour of one who, I hope and\ntrust, may be deserving of it, and with whom he has a perfect right to\nreplace poor Fanny if he chooses; I can bear to be informed, in Paul's\ncool manner, of such a change in his plans, and never to be consulted\nuntil all is settled and determined; but deceit I can not bear, and\nwith Lucretia Tox I have done. It is better as it is,' said Mrs Chick,\npiously; 'much better. It would have been a long time before I could\nhave accommodated myself comfortably with her, after this; and I really\ndon't know, as Paul is going to be very grand, and these are people of\ncondition, that she would have been quite presentable, and might not\nhave compromised myself. There's a providence in everything; everything\nworks for the best; I have been tried today but on the whole I do not\nregret it.'\n\nIn which Christian spirit, Mrs Chick dried her eyes and smoothed her\nlap, and sat as became a person calm under a great wrong. Mr Chick\nfeeling his unworthiness no doubt, took an early opportunity of being\nset down at a street corner and walking away whistling, with his\nshoulders very much raised, and his hands in his pockets.\n\nWhile poor excommunicated Miss Tox, who, if she were a fawner and\ntoad-eater, was at least an honest and a constant one, and had ever\nborne a faithful friendship towards her impeacher and had been truly\nabsorbed and swallowed up in devotion to the magnificence of Mr\nDombey--while poor excommunicated Miss Tox watered her plants with her\ntears, and felt that it was winter in Princess's Place.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30. The interval before the Marriage\n\n\nAlthough the enchanted house was no more, and the working world had\nbroken into it, and was hammering and crashing and tramping up and\ndown stairs all day long keeping Diogenes in an incessant paroxysm of\nbarking, from sunrise to sunset--evidently convinced that his enemy\nhad got the better of him at last, and was then sacking the premises in\ntriumphant defiance--there was, at first, no other great change in the\nmethod of Florence's life. At night, when the workpeople went away, the\nhouse was dreary and deserted again; and Florence, listening to their\nvoices echoing through the hall and staircase as they departed, pictured\nto herself the cheerful homes to which the were returning, and the\nchildren who were waiting for them, and was glad to think that they were\nmerry and well pleased to go.\n\nShe welcomed back the evening silence as an old friend, but it came now\nwith an altered face, and looked more kindly on her. Fresh hope was in\nit. The beautiful lady who had soothed and carressed her, in the very\nroom in which her heart had been so wrung, was a spirit of promise\nto her. Soft shadows of the bright life dawning, when her father's\naffection should be gradually won, and all, or much should be restored,\nof what she had lost on the dark day when a mother's love had faded with\na mother's last breath on her cheek, moved about her in the twilight and\nwere welcome company. Peeping at the rosy children her neighbours, it\nwas a new and precious sensation to think that they might soon speak\ntogether and know each other; when she would not fear, as of old, to\nshow herself before them, lest they should be grieved to see her in her\nblack dress sitting there alone!\n\nIn her thoughts of her new mother, and in the love and trust overflowing\nher pure heart towards her, Florence loved her own dead mother more\nand more. She had no fear of setting up a rival in her breast. The new\nflower sprang from the deep-planted and long-cherished root, she knew.\nEvery gentle word that had fallen from the lips of the beautiful lady,\nsounded to Florence like an echo of the voice long hushed and silent.\nHow could she love that memory less for living tenderness, when it was\nher memory of all parental tenderness and love!\n\nFlorence was, one day, sitting reading in her room, and thinking of\nthe lady and her promised visit soon--for her book turned on a kindred\nsubject--when, raising her eyes, she saw her standing in the doorway.\n\n'Mama!' cried Florence, joyfully meeting her. 'Come again!'\n\n'Not Mama yet,' returned the lady, with a serious smile, as she\nencircled Florence's neck with her arm.\n\n'But very soon to be,' cried Florence.\n\n'Very soon now, Florence: very soon.'\n\nEdith bent her head a little, so as to press the blooming cheek of\nFlorence against her own, and for some few moments remained thus silent.\nThere was something so very tender in her manner, that Florence was even\nmore sensible of it than on the first occasion of their meeting.\n\nShe led Florence to a chair beside her, and sat down: Florence looking\nin her face, quite wondering at its beauty, and willingly leaving her\nhand in hers.\n\n'Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here last?'\n\n'Oh yes!' smiled Florence, hastily.\n\nShe hesitated and cast down her eyes; for her new Mama was very earnest\nin her look, and the look was intently and thoughtfully fixed upon her\nface.\n\n'I--I--am used to be alone,' said Florence. 'I don't mind it at all. Di\nand I pass whole days together, sometimes.' Florence might have said,\nwhole weeks and months.\n\n'Is Di your maid, love?'\n\n'My dog, Mama,' said Florence, laughing. 'Susan is my maid.'\n\n'And these are your rooms,' said Edith, looking round. 'I was not shown\nthese rooms the other day. We must have them improved, Florence. They\nshall be made the prettiest in the house.'\n\n'If I might change them, Mama,' returned Florence; 'there is one\nupstairs I should like much better.'\n\n'Is this not high enough, dear girl?' asked Edith, smiling.\n\n'The other was my brother's room,' said Florence, 'and I am very fond of\nit. I would have spoken to Papa about it when I came home, and found the\nworkmen here, and everything changing; but--'\n\nFlorence dropped her eyes, lest the same look should make her falter\nagain.\n\n'but I was afraid it might distress him; and as you said you would be\nhere again soon, Mama, and are the mistress of everything, I determined\nto take courage and ask you.'\n\nEdith sat looking at her, with her brilliant eyes intent upon her face,\nuntil Florence raising her own, she, in her turn, withdrew her gaze, and\nturned it on the ground. It was then that Florence thought how different\nthis lady's beauty was, from what she had supposed. She had thought it\nof a proud and lofty kind; yet her manner was so subdued and gentle,\nthat if she had been of Florence's own age and character, it scarcely\ncould have invited confidence more.\n\nExcept when a constrained and singular reserve crept over her; and then\nshe seemed (but Florence hardly understood this, though she could not\nchoose but notice it, and think about it) as if she were humbled before\nFlorence, and ill at ease. When she had said that she was not her Mama\nyet, and when Florence had called her the mistress of everything there,\nthis change in her was quick and startling; and now, while the eyes of\nFlorence rested on her face, she sat as though she would have shrunk and\nhidden from her, rather than as one about to love and cherish her, in\nright of such a near connexion.\n\nShe gave Florence her ready promise, about her new room, and said she\nwould give directions about it herself. She then asked some questions\nconcerning poor Paul; and when they had sat in conversation for some\ntime, told Florence she had come to take her to her own home.\n\n'We have come to London now, my mother and I,' said Edith, 'and you\nshall stay with us until I am married. I wish that we should know and\ntrust each other, Florence.'\n\n'You are very kind to me,' said Florence, 'dear Mama. How much I thank\nyou!'\n\n'Let me say now, for it may be the best opportunity,' continued Edith,\nlooking round to see that they were quite alone, and speaking in a lower\nvoice, 'that when I am married, and have gone away for some weeks,\nI shall be easier at heart if you will come home here. No matter who\ninvites you to stay elsewhere. Come home here. It is better to be alone\nthan--what I would say is,' she added, checking herself, 'that I know\nwell you are best at home, dear Florence.'\n\n'I will come home on the very day, Mama'\n\n'Do so. I rely on that promise. Now, prepare to come with me, dear girl.\nYou will find me downstairs when you are ready.'\n\nSlowly and thoughtfully did Edith wander alone through the mansion of\nwhich she was so soon to be the lady: and little heed took she of all\nthe elegance and splendour it began to display. The same indomitable\nhaughtiness of soul, the same proud scorn expressed in eye and lip, the\nsame fierce beauty, only tamed by a sense of its own little worth, and\nof the little worth of everything around it, went through the grand\nsaloons and halls, that had got loose among the shady trees, and raged\nand rent themselves. The mimic roses on the walls and floors were set\nround with sharp thorns, that tore her breast; in every scrap of gold\nso dazzling to the eye, she saw some hateful atom of her purchase-money;\nthe broad high mirrors showed her, at full length, a woman with a noble\nquality yet dwelling in her nature, who was too false to her better\nself, and too debased and lost, to save herself. She believed that all\nthis was so plain, more or less, to all eyes, that she had no resource\nor power of self-assertion but in pride: and with this pride, which\ntortured her own heart night and day, she fought her fate out, braved\nit, and defied it.\n\nWas this the woman whom Florence--an innocent girl, strong only in her\nearnestness and simple truth--could so impress and quell, that by her\nside she was another creature, with her tempest of passion hushed, and\nher very pride itself subdued? Was this the woman who now sat beside her\nin a carriage, with her arms entwined, and who, while she courted and\nentreated her to love and trust her, drew her fair head to nestle on her\nbreast, and would have laid down life to shield it from wrong or harm?\n\nOh, Edith! it were well to die, indeed, at such a time! Better and\nhappier far, perhaps, to die so, Edith, than to live on to the end!\n\nThe Honourable Mrs Skewton, who was thinking of anything rather than\nof such sentiments--for, like many genteel persons who have existed at\nvarious times, she set her face against death altogether, and objected\nto the mention of any such low and levelling upstart--had borrowed a\nhouse in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, from a stately relative (one\nof the Feenix brood), who was out of town, and who did not object to\nlending it, in the handsomest manner, for nuptial purposes, as the loan\nimplied his final release and acquittance from all further loans and\ngifts to Mrs Skewton and her daughter. It being necessary for the credit\nof the family to make a handsome appearance at such a time, Mrs Skewton,\nwith the assistance of an accommodating tradesman resident in the parish\nof Mary-le-bone, who lent out all sorts of articles to the nobility and\ngentry, from a service of plate to an army of footmen, clapped into this\nhouse a silver-headed butler (who was charged extra on that account, as\nhaving the appearance of an ancient family retainer), two very tall young\nmen in livery, and a select staff of kitchen-servants; so that a legend\narose, downstairs, that Withers the page, released at once from his\nnumerous household duties, and from the propulsion of the wheeled-chair\n(inconsistent with the metropolis), had been several times observed\nto rub his eyes and pinch his limbs, as if he misdoubted his having\noverslept himself at the Leamington milkman's, and being still in a\ncelestial dream. A variety of requisites in plate and china being also\nconveyed to the same establishment from the same convenient source, with\nseveral miscellaneous articles, including a neat chariot and a pair\nof bays, Mrs Skewton cushioned herself on the principal sofa, in the\nCleopatra attitude, and held her court in fair state.\n\n'And how,' said Mrs Skewton, on the entrance of her daughter and her\ncharge, 'is my charming Florence? You must come and kiss me, Florence,\nif you please, my love.'\n\nFlorence was timidly stooping to pick out a place in the white part of\nMrs Skewton's face, when that lady presented her ear, and relieved her\nof her difficulty.\n\n'Edith, my dear,' said Mrs Skewton, 'positively, I--stand a little more\nin the light, my sweetest Florence, for a moment.'\n\nFlorence blushingly complied.\n\n'You don't remember, dearest Edith,' said her mother, 'what you were\nwhen you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious Florence,\nor a few years younger?'\n\n'I have long forgotten, mother.'\n\n'For positively, my dear,' said Mrs Skewton, 'I do think that I see a\ndecided resemblance to what you were then, in our extremely fascinating\nyoung friend. And it shows,' said Mrs Skewton, in a lower voice, which\nconveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very unfinished state, 'what\ncultivation will do.'\n\n'It does, indeed,' was Edith's stern reply.\n\nHer mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feeling herself on unsafe\nground, said, as a diversion:\n\n'My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me once more, if you\nplease, my love.'\n\nFlorence complied, of course, and again imprinted her lips on Mrs\nSkewton's ear.\n\n'And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet,' said Mrs Skewton,\ndetaining her hand, 'that your Papa, whom we all perfectly adore and\ndote upon, is to be married to my dearest Edith this day week.'\n\n'I knew it would be very soon,' returned Florence, 'but not exactly\nwhen.'\n\n'My darling Edith,' urged her mother, gaily, 'is it possible you have\nnot told Florence?'\n\n'Why should I tell Florence?' she returned, so suddenly and harshly,\nthat Florence could scarcely believe it was the same voice.\n\nMrs Skewton then told Florence, as another and safer diversion, that her\nfather was coming to dinner, and that he would no doubt be charmingly\nsurprised to see her; as he had spoken last night of dressing in the\nCity, and had known nothing of Edith's design, the execution of which,\naccording to Mrs Skewton's expectation, would throw him into a perfect\necstasy. Florence was troubled to hear this; and her distress became so\nkeen, as the dinner-hour approached, that if she had known how to frame\nan entreaty to be suffered to return home, without involving her father\nin her explanation, she would have hurried back on foot, bareheaded,\nbreathless, and alone, rather than incur the risk of meeting his\ndispleasure.\n\nAs the time drew nearer, she could hardly breathe. She dared not\napproach a window, lest he should see her from the street. She dared not\ngo upstairs to hide her emotion, lest, in passing out at the door, she\nshould meet him unexpectedly; besides which dread, she felt as though\nshe never could come back again if she were summoned to his presence.\nIn this conflict of fears; she was sitting by Cleopatra's couch,\nendeavouring to understand and to reply to the bald discourse of that\nlady, when she heard his foot upon the stair.\n\n'I hear him now!' cried Florence, starting. 'He is coming!'\n\nCleopatra, who in her juvenility was always playfully disposed, and who\nin her self-engrossment did not trouble herself about the nature of this\nagitation, pushed Florence behind her couch, and dropped a shawl over\nher, preparatory to giving Mr Dombey a rapture of surprise. It was so\nquickly done, that in a moment Florence heard his awful step in the\nroom.\n\nHe saluted his intended mother-in-law, and his intended bride. The\nstrange sound of his voice thrilled through the whole frame of his\nchild.\n\n'My dear Dombey,' said Cleopatra, 'come here and tell me how your pretty\nFlorence is.'\n\n'Florence is very well,' said Mr Dombey, advancing towards the couch.\n\n'At home?'\n\n'At home,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'My dear Dombey,' returned Cleopatra, with bewitching vivacity; 'now are\nyou sure you are not deceiving me? I don't know what my dearest Edith\nwill say to me when I make such a declaration, but upon my honour I am\nafraid you are the falsest of men, my dear Dombey.'\n\nThough he had been; and had been detected on the spot, in the most\nenormous falsehood that was ever said or done; he could hardly have been\nmore disconcerted than he was, when Mrs Skewton plucked the shawl away,\nand Florence, pale and trembling, rose before him like a ghost. He had\nnot yet recovered his presence of mind, when Florence had run up to him,\nclasped her hands round his neck, kissed his face, and hurried out of\nthe room. He looked round as if to refer the matter to somebody else,\nbut Edith had gone after Florence, instantly.\n\n'Now, confess, my dear Dombey,' said Mrs Skewton, giving him her hand,\n'that you never were more surprised and pleased in your life.'\n\n'I never was more surprised,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Nor pleased, my dearest Dombey?' returned Mrs Skewton, holding up her\nfan.\n\n'I--yes, I am exceedingly glad to meet Florence here,' said Mr Dombey.\nHe appeared to consider gravely about it for a moment, and then said,\nmore decidedly, 'Yes, I really am very glad indeed to meet Florence\nhere.'\n\n'You wonder how she comes here?' said Mrs Skewton, 'don't you?'\n\n'Edith, perhaps--' suggested Mr Dombey.\n\n'Ah! wicked guesser!' replied Cleopatra, shaking her head. 'Ah! cunning,\ncunning man! One shouldn't tell these things; your sex, my dear Dombey,\nare so vain, and so apt to abuse our weakness; but you know my open\nsoul--very well; immediately.'\n\nThis was addressed to one of the very tall young men who announced\ndinner.\n\n'But Edith, my dear Dombey,' she continued in a whisper, 'when she\ncannot have you near her--and as I tell her, she cannot expect that\nalways--will at least have near her something or somebody belonging to\nyou. Well, how extremely natural that is! And in this spirit, nothing\nwould keep her from riding off to-day to fetch our darling Florence.\nWell, how excessively charming that is!'\n\nAs she waited for an answer, Mr Dombey answered, 'Eminently so.'\n\n'Bless you, my dear Dombey, for that proof of heart!' cried Cleopatra,\nsqueezing his hand. 'But I am growing too serious! Take me downstairs,\nlike an angel, and let us see what these people intend to give us for\ndinner. Bless you, dear Dombey!'\n\nCleopatra skipping off her couch with tolerable briskness, after\nthe last benediction, Mr Dombey took her arm in his and led her\nceremoniously downstairs; one of the very tall young men on hire, whose\norgan of veneration was imperfectly developed, thrusting his tongue into\nhis cheek, for the entertainment of the other very tall young man on\nhire, as the couple turned into the dining-room.\n\nFlorence and Edith were already there, and sitting side by side.\nFlorence would have risen when her father entered, to resign her chair\nto him; but Edith openly put her hand upon her arm, and Mr Dombey took\nan opposite place at the round table.\n\nThe conversation was almost entirely sustained by Mrs Skewton. Florence\nhardly dared to raise her eyes, lest they should reveal the traces of\ntears; far less dared to speak; and Edith never uttered one word,\nunless in answer to a question. Verily, Cleopatra worked hard, for the\nestablishment that was so nearly clutched; and verily it should have\nbeen a rich one to reward her!\n\n'And so your preparations are nearly finished at last, my dear Dombey?'\nsaid Cleopatra, when the dessert was put upon the table, and the\nsilver-headed butler had withdrawn. 'Even the lawyers' preparations!'\n\n'Yes, madam,' replied Mr Dombey; 'the deed of settlement, the\nprofessional gentlemen inform me, is now ready, and as I was mentioning\nto you, Edith has only to do us the favour to suggest her own time for\nits execution.'\n\nEdith sat like a handsome statue; as cold, as silent, and as still.\n\n'My dearest love,' said Cleopatra, 'do you hear what Mr Dombey says? Ah,\nmy dear Dombey!' aside to that gentleman, 'how her absence, as the\ntime approaches, reminds me of the days, when that most agreeable of\ncreatures, her Papa, was in your situation!'\n\n'I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you please,' said Edith,\nscarcely looking over the table at Mr Dombey.\n\n'To-morrow?' suggested Mr Dombey.\n\n'If you please.'\n\n'Or would next day,' said Mr Dombey, 'suit your engagements better?'\n\n'I have no engagements. I am always at your disposal. Let it be when you\nlike.'\n\n'No engagements, my dear Edith!' remonstrated her mother, 'when you are\nin a most terrible state of flurry all day long, and have a thousand and\none appointments with all sorts of trades-people!'\n\n'They are of your making,' returned Edith, turning on her with a slight\ncontraction of her brow. 'You and Mr Dombey can arrange between you.'\n\n'Very true indeed, my love, and most considerate of you!' said\nCleopatra. 'My darling Florence, you must really come and kiss me once\nmore, if you please, my dear!'\n\nSingular coincidence, that these gushes of interest in Florence hurried\nCleopatra away from almost every dialogue in which Edith had a share,\nhowever trifling! Florence had certainly never undergone so much\nembracing, and perhaps had never been, unconsciously, so useful in her\nlife.\n\nMr Dombey was far from quarrelling, in his own breast, with the manner\nof his beautiful betrothed. He had that good reason for sympathy\nwith haughtiness and coldness, which is found in a fellow-feeling. It\nflattered him to think how these deferred to him, in Edith's case, and\nseemed to have no will apart from his. It flattered him to picture to\nhimself, this proud and stately woman doing the honours of his house,\nand chilling his guests after his own manner. The dignity of Dombey and\nSon would be heightened and maintained, indeed, in such hands.\n\nSo thought Mr Dombey, when he was left alone at the dining-table, and\nmused upon his past and future fortunes: finding no uncongeniality in an\nair of scant and gloomy state that pervaded the room, in colour a\ndark brown, with black hatchments of pictures blotching the walls, and\ntwenty-four black chairs, with almost as many nails in them as so many\ncoffins, waiting like mutes, upon the threshold of the Turkey carpet;\nand two exhausted negroes holding up two withered branches of candelabra\non the sideboard, and a musty smell prevailing as if the ashes of ten\nthousand dinners were entombed in the sarcophagus below it. The owner of\nthe house lived much abroad; the air of England seldom agreed long with\na member of the Feenix family; and the room had gradually put itself\ninto deeper and still deeper mourning for him, until it was become so\nfunereal as to want nothing but a body in it to be quite complete.\n\nNo bad representation of the body, for the nonce, in his unbending form,\nif not in his attitude, Mr Dombey looked down into the cold depths of\nthe dead sea of mahogany on which the fruit dishes and decanters lay\nat anchor: as if the subjects of his thoughts were rising towards the\nsurface one by one, and plunging down again. Edith was there in all her\nmajesty of brow and figure; and close to her came Florence, with her\ntimid head turned to him, as it had been, for an instant, when she\nleft the room; and Edith's eyes upon her, and Edith's hand put out\nprotectingly. A little figure in a low arm-chair came springing next\ninto the light, and looked upon him wonderingly, with its bright eyes\nand its old-young face, gleaming as in the flickering of an evening\nfire. Again came Florence close upon it, and absorbed his whole\nattention. Whether as a fore-doomed difficulty and disappointment to\nhim; whether as a rival who had crossed him in his way, and might again;\nwhether as his child, of whom, in his successful wooing, he could\nstoop to think as claiming, at such a time, to be no more estranged; or\nwhether as a hint to him that the mere appearance of caring for his\nown blood should be maintained in his new relations; he best knew.\nIndifferently well, perhaps, at best; for marriage company and marriage\naltars, and ambitious scenes--still blotted here and there with\nFlorence--always Florence--turned up so fast, and so confusedly, that he\nrose, and went upstairs to escape them.\n\nIt was quite late at night before candles were brought; for at present\nthey made Mrs Skewton's head ache, she complained; and in the meantime\nFlorence and Mrs Skewton talked together (Cleopatra being very anxious\nto keep her close to herself), or Florence touched the piano softly\nfor Mrs Skewton's delight; to make no mention of a few occasions in\nthe course of the evening, when that affectionate lady was impelled to\nsolicit another kiss, and which always happened after Edith had said\nanything. They were not many, however, for Edith sat apart by an open\nwindow during the whole time (in spite of her mother's fears that she\nwould take cold), and remained there until Mr Dombey took leave. He was\nserenely gracious to Florence when he did so; and Florence went to bed\nin a room within Edith's, so happy and hopeful, that she thought of\nher late self as if it were some other poor deserted girl who was to be\npitied for her sorrow; and in her pity, sobbed herself to sleep.\n\nThe week fled fast. There were drives to milliners, dressmakers,\njewellers, lawyers, florists, pastry-cooks; and Florence was always of\nthe party. Florence was to go to the wedding. Florence was to cast\noff her mourning, and to wear a brilliant dress on the occasion. The\nmilliner's intentions on the subject of this dress--the milliner was\na Frenchwoman, and greatly resembled Mrs Skewton--were so chaste and\nelegant, that Mrs Skewton bespoke one like it for herself. The milliner\nsaid it would become her to admiration, and that all the world would\ntake her for the young lady's sister.\n\nThe week fled faster. Edith looked at nothing and cared for nothing. Her\nrich dresses came home, and were tried on, and were loudly commended\nby Mrs Skewton and the milliners, and were put away without a word from\nher. Mrs Skewton made their plans for every day, and executed them.\nSometimes Edith sat in the carriage when they went to make purchases;\nsometimes, when it was absolutely necessary, she went into the shops.\nBut Mrs Skewton conducted the whole business, whatever it happened\nto be; and Edith looked on as uninterested and with as much apparent\nindifference as if she had no concern in it. Florence might perhaps have\nthought she was haughty and listless, but that she was never so to her.\nSo Florence quenched her wonder in her gratitude whenever it broke out,\nand soon subdued it.\n\nThe week fled faster. It had nearly winged its flight away. The last\nnight of the week, the night before the marriage, was come. In the dark\nroom--for Mrs Skewton's head was no better yet, though she expected to\nrecover permanently to-morrow--were that lady, Edith, and Mr Dombey.\nEdith was at her open window looking out into the street; Mr Dombey\nand Cleopatra were talking softly on the sofa. It was growing late; and\nFlorence, being fatigued, had gone to bed.\n\n'My dear Dombey,' said Cleopatra, 'you will leave me Florence to-morrow,\nwhen you deprive me of my sweetest Edith.'\n\nMr Dombey said he would, with pleasure.\n\n'To have her about me, here, while you are both at Paris, and to\nthink at her age, I am assisting in the formation of her mind, my dear\nDombey,' said Cleopatra, 'will be a perfect balm to me in the extremely\nshattered state to which I shall be reduced.'\n\nEdith turned her head suddenly. Her listless manner was exchanged, in\na moment, to one of burning interest, and, unseen in the darkness, she\nattended closely to their conversation.\n\nMr Dombey would be delighted to leave Florence in such admirable\nguardianship.\n\n'My dear Dombey,' returned Cleopatra, 'a thousand thanks for your good\nopinion. I feared you were going, with malice aforethought, as the\ndreadful lawyers say--those horrid prosers!--to condemn me to utter\nsolitude.'\n\n'Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam?' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Because my charming Florence tells me so positively she must go home\ntomorrow, returned Cleopatra, that I began to be afraid, my dearest\nDombey, you were quite a Bashaw.'\n\n'I assure you, madam!' said Mr Dombey, 'I have laid no commands on\nFlorence; and if I had, there are no commands like your wish.'\n\n'My dear Dombey,' replied Cleopatra, what a courtier you are! Though\nI'll not say so, either; for courtiers have no heart, and yours pervades\nyour farming life and character. And are you really going so early, my\ndear Dombey!'\n\nOh, indeed! it was late, and Mr Dombey feared he must.\n\n'Is this a fact, or is it all a dream!' lisped Cleopatra. 'Can I\nbelieve, my dearest Dombey, that you are coming back tomorrow morning to\ndeprive me of my sweet companion; my own Edith!'\n\nMr Dombey, who was accustomed to take things literally, reminded Mrs\nSkewton that they were to meet first at the church.\n\n'The pang,' said Mrs Skewton, 'of consigning a child, even to you, my\ndear Dombey, is one of the most excruciating imaginable, and combined\nwith a naturally delicate constitution, and the extreme stupidity of the\npastry-cook who has undertaken the breakfast, is almost too much for my\npoor strength. But I shall rally, my dear Dombey, in the morning; do not\nfear for me, or be uneasy on my account. Heaven bless you! My dearest\nEdith!' she cried archly. 'Somebody is going, pet.'\n\nEdith, who had turned her head again towards the window, and whose\ninterest in their conversation had ceased, rose up in her place, but\nmade no advance towards him, and said nothing. Mr Dombey, with a lofty\ngallantry adapted to his dignity and the occasion, betook his creaking\nboots towards her, put her hand to his lips, said, 'Tomorrow morning\nI shall have the happiness of claiming this hand as Mrs Dombey's,' and\nbowed himself solemnly out.\n\nMrs Skewton rang for candles as soon as the house-door had closed upon\nhim. With the candles appeared her maid, with the juvenile dress that\nwas to delude the world to-morrow. The dress had savage retribution in\nit, as such dresses ever have, and made her infinitely older and more\nhideous than her greasy flannel gown. But Mrs Skewton tried it on with\nmincing satisfaction; smirked at her cadaverous self in the glass, as\nshe thought of its killing effect upon the Major; and suffering her maid\nto take it off again, and to prepare her for repose, tumbled into ruins\nlike a house of painted cards.\n\nAll this time, Edith remained at the dark window looking out into the\nstreet. When she and her mother were at last left alone, she moved\nfrom it for the first time that evening, and came opposite to her. The\nyawning, shaking, peevish figure of the mother, with her eyes raised to\nconfront the proud erect form of the daughter, whose glance of fire was\nbent downward upon her, had a conscious air upon it, that no levity or\ntemper could conceal.\n\n'I am tired to death,' said she. 'You can't be trusted for a moment. You\nare worse than a child. Child! No child would be half so obstinate and\nundutiful.'\n\n'Listen to me, mother,' returned Edith, passing these words by with a\nscorn that would not descend to trifle with them. 'You must remain alone\nhere until I return.'\n\n'Must remain alone here, Edith, until you return!' repeated her mother.\n\n'Or in that name upon which I shall call to-morrow to witness what I do,\nso falsely: and so shamefully, I swear I will refuse the hand of this\nman in the church. If I do not, may I fall dead upon the pavement!'\n\nThe mother answered with a look of quick alarm, in no degree diminished\nby the look she met.\n\n'It is enough,' said Edith, steadily, 'that we are what we are. I\nwill have no youth and truth dragged down to my level. I will have no\nguileless nature undermined, corrupted, and perverted, to amuse the\nleisure of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Florence must go\nhome.'\n\n'You are an idiot, Edith,' cried her angry mother. 'Do you expect there\ncan ever be peace for you in that house, till she is married, and away?'\n\n'Ask me, or ask yourself, if I ever expect peace in that house,' said\nher daughter, 'and you know the answer.'\n\n'And am I to be told to-night, after all my pains and labour, and when\nyou are going, through me, to be rendered independent,' her mother\nalmost shrieked in her passion, while her palsied head shook like a\nleaf, 'that there is corruption and contagion in me, and that I am not\nfit company for a girl! What are you, pray? What are you?'\n\n'I have put the question to myself,' said Edith, ashy pale, and pointing\nto the window, 'more than once when I have been sitting there, and\nsomething in the faded likeness of my sex has wandered past outside; and\nGod knows I have met with my reply. Oh mother, mother, if you had but\nleft me to my natural heart when I too was a girl--a younger girl than\nFlorence--how different I might have been!'\n\nSensible that any show of anger was useless here, her mother restrained\nherself, and fell a whimpering, and bewailed that she had lived too\nlong, and that her only child had cast her off, and that duty towards\nparents was forgotten in these evil days, and that she had heard\nunnatural taunts, and cared for life no longer.\n\n'If one is to go on living through continual scenes like this,' she\nwhined, 'I am sure it would be much better for me to think of some\nmeans of putting an end to my existence. Oh! The idea of your being my\ndaughter, Edith, and addressing me in such a strain!'\n\n'Between us, mother,' returned Edith, mournfully, 'the time for mutual\nreproaches is past.'\n\n'Then why do you revive it?' whimpered her mother. 'You know that you\nare lacerating me in the cruellest manner. You know how sensitive I am\nto unkindness. At such a moment, too, when I have so much to think of,\nand am naturally anxious to appear to the best advantage! I wonder at\nyou, Edith. To make your mother a fright upon your wedding-day!'\n\nEdith bent the same fixed look upon her, as she sobbed and rubbed her\neyes; and said in the same low steady voice, which had neither risen nor\nfallen since she first addressed her, 'I have said that Florence must go\nhome.'\n\n'Let her go!' cried the afflicted and affrighted parent, hastily. 'I am\nsure I am willing she should go. What is the girl to me?'\n\n'She is so much to me, that rather than communicate, or suffer to be\ncommunicated to her, one grain of the evil that is in my breast, mother,\nI would renounce you, as I would (if you gave me cause) renounce him in\nthe church to-morrow,' replied Edith. 'Leave her alone. She shall not,\nwhile I can interpose, be tampered with and tainted by the lessons I\nhave learned. This is no hard condition on this bitter night.'\n\n'If you had proposed it in a filial manner, Edith,' whined her mother,\n'perhaps not; very likely not. But such extremely cutting words--'\n\n'They are past and at an end between us now,' said Edith. 'Take your own\nway, mother; share as you please in what you have gained; spend, enjoy,\nmake much of it; and be as happy as you will. The object of our lives\nis won. Henceforth let us wear it silently. My lips are closed upon the\npast from this hour. I forgive you your part in to-morrow's wickedness.\nMay God forgive my own!'\n\nWithout a tremor in her voice, or frame, and passing onward with a foot\nthat set itself upon the neck of every soft emotion, she bade her mother\ngood-night, and repaired to her own room.\n\nBut not to rest; for there was no rest in the tumult of her agitation\nwhen alone to and fro, and to and fro, and to and fro again, five\nhundred times, among the splendid preparations for her adornment on the\nmorrow; with her dark hair shaken down, her dark eyes flashing with\na raging light, her broad white bosom red with the cruel grasp of the\nrelentless hand with which she spurned it from her, pacing up and down\nwith an averted head, as if she would avoid the sight of her own fair\nperson, and divorce herself from its companionship. Thus, in the dead\ntime of the night before her bridal, Edith Granger wrestled with her\nunquiet spirit, tearless, friendless, silent, proud, and uncomplaining.\n\nAt length it happened that she touched the open door which led into the\nroom where Florence lay.\n\nShe started, stopped, and looked in.\n\nA light was burning there, and showed her Florence in her bloom of\ninnocence and beauty, fast asleep. Edith held her breath, and felt\nherself drawn on towards her.\n\nDrawn nearer, nearer, nearer yet; at last, drawn so near, that stooping\ndown, she pressed her lips to the gentle hand that lay outside the bed,\nand put it softly to her neck. Its touch was like the prophet's rod of\nold upon the rock. Her tears sprung forth beneath it, as she sunk upon\nher knees, and laid her aching head and streaming hair upon the pillow\nby its side.\n\nThus Edith Granger passed the night before her bridal. Thus the sun\nfound her on her bridal morning.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31. The Wedding\n\n\nDawn with its passionless blank face, steals shivering to the church\nbeneath which lies the dust of little Paul and his mother, and looks\nin at the windows. It is cold and dark. Night crouches yet, upon the\npavement, and broods, sombre and heavy, in nooks and corners of the\nbuilding. The steeple-clock, perched up above the houses, emerging\nfrom beneath another of the countless ripples in the tide of time that\nregularly roll and break on the eternal shore, is greyly visible, like a\nstone beacon, recording how the sea flows on; but within doors, dawn, at\nfirst, can only peep at night, and see that it is there.\n\nHovering feebly round the church, and looking in, dawn moans and weeps\nfor its short reign, and its tears trickle on the window-glass, and\nthe trees against the church-wall bow their heads, and wring their many\nhands in sympathy. Night, growing pale before it, gradually fades out of\nthe church, but lingers in the vaults below, and sits upon the coffins.\nAnd now comes bright day, burnishing the steeple-clock, and reddening\nthe spire, and drying up the tears of dawn, and stifling its\ncomplaining; and the dawn, following the night, and chasing it from its\nlast refuge, shrinks into the vaults itself and hides, with a frightened\nface, among the dead, until night returns, refreshed, to drive it out.\n\nAnd now, the mice, who have been busier with the prayer-books than their\nproper owners, and with the hassocks, more worn by their little teeth\nthan by human knees, hide their bright eyes in their holes, and\ngather close together in affright at the resounding clashing of the\nchurch-door. For the beadle, that man of power, comes early this morning\nwith the sexton; and Mrs Miff, the wheezy little pew-opener--a mighty\ndry old lady, sparely dressed, with not an inch of fulness anywhere\nabout her--is also here, and has been waiting at the church-gate\nhalf-an-hour, as her place is, for the beadle.\n\nA vinegary face has Mrs Miff, and a mortified bonnet, and eke a thirsty\nsoul for sixpences and shillings. Beckoning to stray people to come into\npews, has given Mrs Miff an air of mystery; and there is reservation in\nthe eye of Mrs Miff, as always knowing of a softer seat, but having her\nsuspicions of the fee. There is no such fact as Mr Miff, nor has there\nbeen, these twenty years, and Mrs Miff would rather not allude to him.\nHe held some bad opinions, it would seem, about free seats; and though\nMrs Miff hopes he may be gone upwards, she couldn't positively undertake\nto say so.\n\nBusy is Mrs Miff this morning at the church-door, beating and dusting\nthe altar-cloth, the carpet, and the cushions; and much has Mrs Miff to\nsay, about the wedding they are going to have. Mrs Miff is told, that\nthe new furniture and alterations in the house cost full five thousand\npound if they cost a penny; and Mrs Miff has heard, upon the best\nauthority, that the lady hasn't got a sixpence wherewithal to bless\nherself. Mrs Miff remembers, like wise, as if it had happened yesterday,\nthe first wife's funeral, and then the christening, and then the other\nfuneral; and Mrs Miff says, by-the-by she'll soap-and-water that 'ere\ntablet presently, against the company arrive. Mr Sownds the Beadle, who\nis sitting in the sun upon the church steps all this time (and seldom\ndoes anything else, except, in cold weather, sitting by the fire),\napproves of Mrs Miff's discourse, and asks if Mrs Miff has heard it\nsaid, that the lady is uncommon handsome? The information Mrs Miff\nhas received, being of this nature, Mr Sownds the Beadle, who, though\northodox and corpulent, is still an admirer of female beauty, observes,\nwith unction, yes, he hears she is a spanker--an expression that seems\nsomewhat forcible to Mrs Miff, or would, from any lips but those of Mr\nSownds the Beadle.\n\nIn Mr Dombey's house, at this same time, there is great stir and bustle,\nmore especially among the women: not one of whom has had a wink of sleep\nsince four o'clock, and all of whom were fully dressed before six.\nMr Towlinson is an object of greater consideration than usual to the\nhousemaid, and the cook says at breakfast time that one wedding makes\nmany, which the housemaid can't believe, and don't think true at all.\nMr Towlinson reserves his sentiments on this question; being rendered\nsomething gloomy by the engagement of a foreigner with whiskers (Mr\nTowlinson is whiskerless himself), who has been hired to accompany the\nhappy pair to Paris, and who is busy packing the new chariot. In respect\nof this personage, Mr Towlinson admits, presently, that he never knew of\nany good that ever come of foreigners; and being charged by the ladies\nwith prejudice, says, look at Bonaparte who was at the head of 'em, and\nsee what he was always up to! Which the housemaid says is very true.\n\nThe pastry-cook is hard at work in the funereal room in Brook Street,\nand the very tall young men are busy looking on. One of the very tall\nyoung men already smells of sherry, and his eyes have a tendency to\nbecome fixed in his head, and to stare at objects without seeing them.\nThe very tall young man is conscious of this failing in himself; and\ninforms his comrade that it's his 'exciseman.' The very tall young man\nwould say excitement, but his speech is hazy.\n\nThe men who play the bells have got scent of the marriage; and the\nmarrow-bones and cleavers too; and a brass band too. The first, are\npractising in a back settlement near Battlebridge; the second, put\nthemselves in communication, through their chief, with Mr Towlinson, to\nwhom they offer terms to be bought off; and the third, in the person of\nan artful trombone, lurks and dodges round the corner, waiting for\nsome traitor tradesman to reveal the place and hour of breakfast, for a\nbribe. Expectation and excitement extend further yet, and take a wider\nrange. From Balls Pond, Mr Perch brings Mrs Perch to spend the day with\nMr Dombey's servants, and accompany them, surreptitiously, to see the\nwedding. In Mr Toots's lodgings, Mr Toots attires himself as if he were\nat least the Bridegroom; determined to behold the spectacle in splendour\nfrom a secret corner of the gallery, and thither to convey the Chicken:\nfor it is Mr Toots's desperate intent to point out Florence to the\nChicken, then and there, and openly to say, 'Now, Chicken, I will not\ndeceive you any longer; the friend I have sometimes mentioned to you is\nmyself; Miss Dombey is the object of my passion; what are your opinions,\nChicken, in this state of things, and what, on the spot, do you advise?\nThe so-much-to-be-astonished Chicken, in the meanwhile, dips his beak\ninto a tankard of strong beer, in Mr Toots's kitchen, and pecks up two\npounds of beefsteaks. In Princess's Place, Miss Tox is up and doing; for\nshe too, though in sore distress, is resolved to put a shilling in the\nhands of Mrs Miff, and see the ceremony which has a cruel fascination\nfor her, from some lonely corner. The quarters of the wooden Midshipman\nare all alive; for Captain Cuttle, in his ankle-jacks and with a huge\nshirt-collar, is seated at his breakfast, listening to Rob the Grinder\nas he reads the marriage service to him beforehand, under orders, to the\nend that the Captain may perfectly understand the solemnity he is about\nto witness: for which purpose, the Captain gravely lays injunctions on\nhis chaplain, from time to time, to 'put about,' or to 'overhaul that\n'ere article again,' or to stick to his own duty, and leave the Amens to\nhim, the Captain; one of which he repeats, whenever a pause is made by\nRob the Grinder, with sonorous satisfaction.\n\nBesides all this, and much more, twenty nursery-maids in Mr Dombey's\nstreet alone, have promised twenty families of little women, whose\ninstinctive interest in nuptials dates from their cradles, that they\nshall go and see the marriage. Truly, Mr Sownds the Beadle has good\nreason to feel himself in office, as he suns his portly figure on the\nchurch steps, waiting for the marriage hour. Truly, Mrs Miff has cause\nto pounce on an unlucky dwarf child, with a giant baby, who peeps in at\nthe porch, and drive her forth with indignation!\n\nCousin Feenix has come over from abroad, expressly to attend the\nmarriage. Cousin Feenix was a man about town, forty years ago; but he\nis still so juvenile in figure and in manner, and so well got up,\nthat strangers are amazed when they discover latent wrinkles in his\nlordship's face, and crows' feet in his eyes: and first observe him, not\nexactly certain when he walks across a room, of going quite straight to\nwhere he wants to go. But Cousin Feenix, getting up at half-past seven\no'clock or so, is quite another thing from Cousin Feenix got up; and\nvery dim, indeed, he looks, while being shaved at Long's Hotel, in Bond\nStreet.\n\nMr Dombey leaves his dressing-room, amidst a general whisking away of\nthe women on the staircase, who disperse in all directions, with a great\nrustling of skirts, except Mrs Perch, who, being (but that she always\nis) in an interesting situation, is not nimble, and is obliged to face\nhim, and is ready to sink with confusion as she curtesys;--may Heaven\navert all evil consequences from the house of Perch! Mr Dombey walks up\nto the drawing-room, to bide his time. Gorgeous are Mr Dombey's new blue\ncoat, fawn-coloured pantaloons, and lilac waistcoat; and a whisper goes\nabout the house, that Mr Dombey's hair is curled.\n\nA double knock announces the arrival of the Major, who is gorgeous too,\nand wears a whole geranium in his button-hole, and has his hair curled\ntight and crisp, as well the Native knows.\n\n'Dombey!' says the Major, putting out both hands, 'how are you?'\n\n'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'how are You?'\n\n'By Jove, Sir,' says the Major, 'Joey B. is in such case this morning,\nSir,'--and here he hits himself hard upon the breast--'In such case this\nmorning, Sir, that, damme, Dombey, he has half a mind to make a double\nmarriage of it, Sir, and take the mother.'\n\nMr Dombey smiles; but faintly, even for him; for Mr Dombey feels that\nhe is going to be related to the mother, and that, under those\ncircumstances, she is not to be joked about.\n\n'Dombey,' says the Major, seeing this, 'I give you joy. I congratulate\nyou, Dombey. By the Lord, Sir,' says the Major, 'you are more to be\nenvied, this day, than any man in England!'\n\nHere again Mr Dombey's assent is qualified; because he is going to\nconfer a great distinction on a lady; and, no doubt, she is to be envied\nmost.\n\n'As to Edith Granger, Sir,' pursues the Major, 'there is not a woman\nin all Europe but might--and would, Sir, you will allow Bagstock to\nadd--and would--give her ears, and her earrings, too, to be in Edith\nGranger's place.'\n\n'You are good enough to say so, Major,' says Mr Dombey.\n\n'Dombey,' returns the Major, 'you know it. Let us have no false\ndelicacy. You know it. Do you know it, or do you not, Dombey?' says the\nMajor, almost in a passion.\n\n'Oh, really, Major--'\n\n'Damme, Sir,' retorts the Major, 'do you know that fact, or do you not?\nDombey! Is old Joe your friend? Are we on that footing of unreserved\nintimacy, Dombey, that may justify a man--a blunt old Joseph B.,\nSir--in speaking out; or am I to take open order, Dombey, and to keep my\ndistance, and to stand on forms?'\n\n'My dear Major Bagstock,' says Mr Dombey, with a gratified air, 'you are\nquite warm.'\n\n'By Gad, Sir,' says the Major, 'I am warm. Joseph B. does not deny it,\nDombey. He is warm. This is an occasion, Sir, that calls forth all the\nhonest sympathies remaining in an old, infernal, battered, used-up,\ninvalided, J. B. carcase. And I tell you what, Dombey--at such a time\na man must blurt out what he feels, or put a muzzle on; and Joseph\nBagstock tells you to your face, Dombey, as he tells his club behind\nyour back, that he never will be muzzled when Paul Dombey is in\nquestion. Now, damme, Sir,' concludes the Major, with great firmness,\n'what do you make of that?'\n\n'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'I assure you that I am really obliged to you.\nI had no idea of checking your too partial friendship.'\n\n'Not too partial, Sir!' exclaims the choleric Major. 'Dombey, I deny\nit.'\n\n'Your friendship I will say then,' pursues Mr Dombey, 'on any account.\nNor can I forget, Major, on such an occasion as the present, how much I\nam indebted to it.'\n\n'Dombey,' says the Major, with appropriate action, 'that is the hand\nof Joseph Bagstock: of plain old Joey B., Sir, if you like that better!\nThat is the hand, of which His Royal Highness the late Duke of York, did\nme the honour to observe, Sir, to His Royal Highness the late Duke of\nKent, that it was the hand of Josh: a rough and tough, and possibly an\nup-to-snuff, old vagabond. Dombey, may the present moment be the least\nunhappy of our lives. God bless you!'\n\nNow enters Mr Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smiling like a\nwedding-guest indeed. He can scarcely let Mr Dombey's hand go, he is so\ncongratulatory; and he shakes the Major's hand so heartily at the same\ntime, that his voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it comes\nsliding from between his teeth.\n\n'The very day is auspicious,' says Mr Carker. 'The brightest and most\ngenial weather! I hope I am not a moment late?'\n\n'Punctual to your time, Sir,' says the Major.\n\n'I am rejoiced, I am sure,' says Mr Carker. 'I was afraid I might be a\nfew seconds after the appointed time, for I was delayed by a\nprocession of waggons; and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook\nStreet'--this to Mr Dombey--'to leave a few poor rarities of flowers for\nMrs Dombey. A man in my position, and so distinguished as to be invited\nhere, is proud to offer some homage in acknowledgment of his vassalage:\nand as I have no doubt Mrs Dombey is overwhelmed with what is costly\nand magnificent;' with a strange glance at his patron; 'I hope the very\npoverty of my offering, may find favour for it.'\n\n'Mrs Dombey, that is to be,' returns Mr Dombey, condescendingly, 'will\nbe very sensible of your attention, Carker, I am sure.'\n\n'And if she is to be Mrs Dombey this morning, Sir,' says the Major,\nputting down his coffee-cup, and looking at his watch, 'it's high time\nwe were off!'\n\nForth, in a barouche, ride Mr Dombey, Major Bagstock, and Mr Carker, to\nthe church. Mr Sownds the Beadle has long risen from the steps, and\nis in waiting with his cocked hat in his hand. Mrs Miff curtseys and\nproposes chairs in the vestry. Mr Dombey prefers remaining in the\nchurch. As he looks up at the organ, Miss Tox in the gallery shrinks\nbehind the fat leg of a cherubim on a monument, with cheeks like a young\nWind. Captain Cuttle, on the contrary, stands up and waves his hook, in\ntoken of welcome and encouragement. Mr Toots informs the Chicken, behind\nhis hand, that the middle gentleman, he in the fawn-coloured pantaloons,\nis the father of his love. The Chicken hoarsely whispers Mr Toots that\nhe's as stiff a cove as ever he see, but that it is within the resources\nof Science to double him up, with one blow in the waistcoat.\n\nMr Sownds and Mrs Miff are eyeing Mr Dombey from a little distance, when\nthe noise of approaching wheels is heard, and Mr Sownds goes out. Mrs\nMiff, meeting Mr Dombey's eye as it is withdrawn from the presumptuous\nmaniac upstairs, who salutes him with so much urbanity, drops a curtsey,\nand informs him that she believes his 'good lady' is come. Then there is\na crowding and a whispering at the door, and the good lady enters, with\na haughty step.\n\nThere is no sign upon her face, of last night's suffering; there is no\ntrace in her manner, of the woman on the bended knees, reposing her wild\nhead, in beautiful abandonment, upon the pillow of the sleeping girl.\nThat girl, all gentle and lovely, is at her side--a striking contrast to\nher own disdainful and defiant figure, standing there, composed, erect,\ninscrutable of will, resplendent and majestic in the zenith of its\ncharms, yet beating down, and treading on, the admiration that it\nchallenges.\n\nThere is a pause while Mr Sownds the Beadle glides into the vestry for\nthe clergyman and clerk. At this juncture, Mrs Skewton speaks to Mr\nDombey: more distinctly and emphatically than her custom is, and moving\nat the same time, close to Edith.\n\n'My dear Dombey,' said the good Mama, 'I fear I must relinquish darling\nFlorence after all, and suffer her to go home, as she herself proposed.\nAfter my loss of to-day, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not have\nspirits, even for her society.'\n\n'Had she not better stay with you?' returns the Bridegroom.\n\n'I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I shall be better alone.\nBesides, my dearest Edith will be her natural and constant guardian when\nyou return, and I had better not encroach upon her trust, perhaps. She\nmight be jealous. Eh, dear Edith?'\n\nThe affectionate Mama presses her daughter's arm, as she says this;\nperhaps entreating her attention earnestly.\n\n'To be serious, my dear Dombey,' she resumes, 'I will relinquish our\ndear child, and not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled that,\njust now. She fully understands, dear Dombey. Edith, my dear,--she fully\nunderstands.'\n\nAgain, the good mother presses her daughter's arm. Mr Dombey offers no\nadditional remonstrance; for the clergyman and clerk appear; and Mrs\nMiff, and Mr Sownds the Beadle, group the party in their proper places\nat the altar rails.\n\nThe sun is shining down, upon the golden letters of the ten\ncommandments. Why does the Bride's eye read them, one by one? Which one\nof all the ten appears the plainest to her in the glare of light? False\nGods; murder; theft; the honour that she owes her mother;--which is it\nthat appears to leave the wall, and printing itself in glowing letters,\non her book!\n\n'Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?'\n\nCousin Feenix does that. He has come from Baden-Baden on purpose.\n'Confound it,' Cousin Feenix says--good-natured creature, Cousin\nFeenix--'when we do get a rich City fellow into the family, let us show\nhim some attention; let us do something for him.'\n\n'I give this woman to be married to this man,' saith Cousin Feenix\ntherefore. Cousin Feenix, meaning to go in a straight line, but turning\noff sideways by reason of his wilful legs, gives the wrong woman to be\nmarried to this man, at first--to wit, a brides--maid of some condition,\ndistantly connected with the family, and ten years Mrs Skewton's junior\n--but Mrs Miff, interposing her mortified bonnet, dexterously turns him\nback, and runs him, as on castors, full at the 'good lady:' whom Cousin\nFeenix giveth to married to this man accordingly.\n\nAnd will they in the sight of heaven--?\n\nAy, that they will: Mr Dombey says he will. And what says Edith? She\nwill.\n\nSo, from that day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer,\nin sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do them\npart, they plight their troth to one another, and are married.\n\nIn a firm, free hand, the Bride subscribes her name in the register,\nwhen they adjourn to the vestry. 'There ain't a many ladies come here,'\nMrs Miff says with a curtsey--to look at Mrs Miff, at such a season, is\nto make her mortified bonnet go down with a dip--'writes their names\nlike this good lady!' Mr Sownds the Beadle thinks it is a truly spanking\nsignature, and worthy of the writer--this, however, between himself and\nconscience.\n\nFlorence signs too, but unapplauded, for her hand shakes. All the party\nsign; Cousin Feenix last; who puts his noble name into a wrong place,\nand enrols himself as having been born that morning.\n\nThe Major now salutes the Bride right gallantly, and carries out that\nbranch of military tactics in reference to all the ladies:\nnotwithstanding Mrs Skewton's being extremely hard to kiss, and\nsqueaking shrilly in the sacred edifice. The example is followed by\nCousin Feenix and even by Mr Dombey. Lastly, Mr Carker, with his white\nteeth glistening, approaches Edith, more as if he meant to bite her,\nthan to taste the sweets that linger on her lips.\n\nThere is a glow upon her proud cheek, and a flashing in her eyes, that\nmay be meant to stay him; but it does not, for he salutes her as the\nrest have done, and wishes her all happiness.\n\n'If wishes,' says he in a low voice, 'are not superfluous, applied to\nsuch a union.'\n\n'I thank you, Sir,' she answers, with a curled lip, and a heaving bosom.\n\nBut, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she knew that Mr Dombey\nwould return to offer his alliance, that Carker knows her thoroughly,\nand reads her right, and that she is more degraded by his knowledge\nof her, than by aught else? Is it for this reason that her haughtiness\nshrinks beneath his smile, like snow within the hands that grasps it\nfirmly, and that her imperious glance droops in meeting his, and seeks\nthe ground?\n\n'I am proud to see,' said Mr Carker, with a servile stooping of his\nneck, which the revelations making by his eyes and teeth proclaim to\nbe a lie, 'I am proud to see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs\nDombey's hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place in so joyful an\noccasion.'\n\nThough she bends her head, in answer, there is something in the\nmomentary action of her hand, as if she would crush the flowers it\nholds, and fling them, with contempt, upon the ground. But, she puts\nthe hand through the arm of her new husband, who has been standing\nnear, conversing with the Major, and is proud again, and motionless, and\nsilent.\n\nThe carriages are once more at the church door. Mr Dombey, with his\nbride upon his arm, conducts her through the twenty families of little\nwomen who are on the steps, and every one of whom remembers the fashion\nand the colour of her every article of dress from that moment, and\nreproduces it on her doll, who is for ever being married. Cleopatra and\nCousin Feenix enter the same carriage. The Major hands into a second\ncarriage, Florence, and the bridesmaid who so narrowly escaped being\ngiven away by mistake, and then enters it himself, and is followed by\nMr Carker. Horses prance and caper; coachmen and footmen shine in\nfluttering favours, flowers, and new-made liveries. Away they dash and\nrattle through the streets; and as they pass along, a thousand heads\nare turned to look at them, and a thousand sober moralists revenge\nthemselves for not being married too, that morning, by reflecting that\nthese people little think such happiness can't last.\n\nMiss Tox emerges from behind the cherubim's leg, when all is quiet, and\ncomes slowly down from the gallery. Miss Tox's eyes are red, and her\npocket-handkerchief is damp. She is wounded, but not exasperated, and\nshe hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to herself the beauty of\nthe bride, and her own comparatively feeble and faded attractions;\nbut the stately image of Mr Dombey in his lilac waistcoat, and his\nfawn-coloured pantaloons, is present to her mind, and Miss Tox weeps\nafresh, behind her veil, on her way home to Princess's Place. Captain\nCuttle, having joined in all the amens and responses, with a devout\ngrowl, feels much improved by his religious exercises; and in a peaceful\nframe of mind pervades the body of the church, glazed hat in hand, and\nreads the tablet to the memory of little Paul. The gallant Mr Toots,\nattended by the faithful Chicken, leaves the building in torments of\nlove. The Chicken is as yet unable to elaborate a scheme for winning\nFlorence, but his first idea has gained possession of him, and he thinks\nthe doubling up of Mr Dombey would be a move in the right direction. Mr\nDombey's servants come out of their hiding-places, and prepare to rush\nto Brook Street, when they are delayed by symptoms of indisposition\non the part of Mrs Perch, who entreats a glass of water, and becomes\nalarming; Mrs Perch gets better soon, however, and is borne away; and\nMrs Miff, and Mr Sownds the Beadle, sit upon the steps to count what\nthey have gained by the affair, and talk it over, while the sexton tolls\na funeral.\n\nNow, the carriages arrive at the Bride's residence, and the players on\nthe bells begin to jingle, and the band strikes up, and Mr Punch, that\nmodel of connubial bliss, salutes his wife. Now, the people run, and\npush, and press round in a gaping throng, while Mr Dombey, leading Mrs\nDombey by the hand, advances solemnly into the Feenix Halls. Now, the\nrest of the wedding party alight, and enter after them. And why does Mr\nCarker, passing through the people to the hall-door, think of the old\nwoman who called to him in the Grove that morning? Or why does Florence,\nas she passes, think, with a tremble, of her childhood, when she was\nlost, and of the visage of Good Mrs Brown?\n\nNow, there are more congratulations on this happiest of days, and more\ncompany, though not much; and now they leave the drawing-room, and range\nthemselves at table in the dark-brown dining-room, which no confectioner\ncan brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted negroes with as many\nflowers and love-knots as he will.\n\nThe pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though, and a rich\nbreakfast is set forth. Mr and Mrs Chick have joined the party, among\nothers. Mrs Chick admires that Edith should be, by nature, such a\nperfect Dombey; and is affable and confidential to Mrs Skewton, whose\nmind is relieved of a great load, and who takes her share of the\nchampagne. The very tall young man who suffered from excitement early,\nis better; but a vague sentiment of repentance has seized upon him, and\nhe hates the other very tall young man, and wrests dishes from him\nby violence, and takes a grim delight in disobliging the company. The\ncompany are cool and calm, and do not outrage the black hatchments of\npictures looking down upon them, by any excess of mirth. Cousin Feenix\nand the Major are the gayest there; but Mr Carker has a smile for the\nwhole table. He has an especial smile for the Bride, who very, very\nseldom meets it.\n\nCousin Feenix rises, when the company have breakfasted, and the servants\nhave left the room; and wonderfully young he looks, with his white\nwristbands almost covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and the\nbloom of the champagne in his cheeks.\n\n'Upon my honour,' says Cousin Feenix, 'although it's an unusual sort of\nthing in a private gentleman's house, I must beg leave to call upon you\nto drink what is usually called a--in fact a toast.'\n\nThe Major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr Carker, bending his\nhead forward over the table in the direction of Cousin Feenix, smiles\nand nods a great many times.\n\n'A--in fact it's not a--' Cousin Feenix beginning again, thus, comes to\na dead stop.\n\n'Hear, hear!' says the Major, in a tone of conviction.\n\nMr Carker softly claps his hands, and bending forward over the table\nagain, smiles and nods a great many more times than before, as if\nhe were particularly struck by this last observation, and desired\npersonally to express his sense of the good it has done.\n\n'It is,' says Cousin Feenix, 'an occasion in fact, when the general\nusages of life may be a little departed from, without impropriety; and\nalthough I never was an orator in my life, and when I was in the House\nof Commons, and had the honour of seconding the address, was--in fact,\nwas laid up for a fortnight with the consciousness of failure--'\n\nThe Major and Mr Carker are so much delighted by this fragment of\npersonal history, that Cousin Feenix laughs, and addressing them\nindividually, goes on to say:\n\n'And in point of fact, when I was devilish ill--still, you know, I\nfeel that a duty devolves upon me. And when a duty devolves upon an\nEnglishman, he is bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best\nway he can. Well! our family has had the gratification, to-day, of\nconnecting itself, in the person of my lovely and accomplished relative,\nwhom I now see--in point of fact, present--'\n\nHere there is general applause.\n\n'Present,' repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a neat point which\nwill bear repetition,--'with one who--that is to say, with a man, at\nwhom the finger of scorn can never--in fact, with my honourable friend\nDombey, if he will allow me to call him so.'\n\nCousin Feenix bows to Mr Dombey; Mr Dombey solemnly returns the bow;\neverybody is more or less gratified and affected by this extraordinary,\nand perhaps unprecedented, appeal to the feelings.\n\n'I have not,' says Cousin Feenix, 'enjoyed those opportunities which I\ncould have desired, of cultivating the acquaintance of my friend Dombey,\nand studying those qualities which do equal honour to his head, and, in\npoint of fact, to his heart; for it has been my misfortune to be, as\nwe used to say in my time in the House of Commons, when it was not\nthe custom to allude to the Lords, and when the order of parliamentary\nproceedings was perhaps better observed than it is now--to be in--in\npoint of fact,' says Cousin Feenix, cherishing his joke, with great\nslyness, and finally bringing it out with a jerk, \"'in another place!\"'\n\nThe Major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with difficulty.\n\n'But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey,' resumes Cousin Feenix in\na graver tone, as if he had suddenly become a sadder and wiser man, 'to\nknow that he is, in point of fact, what may be emphatically called a--a\nmerchant--a British merchant--and a--and a man. And although I have\nbeen resident abroad, for some years (it would give me great pleasure\nto receive my friend Dombey, and everybody here, at Baden-Baden, and to\nhave an opportunity of making 'em known to the Grand Duke), still I know\nenough, I flatter myself, of my lovely and accomplished relative, to\nknow that she possesses every requisite to make a man happy, and that\nher marriage with my friend Dombey is one of inclination and affection\non both sides.'\n\nMany smiles and nods from Mr Carker.\n\n'Therefore,' says Cousin Feenix, 'I congratulate the family of which I\nam a member, on the acquisition of my friend Dombey. I congratulate my\nfriend Dombey on his union with my lovely and accomplished relative who\npossesses every requisite to make a man happy; and I take the liberty\nof calling on you all, in point of fact, to congratulate both my\nfriend Dombey and my lovely and accomplished relative, on the present\noccasion.'\n\nThe speech of Cousin Feenix is received with great applause, and Mr\nDombey returns thanks on behalf of himself and Mrs Dombey. J. B. shortly\nafterwards proposes Mrs Skewton. The breakfast languishes when that is\ndone, the violated hatchments are avenged, and Edith rises to assume her\ntravelling dress.\n\nAll the servants in the meantime, have been breakfasting below.\nChampagne has grown too common among them to be mentioned, and roast\nfowls, raised pies, and lobster-salad, have become mere drugs. The\nvery tall young man has recovered his spirits, and again alludes to the\nexciseman. His comrade's eye begins to emulate his own, and he, too,\nstares at objects without taking cognizance thereof. There is a\ngeneral redness in the faces of the ladies; in the face of Mrs Perch\nparticularly, who is joyous and beaming, and lifted so far above the\ncares of life, that if she were asked just now to direct a wayfarer to\nBall's Pond, where her own cares lodge, she would have some difficulty\nin recalling the way. Mr Towlinson has proposed the happy pair; to which\nthe silver-headed butler has responded neatly, and with emotion; for he\nhalf begins to think he is an old retainer of the family, and that he is\nbound to be affected by these changes. The whole party, and especially\nthe ladies, are very frolicsome. Mr Dombey's cook, who generally takes\nthe lead in society, has said, it is impossible to settle down after\nthis, and why not go, in a party, to the play? Everybody (Mrs Perch\nincluded) has agreed to this; even the Native, who is tigerish in his\ndrink, and who alarms the ladies (Mrs Perch particularly) by the rolling\nof his eyes. One of the very tall young men has even proposed a ball\nafter the play, and it presents itself to no one (Mrs Perch included) in\nthe light of an impossibility. Words have arisen between the housemaid\nand Mr Towlinson; she, on the authority of an old saw, asserting\nmarriages to be made in Heaven: he, affecting to trace the manufacture\nelsewhere; he, supposing that she says so, because she thinks of being\nmarried her own self: she, saying, Lord forbid, at any rate, that she\nshould ever marry him. To calm these flying taunts, the silver-headed\nbutler rises to propose the health of Mr Towlinson, whom to know is to\nesteem, and to esteem is to wish well settled in life with the object of\nhis choice, wherever (here the silver-headed butler eyes the housemaid)\nshe may be. Mr Towlinson returns thanks in a speech replete with\nfeeling, of which the peroration turns on foreigners, regarding whom\nhe says they may find favour, sometimes, with weak and inconstant\nintellects that can be led away by hair, but all he hopes, is, he may\nnever hear of no foreigner never boning nothing out of no travelling\nchariot. The eye of Mr Towlinson is so severe and so expressive here,\nthat the housemaid is turning hysterical, when she and all the rest,\nroused by the intelligence that the Bride is going away, hurry upstairs\nto witness her departure.\n\nThe chariot is at the door; the Bride is descending to the hall, where\nMr Dombey waits for her. Florence is ready on the staircase to depart\ntoo; and Miss Nipper, who has held a middle state between the parlour\nand the kitchen, is prepared to accompany her. As Edith appears,\nFlorence hastens towards her, to bid her farewell.\n\nIs Edith cold, that she should tremble! Is there anything unnatural or\nunwholesome in the touch of Florence, that the beautiful form recedes\nand contracts, as if it could not bear it! Is there so much hurry in\nthis going away, that Edith, with a wave of her hand, sweeps on, and is\ngone!\n\nMrs Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a mother, sinks on her sofa\nin the Cleopatra attitude, when the clatter of the chariot wheels is\nlost, and sheds several tears. The Major, coming with the rest of the\ncompany from table, endeavours to comfort her; but she will not be\ncomforted on any terms, and so the Major takes his leave. Cousin Feenix\ntakes his leave, and Mr Carker takes his leave. The guests all go away.\nCleopatra, left alone, feels a little giddy from her strong emotion, and\nfalls asleep.\n\nGiddiness prevails below stairs too. The very tall young man whose\nexcitement came on so soon, appears to have his head glued to the table\nin the pantry, and cannot be detached from it. A violent revulsion has\ntaken place in the spirits of Mrs Perch, who is low on account of Mr\nPerch, and tells cook that she fears he is not so much attached to his\nhome, as he used to be, when they were only nine in family. Mr Towlinson\nhas a singing in his ears and a large wheel going round and round inside\nhis head. The housemaid wishes it wasn't wicked to wish that one was\ndead.\n\nThere is a general delusion likewise, in these lower regions, on the\nsubject of time; everybody conceiving that it ought to be, at the\nearliest, ten o'clock at night, whereas it is not yet three in the\nafternoon. A shadowy idea of wickedness committed, haunts every\nindividual in the party; and each one secretly thinks the other a\ncompanion in guilt, whom it would be agreeable to avoid. No man or woman\nhas the hardihood to hint at the projected visit to the play. Anyone\nreviving the notion of the ball, would be scouted as a malignant idiot.\n\nMrs Skewton sleeps upstairs, two hours afterwards, and naps are not\nyet over in the kitchen. The hatchments in the dining-room look down\non crumbs, dirty plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed ice, stale\ndiscoloured heel-taps, scraps of lobster, drumsticks of fowls, and\npensive jellies, gradually resolving themselves into a lukewarm gummy\nsoup. The marriage is, by this time, almost as denuded of its show and\ngarnish as the breakfast. Mr Dombey's servants moralise so much about\nit, and are so repentant over their early tea, at home, that by eight\no'clock or so, they settle down into confirmed seriousness; and Mr\nPerch, arriving at that time from the City, fresh and jocular, with\na white waistcoat and a comic song, ready to spend the evening, and\nprepared for any amount of dissipation, is amazed to find himself coldly\nreceived, and Mrs Perch but poorly, and to have the pleasing duty of\nescorting that lady home by the next omnibus.\n\nNight closes in. Florence, having rambled through the handsome house,\nfrom room to room, seeks her own chamber, where the care of Edith has\nsurrounded her with luxuries and comforts; and divesting herself of her\nhandsome dress, puts on her old simple mourning for dear Paul, and sits\ndown to read, with Diogenes winking and blinking on the ground beside\nher. But Florence cannot read tonight. The house seems strange and new,\nand there are loud echoes in it. There is a shadow on her heart: she\nknows not why or what: but it is heavy. Florence shuts her book, and\ngruff Diogenes, who takes that for a signal, puts his paws upon her lap,\nand rubs his ears against her caressing hands. But Florence cannot see\nhim plainly, in a little time, for there is a mist between her eyes\nand him, and her dead brother and dead mother shine in it like angels.\nWalter, too, poor wandering shipwrecked boy, oh, where is he?\n\nThe Major don't know; that's for certain; and don't care. The Major,\nhaving choked and slumbered, all the afternoon, has taken a late dinner\nat his club, and now sits over his pint of wine, driving a modest young\nman, with a fresh-coloured face, at the next table (who would give a\nhandsome sum to be able to rise and go away, but cannot do it) to the\nverge of madness, by anecdotes of Bagstock, Sir, at Dombey's wedding,\nand Old Joe's devilish gentle manly friend, Lord Feenix. While Cousin\nFeenix, who ought to be at Long's, and in bed, finds himself, instead,\nat a gaming-table, where his wilful legs have taken him, perhaps, in his\nown despite.\n\nNight, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to roof, and holds\ndominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping through\nthe windows: and, giving place to day, sees night withdraw into the\nvaults, and follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead. The\ntimid mice again cower close together, when the great door clashes,\nand Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff treading the circle of their daily lives,\nunbroken as a marriage ring, come in. Again, the cocked hat and the\nmortified bonnet stand in the background at the marriage hour; and\nagain this man taketh this woman, and this woman taketh this man, on the\nsolemn terms:\n\n'To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for\nricher for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,\nuntil death do them part.'\n\nThe very words that Mr Carker rides into town repeating, with his mouth\nstretched to the utmost, as he picks his dainty way.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 32. The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces\n\n\nHonest Captain Cuttle, as the weeks flew over him in his fortified\nretreat, by no means abated any of his prudent provisions against\nsurprise, because of the non-appearance of the enemy. The Captain argued\nthat his present security was too profound and wonderful to endure\nmuch longer; he knew that when the wind stood in a fair quarter, the\nweathercock was seldom nailed there; and he was too well acquainted with\nthe determined and dauntless character of Mrs MacStinger, to doubt that\nthat heroic woman had devoted herself to the task of his discovery and\ncapture. Trembling beneath the weight of these reasons, Captain Cuttle\nlived a very close and retired life; seldom stirring abroad until after\ndark; venturing even then only into the obscurest streets; never going\nforth at all on Sundays; and both within and without the walls of his\nretreat, avoiding bonnets, as if they were worn by raging lions.\n\nThe Captain never dreamed that in the event of his being pounced upon by\nMrs MacStinger, in his walks, it would be possible to offer resistance.\nHe felt that it could not be done. He saw himself, in his mind's eye,\nput meekly in a hackney-coach, and carried off to his old lodgings. He\nforesaw that, once immured there, he was a lost man: his hat gone; Mrs\nMacStinger watchful of him day and night; reproaches heaped upon his\nhead, before the infant family; himself the guilty object of suspicion\nand distrust; an ogre in the children's eyes, and in their mother's a\ndetected traitor.\n\nA violent perspiration, and a lowness of spirits, always came over the\nCaptain as this gloomy picture presented itself to his imagination. It\ngenerally did so previous to his stealing out of doors at night for air\nand exercise. Sensible of the risk he ran, the Captain took leave of\nRob, at those times, with the solemnity which became a man who might\nnever return: exhorting him, in the event of his (the Captain's) being\nlost sight of, for a time, to tread in the paths of virtue, and keep the\nbrazen instruments well polished.\n\nBut not to throw away a chance; and to secure to himself a means, in\ncase of the worst, of holding communication with the external world;\nCaptain Cuttle soon conceived the happy idea of teaching Rob the Grinder\nsome secret signal, by which that adherent might make his presence and\nfidelity known to his commander, in the hour of adversity. After much\ncogitation, the Captain decided in favour of instructing him to\nwhistle the marine melody, 'Oh cheerily, cheerily!' and Rob the Grinder\nattaining a point as near perfection in that accomplishment as a\nlandsman could hope to reach, the Captain impressed these mysterious\ninstructions on his mind:\n\n'Now, my lad, stand by! If ever I'm took--'\n\n'Took, Captain!' interposed Rob, with his round eyes wide open.\n\n'Ah!' said Captain Cuttle darkly, 'if ever I goes away, meaning to come\nback to supper, and don't come within hail again, twenty-four hours\narter my loss, go you to Brig Place and whistle that 'ere tune near my\nold moorings--not as if you was a meaning of it, you understand, but as\nif you'd drifted there, promiscuous. If I answer in that tune, you sheer\noff, my lad, and come back four-and-twenty hours arterwards; if I answer\nin another tune, do you stand off and on, and wait till I throw out\nfurther signals. Do you understand them orders, now?'\n\n'What am I to stand off and on of, Captain?' inquired Rob. 'The\nhorse-road?'\n\n'Here's a smart lad for you!' cried the Captain eyeing him sternly, 'as\ndon't know his own native alphabet! Go away a bit and come back again\nalternate--d'ye understand that?'\n\n'Yes, Captain,' said Rob.\n\n'Very good my lad, then,' said the Captain, relenting. 'Do it!'\n\nThat he might do it the better, Captain Cuttle sometimes condescended,\nof an evening after the shop was shut, to rehearse this scene:\nretiring into the parlour for the purpose, as into the lodgings of a\nsupposititious MacStinger, and carefully observing the behaviour of his\nally, from the hole of espial he had cut in the wall. Rob the Grinder\ndischarged himself of his duty with so much exactness and judgment, when\nthus put to the proof, that the Captain presented him, at divers times,\nwith seven sixpences, in token of satisfaction; and gradually felt\nstealing over his spirit the resignation of a man who had made provision\nfor the worst, and taken every reasonable precaution against an\nunrelenting fate.\n\nNevertheless, the Captain did not tempt ill-fortune, by being a whit\nmore venturesome than before. Though he considered it a point of good\nbreeding in himself, as a general friend of the family, to attend Mr\nDombey's wedding (of which he had heard from Mr Perch), and to show that\ngentleman a pleasant and approving countenance from the gallery, he had\nrepaired to the church in a hackney cabriolet with both windows up;\nand might have scrupled even to make that venture, in his dread of\nMrs MacStinger, but that the lady's attendance on the ministry of the\nReverend Melchisedech rendered it peculiarly unlikely that she would be\nfound in communion with the Establishment.\n\nThe Captain got safe home again, and fell into the ordinary routine of\nhis new life, without encountering any more direct alarm from the enemy,\nthan was suggested to him by the daily bonnets in the street. But other\nsubjects began to lay heavy on the Captain's mind. Walter's ship was\nstill unheard of. No news came of old Sol Gills. Florence did not even\nknow of the old man's disappearance, and Captain Cuttle had not the\nheart to tell her. Indeed the Captain, as his own hopes of the generous,\nhandsome, gallant-hearted youth, whom he had loved, according to his\nrough manner, from a child, began to fade, and faded more and more from\nday to day, shrunk with instinctive pain from the thought of exchanging\na word with Florence. If he had had good news to carry to her, the\nhonest Captain would have braved the newly decorated house and splendid\nfurniture--though these, connected with the lady he had seen at church,\nwere awful to him--and made his way into her presence. With a dark\nhorizon gathering around their common hopes, however, that darkened\nevery hour, the Captain almost felt as if he were a new misfortune\nand affliction to her; and was scarcely less afraid of a visit from\nFlorence, than from Mrs MacStinger herself.\n\nIt was a chill dark autumn evening, and Captain Cuttle had ordered a\nfire to be kindled in the little back parlour, now more than ever like\nthe cabin of a ship. The rain fell fast, and the wind blew hard; and\nstraying out on the house-top by that stormy bedroom of his old friend,\nto take an observation of the weather, the Captain's heart died within\nhim, when he saw how wild and desolate it was. Not that he associated\nthe weather of that time with poor Walter's destiny, or doubted that if\nProvidence had doomed him to be lost and shipwrecked, it was over, long\nago; but that beneath an outward influence, quite distinct from the\nsubject-matter of his thoughts, the Captain's spirits sank, and his\nhopes turned pale, as those of wiser men had often done before him, and\nwill often do again.\n\nCaptain Cuttle, addressing his face to the sharp wind and slanting rain,\nlooked up at the heavy scud that was flying fast over the wilderness of\nhouse-tops, and looked for something cheery there in vain. The prospect\nnear at hand was no better. In sundry tea-chests and other rough boxes\nat his feet, the pigeons of Rob the Grinder were cooing like so many\ndismal breezes getting up. A crazy weathercock of a midshipman, with\na telescope at his eye, once visible from the street, but long bricked\nout, creaked and complained upon his rusty pivot as the shrill blast\nspun him round and round, and sported with him cruelly. Upon the\nCaptain's coarse blue vest the cold raindrops started like steel\nbeads; and he could hardly maintain himself aslant against the stiff\nNor'-Wester that came pressing against him, importunate to topple him\nover the parapet, and throw him on the pavement below. If there were any\nHope alive that evening, the Captain thought, as he held his hat on, it\ncertainly kept house, and wasn't out of doors; so the Captain, shaking\nhis head in a despondent manner, went in to look for it.\n\nCaptain Cuttle descended slowly to the little back parlour, and, seated\nin his accustomed chair, looked for it in the fire; but it was not\nthere, though the fire was bright. He took out his tobacco-box and pipe,\nand composing himself to smoke, looked for it in the red glow from the\nbowl, and in the wreaths of vapour that curled upward from his lips; but\nthere was not so much as an atom of the rust of Hope's anchor in either.\nHe tried a glass of grog; but melancholy truth was at the bottom of that\nwell, and he couldn't finish it. He made a turn or two in the shop, and\nlooked for Hope among the instruments; but they obstinately worked out\nreckonings for the missing ship, in spite of any opposition he could\noffer, that ended at the bottom of the lone sea.\n\nThe wind still rushing, and the rain still pattering, against the closed\nshutters, the Captain brought to before the wooden Midshipman upon the\ncounter, and thought, as he dried the little officer's uniform with\nhis sleeve, how many years the Midshipman had seen, during which few\nchanges--hardly any--had transpired among his ship's company; how the\nchanges had come all together, one day, as it might be; and of what a\nsweeping kind they were. Here was the little society of the back parlour\nbroken up, and scattered far and wide. Here was no audience for Lovely\nPeg, even if there had been anybody to sing it, which there was not; for\nthe Captain was as morally certain that nobody but he could execute that\nballad, as he was that he had not the spirit, under existing\ncircumstances, to attempt it. There was no bright face of 'Wal'r' in the\nhouse;--here the Captain transferred his sleeve for a moment from the\nMidshipman's uniform to his own cheek;--the familiar wig and buttons of\nSol Gills were a vision of the past; Richard Whittington was knocked on\nthe head; and every plan and project in connexion with the Midshipman,\nlay drifting, without mast or rudder, on the waste of waters.\n\nAs the Captain, with a dejected face, stood revolving these thoughts,\nand polishing the Midshipman, partly in the tenderness of old\nacquaintance, and partly in the absence of his mind, a knocking at\nthe shop-door communicated a frightful start to the frame of Rob the\nGrinder, seated on the counter, whose large eyes had been intently fixed\non the Captain's face, and who had been debating within himself, for the\nfive hundredth time, whether the Captain could have done a murder, that\nhe had such an evil conscience, and was always running away.\n\n'What's that?' said Captain Cuttle, softly.\n\n'Somebody's knuckles, Captain,' answered Rob the Grinder.\n\nThe Captain, with an abashed and guilty air, immediately walked on\ntiptoe to the little parlour and locked himself in. Rob, opening the\ndoor, would have parleyed with the visitor on the threshold if the\nvisitor had come in female guise; but the figure being of the male sex,\nand Rob's orders only applying to women, Rob held the door open and\nallowed it to enter: which it did very quickly, glad to get out of the\ndriving rain.\n\n'A job for Burgess and Co. at any rate,' said the visitor, looking over\nhis shoulder compassionately at his own legs, which were very wet and\ncovered with splashes. 'Oh, how-de-do, Mr Gills?'\n\nThe salutation was addressed to the Captain, now emerging from the back\nparlour with a most transparent and utterly futile affectation of coming\nout by accidence.\n\n'Thankee,' the gentleman went on to say in the same breath; 'I'm very\nwell indeed, myself, I'm much obliged to you. My name is Toots,--Mister\nToots.'\n\nThe Captain remembered to have seen this young gentleman at the\nwedding, and made him a bow. Mr Toots replied with a chuckle; and being\nembarrassed, as he generally was, breathed hard, shook hands with the\nCaptain for a long time, and then falling on Rob the Grinder, in\nthe absence of any other resource, shook hands with him in a most\naffectionate and cordial manner.\n\n'I say! I should like to speak a word to you, Mr Gills, if you please,'\nsaid Toots at length, with surprising presence of mind. 'I say! Miss\nD.O.M. you know!'\n\nThe Captain, with responsive gravity and mystery, immediately waved his\nhook towards the little parlour, whither Mr Toots followed him.\n\n'Oh! I beg your pardon though,' said Mr Toots, looking up in the\nCaptain's face as he sat down in a chair by the fire, which the Captain\nplaced for him; 'you don't happen to know the Chicken at all; do you, Mr\nGills?'\n\n'The Chicken?' said the Captain.\n\n'The Game Chicken,' said Mr Toots.\n\nThe Captain shaking his head, Mr Toots explained that the man alluded\nto was the celebrated public character who had covered himself and his\ncountry with glory in his contest with the Nobby Shropshire One; but\nthis piece of information did not appear to enlighten the Captain very\nmuch.\n\n'Because he's outside: that's all,' said Mr Toots. 'But it's of no\nconsequence; he won't get very wet, perhaps.'\n\n'I can pass the word for him in a moment,' said the Captain.\n\n'Well, if you would have the goodness to let him sit in the shop with\nyour young man,' chuckled Mr Toots, 'I should be glad; because, you\nknow, he's easily offended, and the damp's rather bad for his stamina.\nI'll call him in, Mr Gills.'\n\nWith that, Mr Toots repairing to the shop-door, sent a peculiar whistle\ninto the night, which produced a stoical gentleman in a shaggy white\ngreat-coat and a flat-brimmed hat, with very short hair, a broken nose,\nand a considerable tract of bare and sterile country behind each ear.\n\n'Sit down, Chicken,' said Mr Toots.\n\nThe compliant Chicken spat out some small pieces of straw on which\nhe was regaling himself, and took in a fresh supply from a reserve he\ncarried in his hand.\n\n'There ain't no drain of nothing short handy, is there?' said the\nChicken, generally. 'This here sluicing night is hard lines to a man as\nlives on his condition.'\n\nCaptain Cuttle proffered a glass of rum, which the Chicken, throwing\nback his head, emptied into himself, as into a cask, after proposing the\nbrief sentiment, 'Towards us!' Mr Toots and the Captain returning then\nto the parlour, and taking their seats before the fire, Mr Toots began:\n\n'Mr Gills--'\n\n'Awast!' said the Captain. 'My name's Cuttle.'\n\nMr Toots looked greatly disconcerted, while the Captain proceeded\ngravely.\n\n'Cap'en Cuttle is my name, and England is my nation, this here is my\ndwelling-place, and blessed be creation--Job,' said the Captain, as an\nindex to his authority.\n\n'Oh! I couldn't see Mr Gills, could I?' said Mr Toots; 'because--'\n\n'If you could see Sol Gills, young gen'l'm'n,' said the Captain,\nimpressively, and laying his heavy hand on Mr Toots's knee, 'old Sol,\nmind you--with your own eyes--as you sit there--you'd be welcomer to me,\nthan a wind astern, to a ship becalmed. But you can't see Sol Gills. And\nwhy can't you see Sol Gills?' said the Captain, apprised by the face of\nMr Toots that he was making a profound impression on that gentleman's\nmind. 'Because he's inwisible.'\n\nMr Toots in his agitation was going to reply that it was of no\nconsequence at all. But he corrected himself, and said, 'Lor bless me!'\n\n'That there man,' said the Captain, 'has left me in charge here by a\npiece of writing, but though he was a'most as good as my sworn brother,\nI know no more where he's gone, or why he's gone; if so be to seek his\nnevy, or if so be along of being not quite settled in his mind; than you\ndo. One morning at daybreak, he went over the side,' said the Captain,\n'without a splash, without a ripple I have looked for that man high and\nlow, and never set eyes, nor ears, nor nothing else, upon him from that\nhour.'\n\n'But, good Gracious, Miss Dombey don't know--' Mr Toots began.\n\n'Why, I ask you, as a feeling heart,' said the Captain, dropping his\nvoice, 'why should she know? why should she be made to know, until such\ntime as there wam't any help for it? She took to old Sol Gills, did that\nsweet creetur, with a kindness, with a affability, with a--what's the\ngood of saying so? you know her.'\n\n'I should hope so,' chuckled Mr Toots, with a conscious blush that\nsuffused his whole countenance.\n\n'And you come here from her?' said the Captain.\n\n'I should think so,' chuckled Mr Toots.\n\n'Then all I need observe, is,' said the Captain, 'that you know a angel,\nand are chartered a angel.'\n\nMr Toots instantly seized the Captain's hand, and requested the favour\nof his friendship.\n\n'Upon my word and honour,' said Mr Toots, earnestly, 'I should be very\nmuch obliged to you if you'd improve my acquaintance I should like to\nknow you, Captain, very much. I really am in want of a friend, I am.\nLittle Dombey was my friend at old Blimber's, and would have been now,\nif he'd have lived. The Chicken,' said Mr Toots, in a forlorn whisper,\n'is very well--admirable in his way--the sharpest man perhaps in the\nworld; there's not a move he isn't up to, everybody says so--but I don't\nknow--he's not everything. So she is an angel, Captain. If there is an\nangel anywhere, it's Miss Dombey. That's what I've always said. Really\nthough, you know,' said Mr Toots, 'I should be very much obliged to you\nif you'd cultivate my acquaintance.'\n\nCaptain Cuttle received this proposal in a polite manner, but still\nwithout committing himself to its acceptance; merely observing, 'Ay,\nay, my lad. We shall see, we shall see;' and reminding Mr Toots of his\nimmediate mission, by inquiring to what he was indebted for the honour\nof that visit.\n\n'Why the fact is,' replied Mr Toots, 'that it's the young woman I come\nfrom. Not Miss Dombey--Susan, you know.\n\nThe Captain nodded his head once, with a grave expression of face\nindicative of his regarding that young woman with serious respect.\n\n'And I'll tell you how it happens,' said Mr Toots. 'You know, I go and\ncall sometimes, on Miss Dombey. I don't go there on purpose, you know,\nbut I happen to be in the neighbourhood very often; and when I find\nmyself there, why--why I call.'\n\n'Nat'rally,' observed the Captain.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr Toots. 'I called this afternoon. Upon my word and honour,\nI don't think it's possible to form an idea of the angel Miss Dombey was\nthis afternoon.'\n\nThe Captain answered with a jerk of his head, implying that it might not\nbe easy to some people, but was quite so to him.\n\n'As I was coming out,' said Mr Toots, 'the young woman, in the most\nunexpected manner, took me into the pantry.'\n\nThe Captain seemed, for the moment, to object to this proceeding; and\nleaning back in his chair, looked at Mr Toots with a distrustful, if not\nthreatening visage.\n\n'Where she brought out,' said Mr Toots, 'this newspaper. She told me\nthat she had kept it from Miss Dombey all day, on account of something\nthat was in it, about somebody that she and Dombey used to know; and\nthen she read the passage to me. Very well. Then she said--wait a\nminute; what was it she said, though!'\n\nMr Toots, endeavouring to concentrate his mental powers on this\nquestion, unintentionally fixed the Captain's eye, and was so much\ndiscomposed by its stern expression, that his difficulty in resuming the\nthread of his subject was enhanced to a painful extent.\n\n'Oh!' said Mr Toots after long consideration. 'Oh, ah! Yes! She said\nthat she hoped there was a bare possibility that it mightn't be true;\nand that as she couldn't very well come out herself, without surprising\nMiss Dombey, would I go down to Mr Solomon Gills the Instrument-maker's\nin this street, who was the party's Uncle, and ask whether he believed\nit was true, or had heard anything else in the City. She said, if he\ncouldn't speak to me, no doubt Captain Cuttle could. By the bye!' said\nMr Toots, as the discovery flashed upon him, 'you, you know!'\n\nThe Captain glanced at the newspaper in Mr Toots's hand, and breathed\nshort and hurriedly.\n\n'Well,' pursued Mr Toots, 'the reason why I'm rather late is, because I\nwent up as far as Finchley first, to get some uncommonly fine chickweed\nthat grows there, for Miss Dombey's bird. But I came on here, directly\nafterwards. You've seen the paper, I suppose?'\n\nThe Captain, who had become cautious of reading the news, lest he should\nfind himself advertised at full length by Mrs MacStinger, shook his\nhead.\n\n'Shall I read the passage to you?' inquired Mr Toots.\n\nThe Captain making a sign in the affirmative, Mr Toots read as follows,\nfrom the Shipping Intelligence:\n\n'\"Southampton. The barque Defiance, Henry James, Commander, arrived in\nthis port to-day, with a cargo of sugar, coffee, and rum, reports\nthat being becalmed on the sixth day of her passage home from Jamaica,\nin\"--in such and such a latitude, you know,' said Mr Toots, after making\na feeble dash at the figures, and tumbling over them.\n\n'Ay!' cried the Captain, striking his clenched hand on the table. 'Heave\nahead, my lad!'\n\n'--latitude,' repeated Mr Toots, with a startled glance at the Captain,\n'and longitude so-and-so,--\"the look-out observed, half an hour before\nsunset, some fragments of a wreck, drifting at about the distance of a\nmile. The weather being clear, and the barque making no way, a boat was\nhoisted out, with orders to inspect the same, when they were found to\nconsist of sundry large spars, and a part of the main rigging of an\nEnglish brig, of about five hundred tons burden, together with a portion\nof the stem on which the words and letters 'Son and H-' were yet plainly\nlegible. No vestige of any dead body was to be seen upon the floating\nfragments. Log of the Defiance states, that a breeze springing up in\nthe night, the wreck was seen no more. There can be no doubt that all\nsurmises as to the fate of the missing vessel, the Son and Heir, port of\nLondon, bound for Barbados, are now set at rest for ever; that she broke\nup in the last hurricane; and that every soul on board perished.\"'\n\nCaptain Cuttle, like all mankind, little knew how much hope had survived\nwithin him under discouragement, until he felt its death-shock. During\nthe reading of the paragraph, and for a minute or two afterwards, he sat\nwith his gaze fixed on the modest Mr Toots, like a man entranced; then,\nsuddenly rising, and putting on his glazed hat, which, in his visitor's\nhonour, he had laid upon the table, the Captain turned his back, and\nbent his head down on the little chimneypiece.\n\n'Oh' upon my word and honour,' cried Mr Toots, whose tender heart was\nmoved by the Captain's unexpected distress, 'this is a most wretched\nsort of affair this world is! Somebody's always dying, or going and\ndoing something uncomfortable in it. I'm sure I never should have looked\nforward so much, to coming into my property, if I had known this. I\nnever saw such a world. It's a great deal worse than Blimber's.'\n\nCaptain Cuttle, without altering his position, signed to Mr Toots not\nto mind him; and presently turned round, with his glazed hat thrust back\nupon his ears, and his hand composing and smoothing his brown face.\n\n'Wal'r, my dear lad,' said the Captain, 'farewell! Wal'r my child,\nmy boy, and man, I loved you! He warn't my flesh and blood,' said the\nCaptain, looking at the fire--'I ain't got none--but something of what a\nfather feels when he loses a son, I feel in losing Wal'r. For why?' said\nthe Captain. 'Because it ain't one loss, but a round dozen. Where's that\nthere young school-boy with the rosy face and curly hair, that used to\nbe as merry in this here parlour, come round every week, as a piece of\nmusic? Gone down with Wal'r. Where's that there fresh lad, that nothing\ncouldn't tire nor put out, and that sparkled up and blushed so, when we\njoked him about Heart's Delight, that he was beautiful to look at?\nGone down with Wal'r. Where's that there man's spirit, all afire, that\nwouldn't see the old man hove down for a minute, and cared nothing for\nitself? Gone down with Wal'r. It ain't one Wal'r. There was a dozen\nWal'rs that I know'd and loved, all holding round his neck when he went\ndown, and they're a-holding round mine now!'\n\nMr Toots sat silent: folding and refolding the newspaper as small as\npossible upon his knee.\n\n'And Sol Gills,' said the Captain, gazing at the fire, 'poor nevyless\nold Sol, where are you got to! you was left in charge of me; his last\nwords was, \"Take care of my Uncle!\" What came over you, Sol, when you\nwent and gave the go-bye to Ned Cuttle; and what am I to put in my\naccounts that he's a looking down upon, respecting you! Sol Gills, Sol\nGills!' said the Captain, shaking his head slowly, 'catch sight of that\nthere newspaper, away from home, with no one as know'd Wal'r by, to say\na word; and broadside to you broach, and down you pitch, head foremost!'\n\nDrawing a heavy sigh, the Captain turned to Mr Toots, and roused himself\nto a sustained consciousness of that gentleman's presence.\n\n'My lad,' said the Captain, 'you must tell the young woman honestly that\nthis here fatal news is too correct. They don't romance, you see, on\nsuch pints. It's entered on the ship's log, and that's the truest book\nas a man can write. To-morrow morning,' said the Captain, 'I'll step out\nand make inquiries; but they'll lead to no good. They can't do it. If\nyou'll give me a look-in in the forenoon, you shall know what I have\nheerd; but tell the young woman from Cap'en Cuttle, that it's over.\nOver!' And the Captain, hooking off his glazed hat, pulled his\nhandkerchief out of the crown, wiped his grizzled head despairingly,\nand tossed the handkerchief in again, with the indifference of deep\ndejection.\n\n'Oh! I assure you,' said Mr Toots, 'really I am dreadfully sorry. Upon\nmy word I am, though I wasn't acquainted with the party. Do you think\nMiss Dombey will be very much affected, Captain Gills--I mean Mr\nCuttle?'\n\n'Why, Lord love you,' returned the Captain, with something of compassion\nfor Mr Toots's innocence. 'When she warn't no higher than that, they were\nas fond of one another as two young doves.'\n\n'Were they though!' said Mr Toots, with a considerably lengthened face.\n\n'They were made for one another,' said the Captain, mournfully; 'but\nwhat signifies that now!'\n\n'Upon my word and honour,' cried Mr Toots, blurting out his words\nthrough a singular combination of awkward chuckles and emotion, 'I'm\neven more sorry than I was before. You know, Captain Gills, I--I\npositively adore Miss Dombey;--I--I am perfectly sore with loving her;'\nthe burst with which this confession forced itself out of the unhappy\nMr Toots, bespoke the vehemence of his feelings; 'but what would be the\ngood of my regarding her in this manner, if I wasn't truly sorry for\nher feeling pain, whatever was the cause of it. Mine ain't a selfish\naffection, you know,' said Mr Toots, in the confidence engendered by\nhis having been a witness of the Captain's tenderness. 'It's the sort\nof thing with me, Captain Gills, that if I could be run over--or--or\ntrampled upon--or--or thrown off a very high place-or anything of that\nsort--for Miss Dombey's sake, it would be the most delightful thing that\ncould happen to me.'\n\nAll this, Mr Toots said in a suppressed voice, to prevent its reaching\nthe jealous ears of the Chicken, who objected to the softer emotions;\nwhich effort of restraint, coupled with the intensity of his feelings,\nmade him red to the tips of his ears, and caused him to present such an\naffecting spectacle of disinterested love to the eyes of Captain Cuttle,\nthat the good Captain patted him consolingly on the back, and bade him\ncheer up.\n\n'Thankee, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'it's kind of you, in the midst\nof your own troubles, to say so. I'm very much obliged to you. As I\nsaid before, I really want a friend, and should be glad to have your\nacquaintance. Although I am very well off,' said Mr Toots, with energy,\n'you can't think what a miserable Beast I am. The hollow crowd, you\nknow, when they see me with the Chicken, and characters of distinction\nlike that, suppose me to be happy; but I'm wretched. I suffer for Miss\nDombey, Captain Gills. I can't get through my meals; I have no pleasure\nin my tailor; I often cry when I'm alone. I assure you it'll be a\nsatisfaction to me to come back to-morrow, or to come back fifty times.'\n\nMr Toots, with these words, shook the Captain's hand; and disguising\nsuch traces of his agitation as could be disguised on so short a notice,\nbefore the Chicken's penetrating glance, rejoined that eminent gentleman\nin the shop. The Chicken, who was apt to be jealous of his ascendancy,\neyed Captain Cuttle with anything but favour as he took leave of Mr\nToots, but followed his patron without being otherwise demonstrative\nof his ill-will: leaving the Captain oppressed with sorrow; and Rob\nthe Grinder elevated with joy, on account of having had the honour of\nstaring for nearly half an hour at the conqueror of the Nobby Shropshire\nOne.\n\nLong after Rob was fast asleep in his bed under the counter, the Captain\nsat looking at the fire; and long after there was no fire to look at,\nthe Captain sat gazing on the rusty bars, with unavailing thoughts of\nWalter and old Sol crowding through his mind. Retirement to the stormy\nchamber at the top of the house brought no rest with it; and the Captain\nrose up in the morning, sorrowful and unrefreshed.\n\nAs soon as the City offices were opened, the Captain issued forth to\nthe counting-house of Dombey and Son. But there was no opening of the\nMidshipman's windows that morning. Rob the Grinder, by the Captain's\norders, left the shutters closed, and the house was as a house of death.\n\nIt chanced that Mr Carker was entering the office, as Captain Cuttle\narrived at the door. Receiving the Manager's benison gravely and\nsilently, Captain Cuttle made bold to accompany him into his own room.\n\n'Well, Captain Cuttle,' said Mr Carker, taking up his usual position\nbefore the fireplace, and keeping on his hat, 'this is a bad business.'\n\n'You have received the news as was in print yesterday, Sir?' said the\nCaptain.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr Carker, 'we have received it! It was accurately stated.\nThe underwriters suffer a considerable loss. We are very sorry. No help!\nSuch is life!'\n\nMr Carker pared his nails delicately with a penknife, and smiled at the\nCaptain, who was standing by the door looking at him.\n\n'I excessively regret poor Gay,' said Carker, 'and the crew. I\nunderstand there were some of our very best men among 'em. It always\nhappens so. Many men with families too. A comfort to reflect that poor\nGay had no family, Captain Cuttle!'\n\nThe Captain stood rubbing his chin, and looking at the Manager. The\nManager glanced at the unopened letters lying on his desk, and took up\nthe newspaper.\n\n'Is there anything I can do for you, Captain Cuttle?' he asked looking\noff it, with a smiling and expressive glance at the door.\n\n'I wish you could set my mind at rest, Sir, on something it's uneasy\nabout,' returned the Captain.\n\n'Ay!' exclaimed the Manager, 'what's that? Come, Captain Cuttle, I must\ntrouble you to be quick, if you please. I am much engaged.'\n\n'Lookee here, Sir,' said the Captain, advancing a step. 'Afore my friend\nWal'r went on this here disastrous voyage--'\n\n'Come, come, Captain Cuttle,' interposed the smiling Manager, 'don't\ntalk about disastrous voyages in that way. We have nothing to do with\ndisastrous voyages here, my good fellow. You must have begun very early\non your day's allowance, Captain, if you don't remember that there are\nhazards in all voyages, whether by sea or land. You are not made uneasy\nby the supposition that young what's-his-name was lost in bad weather\nthat was got up against him in these offices--are you? Fie, Captain!\nSleep, and soda-water, are the best cures for such uneasiness as that.'\n\n'My lad,' returned the Captain, slowly--'you are a'most a lad to me,\nand so I don't ask your pardon for that slip of a word,--if you find any\npleasure in this here sport, you ain't the gentleman I took you for. And\nif you ain't the gentleman I took you for, may be my mind has call to\nbe uneasy. Now this is what it is, Mr Carker.--Afore that poor lad went\naway, according to orders, he told me that he warn't a going away for\nhis own good, or for promotion, he know'd. It was my belief that he\nwas wrong, and I told him so, and I come here, your head governor being\nabsent, to ask a question or two of you in a civil way, for my own\nsatisfaction. Them questions you answered--free. Now it'll ease my mind\nto know, when all is over, as it is, and when what can't be cured must\nbe endoored--for which, as a scholar, you'll overhaul the book it's in,\nand thereof make a note--to know once more, in a word, that I warn't\nmistaken; that I warn't back'ard in my duty when I didn't tell the old\nman what Wal'r told me; and that the wind was truly in his sail, when\nhe highsted of it for Barbados Harbour. Mr Carker,' said the Captain, in\nthe goodness of his nature, 'when I was here last, we was very pleasant\ntogether. If I ain't been altogether so pleasant myself this morning, on\naccount of this poor lad, and if I have chafed again any observation of\nyours that I might have fended off, my name is Ed'ard Cuttle, and I ask\nyour pardon.'\n\n'Captain Cuttle,' returned the Manager, with all possible politeness, 'I\nmust ask you to do me a favour.'\n\n'And what is it, Sir?' inquired the Captain.\n\n'To have the goodness to walk off, if you please,' rejoined the Manager,\nstretching forth his arm, 'and to carry your jargon somewhere else.'\n\nEvery knob in the Captain's face turned white with astonishment and\nindignation; even the red rim on his forehead faded, like a rainbow\namong the gathering clouds.\n\n'I tell you what, Captain Cuttle,' said the Manager, shaking his\nforefinger at him, and showing him all his teeth, but still amiably\nsmiling, 'I was much too lenient with you when you came here before. You\nbelong to an artful and audacious set of people. In my desire to save\nyoung what's-his-name from being kicked out of this place, neck and\ncrop, my good Captain, I tolerated you; but for once, and only once.\nNow, go, my friend!'\n\nThe Captain was absolutely rooted to the ground, and speechless--\n\n'Go,' said the good-humoured Manager, gathering up his skirts, and\nstanding astride upon the hearth-rug, 'like a sensible fellow, and let\nus have no turning out, or any such violent measures. If Mr Dombey\nwere here, Captain, you might be obliged to leave in a more ignominious\nmanner, possibly. I merely say, Go!'\n\nThe Captain, laying his ponderous hand upon his chest, to assist himself\nin fetching a deep breath, looked at Mr Carker from head to foot, and\nlooked round the little room, as if he did not clearly understand where\nhe was, or in what company.\n\n'You are deep, Captain Cuttle,' pursued Carker, with the easy and\nvivacious frankness of a man of the world who knew the world too well\nto be ruffled by any discovery of misdoing, when it did not\nimmediately concern himself, 'but you are not quite out of soundings,\neither--neither you nor your absent friend, Captain. What have you done\nwith your absent friend, hey?'\n\nAgain the Captain laid his hand upon his chest. After drawing another\ndeep breath, he conjured himself to 'stand by!' But in a whisper.\n\n'You hatch nice little plots, and hold nice little councils, and\nmake nice little appointments, and receive nice little visitors, too,\nCaptain, hey?' said Carker, bending his brows upon him, without\nshowing his teeth any the less: 'but it's a bold measure to come here\nafterwards. Not like your discretion! You conspirators, and hiders,\nand runners-away, should know better than that. Will you oblige me by\ngoing?'\n\n'My lad,' gasped the Captain, in a choked and trembling voice, and with\na curious action going on in the ponderous fist; 'there's a many words I\ncould wish to say to you, but I don't rightly know where they're stowed\njust at present. My young friend, Wal'r, was drownded only last night,\naccording to my reckoning, and it puts me out, you see. But you and\nme will come alongside o'one another again, my lad,' said the Captain,\nholding up his hook, 'if we live.'\n\n'It will be anything but shrewd in you, my good fellow, if we do,'\nreturned the Manager, with the same frankness; 'for you may rely, I give\nyou fair warning, upon my detecting and exposing you. I don't pretend\nto be a more moral man than my neighbours, my good Captain; but the\nconfidence of this House, or of any member of this House, is not to be\nabused and undermined while I have eyes and ears. Good day!' said Mr\nCarker, nodding his head.\n\nCaptain Cuttle, looking at him steadily (Mr Carker looked full as\nsteadily at the Captain), went out of the office and left him standing\nastride before the fire, as calm and pleasant as if there were no more\nspots upon his soul than on his pure white linen, and his smooth sleek\nskin.\n\nThe Captain glanced, in passing through the outer counting-house, at\nthe desk where he knew poor Walter had been used to sit, now occupied by\nanother young boy, with a face almost as fresh and hopeful as his on the\nday when they tapped the famous last bottle but one of the old Madeira,\nin the little back parlour. The nation of ideas, thus awakened, did the\nCaptain a great deal of good; it softened him in the very height of his\nanger, and brought the tears into his eyes.\n\nArrived at the wooden Midshipman's again, and sitting down in a corner\nof the dark shop, the Captain's indignation, strong as it was, could\nmake no head against his grief. Passion seemed not only to do wrong and\nviolence to the memory of the dead, but to be infected by death, and\nto droop and decline beside it. All the living knaves and liars in the\nworld, were nothing to the honesty and truth of one dead friend.\n\nThe only thing the honest Captain made out clearly, in this state of\nmind, besides the loss of Walter, was, that with him almost the whole\nworld of Captain Cuttle had been drowned. If he reproached himself\nsometimes, and keenly too, for having ever connived at Walter's innocent\ndeceit, he thought at least as often of the Mr Carker whom no sea could\never render up; and the Mr Dombey, whom he now began to perceive was as\nfar beyond human recall; and the 'Heart's Delight,' with whom he must\nnever foregather again; and the Lovely Peg, that teak-built and trim\nballad, that had gone ashore upon a rock, and split into mere planks\nand beams of rhyme. The Captain sat in the dark shop, thinking of these\nthings, to the entire exclusion of his own injury; and looking with\nas sad an eye upon the ground, as if in contemplation of their actual\nfragments, as they floated past.\n\nBut the Captain was not unmindful, for all that, of such decent and\nrest observances in memory of poor Walter, as he felt within his power.\nRousing himself, and rousing Rob the Grinder (who in the unnatural\ntwilight was fast asleep), the Captain sallied forth with his attendant\nat his heels, and the door-key in his pocket, and repairing to one of\nthose convenient slop-selling establishments of which there is abundant\nchoice at the eastern end of London, purchased on the spot two suits of\nmourning--one for Rob the Grinder, which was immensely too small, and\none for himself, which was immensely too large. He also provided Rob\nwith a species of hat, greatly to be admired for its symmetry and\nusefulness, as well as for a happy blending of the mariner with the\ncoal-heaver; which is usually termed a sou'wester; and which was\nsomething of a novelty in connexion with the instrument business. In\ntheir several garments, which the vendor declared to be such a miracle\nin point of fit as nothing but a rare combination of fortuitous\ncircumstances ever brought about, and the fashion of which was\nunparalleled within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, the Captain and\nGrinder immediately arrayed themselves: presenting a spectacle fraught\nwith wonder to all who beheld it.\n\nIn this altered form, the Captain received Mr Toots. 'I'm took aback,\nmy lad, at present,' said the Captain, 'and will only confirm that there\nill news. Tell the young woman to break it gentle to the young lady,\nand for neither of 'em never to think of me no more--'special, mind you,\nthat is--though I will think of them, when night comes on a hurricane\nand seas is mountains rowling, for which overhaul your Doctor Watts,\nbrother, and when found make a note on.'\n\nThe Captain reserved, until some fitter time, the consideration of Mr\nToots's offer of friendship, and thus dismissed him. Captain Cuttle's\nspirits were so low, in truth, that he half determined, that day, to\ntake no further precautions against surprise from Mrs MacStinger, but to\nabandon himself recklessly to chance, and be indifferent to what\nmight happen. As evening came on, he fell into a better frame of mind,\nhowever; and spoke much of Walter to Rob the Grinder, whose attention\nand fidelity he likewise incidentally commended. Rob did not blush to\nhear the Captain earnest in his praises, but sat staring at him, and\naffecting to snivel with sympathy, and making a feint of being virtuous,\nand treasuring up every word he said (like a young spy as he was) with\nvery promising deceit.\n\nWhen Rob had turned in, and was fast asleep, the Captain trimmed the\ncandle, put on his spectacles--he had felt it appropriate to take to\nspectacles on entering into the Instrument Trade, though his eyes were\nlike a hawk's--and opened the prayer-book at the Burial Service. And\nreading softly to himself, in the little back parlour, and stopping now\nand then to wipe his eyes, the Captain, in a true and simple spirit,\ncommitted Walter's body to the deep.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 33. Contrasts\n\n\nTurn we our eyes upon two homes; not lying side by side, but wide apart,\nthough both within easy range and reach of the great city of London.\n\nThe first is situated in the green and wooded country near Norwood.\nIt is not a mansion; it is of no pretensions as to size; but it is\nbeautifully arranged, and tastefully kept. The lawn, the soft, smooth\nslope, the flower-garden, the clumps of trees where graceful forms of\nash and willow are not wanting, the conservatory, the rustic verandah\nwith sweet-smelling creeping plants entwined about the pillars, the\nsimple exterior of the house, the well-ordered offices, though all upon\nthe diminutive scale proper to a mere cottage, bespeak an amount of\nelegant comfort within, that might serve for a palace. This indication\nis not without warrant; for, within, it is a house of refinement and\nluxury. Rich colours, excellently blended, meet the eye at every turn;\nin the furniture--its proportions admirably devised to suit the shapes\nand sizes of the small rooms; on the walls; upon the floors; tingeing\nand subduing the light that comes in through the odd glass doors and\nwindows here and there. There are a few choice prints and pictures too;\nin quaint nooks and recesses there is no want of books; and there are\ngames of skill and chance set forth on tables--fantastic chessmen, dice,\nbackgammon, cards, and billiards.\n\nAnd yet amidst this opulence of comfort, there is something in the\ngeneral air that is not well. Is it that the carpets and the cushions\nare too soft and noiseless, so that those who move or repose among\nthem seem to act by stealth? Is it that the prints and pictures do not\ncommemorate great thoughts or deeds, or render nature in the Poetry of\nlandscape, hall, or hut, but are of one voluptuous cast--mere shows of\nform and colour--and no more? Is it that the books have all their gold\noutside, and that the titles of the greater part qualify them to be\ncompanions of the prints and pictures? Is it that the completeness and\nthe beauty of the place are here and there belied by an affectation of\nhumility, in some unimportant and inexpensive regard, which is as false\nas the face of the too truly painted portrait hanging yonder, or its\noriginal at breakfast in his easy chair below it? Or is it that, with\nthe daily breath of that original and master of all here, there issues\nforth some subtle portion of himself, which gives a vague expression of\nhimself to everything about him?\n\nIt is Mr Carker the Manager who sits in the easy chair. A gaudy parrot\nin a burnished cage upon the table tears at the wires with her beak,\nand goes walking, upside down, in its dome-top, shaking her house and\nscreeching; but Mr Carker is indifferent to the bird, and looks with a\nmusing smile at a picture on the opposite wall.\n\n'A most extraordinary accidental likeness, certainly,' says he.\n\nPerhaps it is a Juno; perhaps a Potiphar's Wife'; perhaps some scornful\nNymph--according as the Picture Dealers found the market, when they\nchristened it. It is the figure of a woman, supremely handsome, who,\nturning away, but with her face addressed to the spectator, flashes her\nproud glance upon him.\n\nIt is like Edith.\n\nWith a passing gesture of his hand at the picture--what! a menace? No;\nyet something like it. A wave as of triumph? No; yet more like that. An\ninsolent salute wafted from his lips? No; yet like that too--he resumes\nhis breakfast, and calls to the chafing and imprisoned bird, who\ncoming down into a pendant gilded hoop within the cage, like a great\nwedding-ring, swings in it, for his delight.\n\nThe second home is on the other side of London, near to where the busy\ngreat north road of bygone days is silent and almost deserted, except by\nwayfarers who toil along on foot. It is a poor small house, barely\nand sparely furnished, but very clean; and there is even an attempt to\ndecorate it, shown in the homely flowers trained about the porch and in\nthe narrow garden. The neighbourhood in which it stands has as little of\nthe country to recommend it, as it has of the town. It is neither of the\ntown nor country. The former, like the giant in his travelling boots,\nhas made a stride and passed it, and has set his brick-and-mortar heel\na long way in advance; but the intermediate space between the giant's\nfeet, as yet, is only blighted country, and not town; and, here, among\na few tall chimneys belching smoke all day and night, and among the\nbrick-fields and the lanes where turf is cut, and where the fences\ntumble down, and where the dusty nettles grow, and where a scrap or\ntwo of hedge may yet be seen, and where the bird-catcher still comes\noccasionally, though he swears every time to come no more--this second\nhome is to be found.'\n\nShe who inhabits it, is she who left the first in her devotion to an\noutcast brother. She withdrew from that home its redeeming spirit, and\nfrom its master's breast his solitary angel: but though his liking for\nher is gone, after this ungrateful slight as he considers it; and though\nhe abandons her altogether in return, an old idea of her is not quite\nforgotten even by him. Let her flower-garden, in which he never sets his\nfoot, but which is yet maintained, among all his costly alterations, as\nif she had quitted it but yesterday, bear witness!\n\nHarriet Carker has changed since then, and on her beauty there has\nfallen a heavier shade than Time of his unassisted self can cast,\nall-potent as he is--the shadow of anxiety and sorrow, and the daily\nstruggle of a poor existence. But it is beauty still; and still a\ngentle, quiet, and retiring beauty that must be sought out, for it\ncannot vaunt itself; if it could, it would be what it is, no more.\n\nYes. This slight, small, patient figure, neatly dressed in homely\nstuffs, and indicating nothing but the dull, household virtues,\nthat have so little in common with the received idea of heroism and\ngreatness, unless, indeed, any ray of them should shine through the\nlives of the great ones of the earth, when it becomes a constellation\nand is tracked in Heaven straightway--this slight, small, patient\nfigure, leaning on the man still young but worn and grey, is she, his\nsister, who, of all the world, went over to him in his shame and put\nher hand in his, and with a sweet composure and determination, led him\nhopefully upon his barren way.\n\n'It is early, John,' she said. 'Why do you go so early?'\n\n'Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If I have the time to\nspare, I should like, I think--it's a fancy--to walk once by the house\nwhere I took leave of him.'\n\n'I wish I had ever seen or known him, John.'\n\n'It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate.'\n\n'But I could not regret it more, though I had known him. Is not your\nsorrow mine? And if I had, perhaps you would feel that I was a better\ncompanion to you in speaking about him, than I may seem now.'\n\n'My dearest sister! Is there anything within the range of rejoicing or\nregret, in which I am not sure of your companionship?'\n\n'I hope you think not, John, for surely there is nothing!'\n\n'How could you be better to me, or nearer to me then, than you are in\nthis, or anything?' said her brother. 'I feel that you did know him,\nHarriet, and that you shared my feelings towards him.'\n\nShe drew the hand which had been resting on his shoulder, round his\nneck, and answered, with some hesitation:\n\n'No, not quite.'\n\n'True, true!' he said; 'you think I might have done him no harm if I had\nallowed myself to know him better?'\n\n'Think! I know it.'\n\n'Designedly, Heaven knows I would not,' he replied, shaking his head\nmournfully; 'but his reputation was too precious to be perilled by such\nassociation. Whether you share that knowledge, or do not, my dear--'\n\n'I do not,' she said quietly.\n\n'It is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lighter when I think of\nhim for that which made it so much heavier then.' He checked himself in\nhis tone of melancholy, and smiled upon her as he said 'Good-bye!'\n\n'Good-bye, dear John! In the evening, at the old time and place, I shall\nmeet you as usual on your way home. Good-bye.'\n\nThe cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss him, was his home, his\nlife, his universe, and yet it was a portion of his punishment and\ngrief; for in the cloud he saw upon it--though serene and calm as any\nradiant cloud at sunset--and in the constancy and devotion of her life,\nand in the sacrifice she had made of ease, enjoyment, and hope, he saw\nthe bitter fruits of his old crime, for ever ripe and fresh.\n\nShe stood at the door looking after him, with her hands loosely clasped\nin each other, as he made his way over the frowzy and uneven patch of\nground which lay before their house, which had once (and not long ago)\nbeen a pleasant meadow, and was now a very waste, with a disorderly crop\nof beginnings of mean houses, rising out of the rubbish, as if they had\nbeen unskilfully sown there. Whenever he looked back--as once or twice\nhe did--her cordial face shone like a light upon his heart; but when he\nplodded on his way, and saw her not, the tears were in her eyes as she\nstood watching him.\n\nHer pensive form was not long idle at the door. There was daily duty to\ndischarge, and daily work to do--for such commonplace spirits that are\nnot heroic, often work hard with their hands--and Harriet was soon busy\nwith her household tasks. These discharged, and the poor house made\nquite neat and orderly, she counted her little stock of money, with\nan anxious face, and went out thoughtfully to buy some necessaries for\ntheir table, planning and conniving, as she went, how to save. So sordid\nare the lives of such low natures, who are not only not heroic to their\nvalets and waiting-women, but have neither valets nor waiting-women to\nbe heroic to withal!\n\nWhile she was absent, and there was no one in the house, there\napproached it by a different way from that the brother had taken,\na gentleman, a very little past his prime of life perhaps, but of a\nhealthy florid hue, an upright presence, and a bright clear aspect, that\nwas gracious and good-humoured. His eyebrows were still black, and\nso was much of his hair; the sprinkling of grey observable among the\nlatter, graced the former very much, and showed his broad frank brow and\nhonest eyes to great advantage.\n\nAfter knocking once at the door, and obtaining no response, this\ngentleman sat down on a bench in the little porch to wait. A certain\nskilful action of his fingers as he hummed some bars, and beat time\non the seat beside him, seemed to denote the musician; and the\nextraordinary satisfaction he derived from humming something very slow\nand long, which had no recognisable tune, seemed to denote that he was a\nscientific one.\n\nThe gentleman was still twirling a theme, which seemed to go round and\nround and round, and in and in and in, and to involve itself like a\ncorkscrew twirled upon a table, without getting any nearer to anything,\nwhen Harriet appeared returning. He rose up as she advanced, and stood\nwith his head uncovered.\n\n'You are come again, Sir!' she said, faltering.\n\n'I take that liberty,' he answered. 'May I ask for five minutes of your\nleisure?'\n\nAfter a moment's hesitation, she opened the door, and gave him admission\nto the little parlour. The gentleman sat down there, drew his chair\nto the table over against her, and said, in a voice that perfectly\ncorresponded to his appearance, and with a simplicity that was very\nengaging:\n\n'Miss Harriet, you cannot be proud. You signified to me, when I called\nt'other morning, that you were. Pardon me if I say that I looked into\nyour face while you spoke, and that it contradicted you. I look into\nit again,' he added, laying his hand gently on her arm, for an instant,\n'and it contradicts you more and more.'\n\nShe was somewhat confused and agitated, and could make no ready answer.\n\n'It is the mirror of truth,' said her visitor, 'and gentleness. Excuse\nmy trusting to it, and returning.'\n\nHis manner of saying these words, divested them entirely of the\ncharacter of compliments. It was so plain, grave, unaffected, and\nsincere, that she bent her head, as if at once to thank him, and\nacknowledge his sincerity.\n\n'The disparity between our ages,' said the gentleman, 'and the plainness\nof my purpose, empower me, I am glad to think, to speak my mind. That is\nmy mind; and so you see me for the second time.'\n\n'There is a kind of pride, Sir,' she returned, after a moment's silence,\n'or what may be supposed to be pride, which is mere duty. I hope I\ncherish no other.'\n\n'For yourself,' he said.\n\n'For myself.'\n\n'But--pardon me--' suggested the gentleman. 'For your brother John?'\n\n'Proud of his love, I am,' said Harriet, looking full upon her visitor,\nand changing her manner on the instant--not that it was less composed\nand quiet, but that there was a deep impassioned earnestness in it that\nmade the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness, 'and proud of\nhim. Sir, you who strangely know the story of his life, and repeated it\nto me when you were here last--'\n\n'Merely to make my way into your confidence,' interposed the gentleman.\n'For heaven's sake, don't suppose--'\n\n'I am sure,' she said, 'you revived it, in my hearing, with a kind and\ngood purpose. I am quite sure of it.'\n\n'I thank you,' returned her visitor, pressing her hand hastily. 'I am\nmuch obliged to you. You do me justice, I assure you. You were going to\nsay, that I, who know the story of John Carker's life--'\n\n'May think it pride in me,' she continued, 'when I say that I am proud\nof him! I am. You know the time was, when I was not--when I could not\nbe--but that is past. The humility of many years, the uncomplaining\nexpiation, the true repentance, the terrible regret, the pain I know\nhe has even in my affection, which he thinks has cost me dear, though\nHeaven knows I am happy, but for his sorrow I--oh, Sir, after what I\nhave seen, let me conjure you, if you are in any place of power, and are\never wronged, never, for any wrong, inflict a punishment that cannot be\nrecalled; while there is a GOD above us to work changes in the hearts He\nmade.'\n\n'Your brother is an altered man,' returned the gentleman,\ncompassionately. 'I assure you I don't doubt it.'\n\n'He was an altered man when he did wrong,' said Harriet. 'He is an\naltered man again, and is his true self now, believe me, Sir.'\n\n'But we go on,' said her visitor, rubbing his forehead, in an absent\nmanner, with his hand, and then drumming thoughtfully on the table, 'we\ngo on in our clockwork routine, from day to day, and can't make out,\nor follow, these changes. They--they're a metaphysical sort of thing.\nWe--we haven't leisure for it. We--we haven't courage. They're not\ntaught at schools or colleges, and we don't know how to set about it. In\nshort, we are so d----d business-like,' said the gentleman, walking\nto the window, and back, and sitting down again, in a state of extreme\ndissatisfaction and vexation.\n\n'I am sure,' said the gentleman, rubbing his forehead again; and\ndrumming on the table as before, 'I have good reason to believe that\na jog-trot life, the same from day to day, would reconcile one to\nanything. One don't see anything, one don't hear anything, one don't\nknow anything; that's the fact. We go on taking everything for granted,\nand so we go on, until whatever we do, good, bad, or indifferent, we do\nfrom habit. Habit is all I shall have to report, when I am called upon\nto plead to my conscience, on my death-bed. \"Habit,\" says I; \"I was\ndeaf, dumb, blind, and paralytic, to a million things, from habit.\"\n\"Very business-like indeed, Mr What's-your-name,\" says Conscience,\n\"but it won't do here!\"'\n\nThe gentleman got up and walked to the window again and back: seriously\nuneasy, though giving his uneasiness this peculiar expression.\n\n'Miss Harriet,' he said, resuming his chair, 'I wish you would let me\nserve you. Look at me; I ought to look honest, for I know I am so, at\npresent. Do I?'\n\n'Yes,' she answered with a smile.\n\n'I believe every word you have said,' he returned. 'I am full of\nself-reproach that I might have known this and seen this, and known\nyou and seen you, any time these dozen years, and that I never have. I\nhardly know how I ever got here--creature that I am, not only of my own\nhabit, but of other people's! But having done so, let me do something.\nI ask it in all honour and respect. You inspire me with both, in the\nhighest degree. Let me do something.'\n\n'We are contented, Sir.'\n\n'No, no, not quite,' returned the gentleman. 'I think not quite. There\nare some little comforts that might smooth your life, and his. And his!'\nhe repeated, fancying that had made some impression on her. 'I have been\nin the habit of thinking that there was nothing wanting to be done for\nhim; that it was all settled and over; in short, of not thinking at all\nabout it. I am different now. Let me do something for him. You too,'\nsaid the visitor, with careful delicacy, 'have need to watch your health\nclosely, for his sake, and I fear it fails.'\n\n'Whoever you may be, Sir,' answered Harriet, raising her eyes to his\nface, 'I am deeply grateful to you. I feel certain that in all you\nsay, you have no object in the world but kindness to us. But years have\npassed since we began this life; and to take from my brother any part of\nwhat has so endeared him to me, and so proved his better resolution--any\nfragment of the merit of his unassisted, obscure, and forgotten\nreparation--would be to diminish the comfort it will be to him and me,\nwhen that time comes to each of us, of which you spoke just now. I thank\nyou better with these tears than any words. Believe it, pray.'\n\nThe gentleman was moved, and put the hand she held out, to his lips,\nmuch as a tender father might kiss the hand of a dutiful child. But more\nreverently.\n\n'If the day should ever come,' said Harriet, 'when he is restored, in\npart, to the position he lost--'\n\n'Restored!' cried the gentleman, quickly. 'How can that be hoped for? In\nwhose hands does the power of any restoration lie? It is no mistake of\nmine, surely, to suppose that his having gained the priceless blessing\nof his life, is one cause of the animosity shown to him by his brother.'\n\n'You touch upon a subject that is never breathed between us; not even\nbetween us,' said Harriet.\n\n'I beg your forgiveness,' said the visitor. 'I should have known it. I\nentreat you to forget that I have done so, inadvertently. And now, as I\ndare urge no more--as I am not sure that I have a right to do so--though\nHeaven knows, even that doubt may be habit,' said the gentleman, rubbing\nhis head, as despondently as before, 'let me; though a stranger, yet no\nstranger; ask two favours.'\n\n'What are they?' she inquired.\n\n'The first, that if you should see cause to change your resolution, you\nwill suffer me to be as your right hand. My name shall then be at your\nservice; it is useless now, and always insignificant.'\n\n'Our choice of friends,' she answered, smiling faintly, 'is not so\ngreat, that I need any time for consideration. I can promise that.'\n\n'The second, that you will allow me sometimes, say every Monday\nmorning, at nine o'clock--habit again--I must be businesslike,' said the\ngentleman, with a whimsical inclination to quarrel with himself on that\nhead, 'in walking past, to see you at the door or window. I don't ask to\ncome in, as your brother will be gone out at that hour. I don't ask to\nspeak to you. I merely ask to see, for the satisfaction of my own mind,\nthat you are well, and without intrusion to remind you, by the sight of\nme, that you have a friend--an elderly friend, grey-haired already, and\nfast growing greyer--whom you may ever command.'\n\nThe cordial face looked up in his; confided in it; and promised.\n\n'I understand, as before,' said the gentleman, rising, 'that you\npurpose not to mention my visit to John Carker, lest he should be at all\ndistressed by my acquaintance with his history. I am glad of it, for\nit is out of the ordinary course of things, and--habit again!' said the\ngentleman, checking himself impatiently, 'as if there were no better\ncourse than the ordinary course!'\n\nWith that he turned to go, and walking, bareheaded, to the outside\nof the little porch, took leave of her with such a happy mixture of\nunconstrained respect and unaffected interest, as no breeding could have\ntaught, no truth mistrusted, and nothing but a pure and single heart\nexpressed.\n\nMany half-forgotten emotions were awakened in the sister's mind by this\nvisit. It was so very long since any other visitor had crossed their\nthreshold; it was so very long since any voice of apathy had made sad\nmusic in her ears; that the stranger's figure remained present to her,\nhours afterwards, when she sat at the window, plying her needle; and his\nwords seemed newly spoken, again and again. He had touched the spring\nthat opened her whole life; and if she lost him for a short space, it\nwas only among the many shapes of the one great recollection of which\nthat life was made.\n\nMusing and working by turns; now constraining herself to be steady at\nher needle for a long time together, and now letting her work fall,\nunregarded, on her lap, and straying wheresoever her busier thoughts\nled, Harriet Carker found the hours glide by her, and the day steal on.\nThe morning, which had been bright and clear, gradually became overcast;\na sharp wind set in; the rain fell heavily; and a dark mist drooping\nover the distant town, hid it from the view.\n\nShe often looked with compassion, at such a time, upon the stragglers\nwho came wandering into London, by the great highway hard by, and who,\nfootsore and weary, and gazing fearfully at the huge town before them,\nas if foreboding that their misery there would be but as a drop of water\nin the sea, or as a grain of sea-sand on the shore, went shrinking on,\ncowering before the angry weather, and looking as if the very elements\nrejected them. Day after day, such travellers crept past, but always, as\nshe thought, in one direction--always towards the town. Swallowed up in\none phase or other of its immensity, towards which they seemed impelled\nby a desperate fascination, they never returned. Food for the hospitals,\nthe churchyards, the prisons, the river, fever, madness, vice, and\ndeath,--they passed on to the monster, roaring in the distance, and were\nlost.\n\nThe chill wind was howling, and the rain was falling, and the day was\ndarkening moodily, when Harriet, raising her eyes from the work on which\nshe had long since been engaged with unremitting constancy, saw one of\nthese travellers approaching.\n\nA woman. A solitary woman of some thirty years of age; tall;\nwell-formed; handsome; miserably dressed; the soil of many country roads\nin varied weather--dust, chalk, clay, gravel--clotted on her grey cloak\nby the streaming wet; no bonnet on her head, nothing to defend her rich\nblack hair from the rain, but a torn handkerchief; with the fluttering\nends of which, and with her hair, the wind blinded her so that she often\nstopped to push them back, and look upon the way she was going.\n\nShe was in the act of doing so, when Harriet observed her. As her hands,\nparting on her sunburnt forehead, swept across her face, and threw\naside the hindrances that encroached upon it, there was a reckless and\nregardless beauty in it: a dauntless and depraved indifference to more\nthan weather: a carelessness of what was cast upon her bare head from\nHeaven or earth: that, coupled with her misery and loneliness, touched\nthe heart of her fellow-woman. She thought of all that was perverted and\ndebased within her, no less than without: of modest graces of the mind,\nhardened and steeled, like these attractions of the person; of the many\ngifts of the Creator flung to the winds like the wild hair; of all\nthe beautiful ruin upon which the storm was beating and the night was\ncoming.\n\nThinking of this, she did not turn away with a delicate indignation--too\nmany of her own compassionate and tender sex too often do--but pitied\nher.\n\nHer fallen sister came on, looking far before her, trying with her eager\neyes to pierce the mist in which the city was enshrouded, and glancing,\nnow and then, from side to side, with the bewildered--and uncertain\naspect of a stranger. Though her tread was bold and courageous, she was\nfatigued, and after a moment of irresolution,--sat down upon a heap of\nstones; seeking no shelter from the rain, but letting it rain on her as\nit would.\n\nShe was now opposite the house; raising her head after resting it for a\nmoment on both hands, her eyes met those of Harriet.\n\nIn a moment, Harriet was at the door; and the other, rising from her\nseat at her beck, came slowly, and with no conciliatory look, towards\nher.\n\n'Why do you rest in the rain?' said Harriet, gently.\n\n'Because I have no other resting-place,' was the reply.\n\n'But there are many places of shelter near here. This,' referring to the\nlittle porch, 'is better than where you were. You are very welcome to\nrest here.'\n\nThe wanderer looked at her, in doubt and surprise, but without any\nexpression of thankfulness; and sitting down, and taking off one of her\nworn shoes to beat out the fragments of stone and dust that were inside,\nshowed that her foot was cut and bleeding.\n\nHarriet uttering an expression of pity, the traveller looked up with a\ncontemptuous and incredulous smile.\n\n'Why, what's a torn foot to such as me?' she said. 'And what's a torn\nfoot in such as me, to such as you?'\n\n'Come in and wash it,' answered Harriet, mildly, 'and let me give you\nsomething to bind it up.'\n\nThe woman caught her arm, and drawing it before her own eyes, hid them\nagainst it, and wept. Not like a woman, but like a stern man surprised\ninto that weakness; with a violent heaving of her breast, and struggle\nfor recovery, that showed how unusual the emotion was with her.\n\nShe submitted to be led into the house, and, evidently more in gratitude\nthan in any care for herself, washed and bound the injured place.\nHarriet then put before her fragments of her own frugal dinner, and when\nshe had eaten of them, though sparingly, besought her, before resuming\nher road (which she showed her anxiety to do), to dry her clothes before\nthe fire. Again, more in gratitude than with any evidence of concern\nin her own behalf, she sat down in front of it, and unbinding the\nhandkerchief about her head, and letting her thick wet hair fall down\nbelow her waist, sat drying it with the palms of her hands, and looking\nat the blaze.\n\n'I daresay you are thinking,' she said, lifting her head suddenly, 'that\nI used to be handsome, once. I believe I was--I know I was--Look here!'\n\nShe held up her hair roughly with both hands; seizing it as if she would\nhave torn it out; then, threw it down again, and flung it back as though\nit were a heap of serpents.\n\n'Are you a stranger in this place?' asked Harriet.\n\n'A stranger!' she returned, stopping between each short reply, and\nlooking at the fire. 'Yes. Ten or a dozen years a stranger. I have had\nno almanack where I have been. Ten or a dozen years. I don't know this\npart. It's much altered since I went away.'\n\n'Have you been far?'\n\n'Very far. Months upon months over the sea, and far away even then.\nI have been where convicts go,' she added, looking full upon her\nentertainer. 'I have been one myself.'\n\n'Heaven help you and forgive you!' was the gentle answer.\n\n'Ah! Heaven help me and forgive me!' she returned, nodding her head at\nthe fire. 'If man would help some of us a little more, God would forgive\nus all the sooner perhaps.'\n\nBut she was softened by the earnest manner, and the cordial face so full\nof mildness and so free from judgment, of her, and said, less hardily:\n\n'We may be about the same age, you and me. If I am older, it is not\nabove a year or two. Oh think of that!'\n\nShe opened her arms, as though the exhibition of her outward form would\nshow the moral wretch she was; and letting them drop at her sides, hung\ndown her head.\n\n'There is nothing we may not hope to repair; it is never too late to\namend,' said Harriet. 'You are penitent?'\n\n'No,' she answered. 'I am not! I can't be. I am no such thing. Why\nshould I be penitent, and all the world go free? They talk to me of my\npenitence. Who's penitent for the wrongs that have been done to me?'\n\nShe rose up, bound her handkerchief about her head, and turned to move\naway.\n\n'Where are you going?' said Harriet.\n\n'Yonder,' she answered, pointing with her hand. 'To London.'\n\n'Have you any home to go to?'\n\n'I think I have a mother. She's as much a mother, as her dwelling is a\nhome,' she answered with a bitter laugh.\n\n'Take this,' cried Harriet, putting money in her hand. 'Try to do well.\nIt is very little, but for one day it may keep you from harm.'\n\n'Are you married?' said the other, faintly, as she took it.\n\n'No. I live here with my brother. We have not much to spare, or I would\ngive you more.'\n\n'Will you let me kiss you?'\n\nSeeing no scorn or repugnance in her face, the object of her charity\nbent over her as she asked the question, and pressed her lips against\nher cheek. Once more she caught her arm, and covered her eyes with it;\nand then was gone.\n\nGone into the deepening night, and howling wind, and pelting rain;\nurging her way on towards the mist-enshrouded city where the blurred\nlights gleamed; and with her black hair, and disordered head-gear,\nfluttering round her reckless face.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 34. Another Mother and Daughter\n\n\nIn an ugly and dark room, an old woman, ugly and dark too, sat listening\nto the wind and rain, and crouching over a meagre fire. More constant\nto the last-named occupation than the first, she never changed her\nattitude, unless, when any stray drops of rain fell hissing on the\nsmouldering embers, to raise her head with an awakened attention to\nthe whistling and pattering outside, and gradually to let it fall again\nlower and lower and lower as she sunk into a brooding state of thought,\nin which the noises of the night were as indistinctly regarded as is\nthe monotonous rolling of a sea by one who sits in contemplation on its\nshore.\n\nThere was no light in the room save that which the fire afforded.\nGlaring sullenly from time to time like the eye of a fierce beast half\nasleep, it revealed no objects that needed to be jealous of a better\ndisplay. A heap of rags, a heap of bones, a wretched bed, two or three\nmutilated chairs or stools, the black walls and blacker ceiling, were\nall its winking brightness shone upon. As the old woman, with a gigantic\nand distorted image of herself thrown half upon the wall behind her,\nhalf upon the roof above, sat bending over the few loose bricks within\nwhich it was pent, on the damp hearth of the chimney--for there was no\nstove--she looked as if she were watching at some witch's altar for a\nfavourable token; and but that the movement of her chattering jaws and\ntrembling chin was too frequent and too fast for the slow flickering of\nthe fire, it would have seemed an illusion wrought by the light, as\nit came and went, upon a face as motionless as the form to which it\nbelonged.\n\nIf Florence could have stood within the room and looked upon the\noriginal of the shadow thrown upon the wall and roof as it cowered thus\nover the fire, a glance might have sufficed to recall the figure of\nGood Mrs Brown; notwithstanding that her childish recollection of that\nterrible old woman was as grotesque and exaggerated a presentment of the\ntruth, perhaps, as the shadow on the wall. But Florence was not there\nto look on; and Good Mrs Brown remained unrecognised, and sat staring at\nher fire, unobserved.\n\nAttracted by a louder sputtering than usual, as the rain came hissing\ndown the chimney in a little stream, the old woman raised her head,\nimpatiently, to listen afresh. And this time she did not drop it again;\nfor there was a hand upon the door, and a footstep in the room.\n\n'Who's that?' she said, looking over her shoulder.\n\n'One who brings you news, was the answer, in a woman's voice.\n\n'News? Where from?'\n\n'From abroad.'\n\n'From beyond seas?' cried the old woman, starting up.\n\n'Ay, from beyond seas.'\n\nThe old woman raked the fire together, hurriedly, and going close to\nher visitor who had entered, and shut the door, and who now stood in the\nmiddle of the room, put her hand upon the drenched cloak, and turned the\nunresisting figure, so as to have it in the full light of the fire. She\ndid not find what she had expected, whatever that might be; for she let\nthe cloak go again, and uttered a querulous cry of disappointment and\nmisery.\n\n'What is the matter?' asked her visitor.\n\n'Oho! Oho!' cried the old woman, turning her face upward, with a\nterrible howl.\n\n'What is the matter?' asked the visitor again.\n\n'It's not my gal!' cried the old woman, tossing up her arms, and\nclasping her hands above her head. 'Where's my Alice? Where's my\nhandsome daughter? They've been the death of her!'\n\n'They've not been the death of her yet, if your name's Marwood,' said\nthe visitor.\n\n'Have you seen my gal, then?' cried the old woman. 'Has she wrote to\nme?'\n\n'She said you couldn't read,' returned the other.\n\n'No more I can!' exclaimed the old woman, wringing her hands.\n\n'Have you no light here?' said the other, looking round the room.\n\nThe old woman, mumbling and shaking her head, and muttering to herself\nabout her handsome daughter, brought a candle from a cupboard in the\ncorner, and thrusting it into the fire with a trembling hand, lighted it\nwith some difficulty and set it on the table. Its dirty wick burnt dimly\nat first, being choked in its own grease; and when the bleared eyes and\nfailing sight of the old woman could distinguish anything by its light,\nher visitor was sitting with her arms folded, her eyes turned downwards,\nand a handkerchief she had worn upon her head lying on the table by her\nside.\n\n'She sent to me by word of mouth then, my gal, Alice?' mumbled the old\nwoman, after waiting for some moments. 'What did she say?'\n\n'Look,' returned the visitor.\n\nThe old woman repeated the word in a scared uncertain way; and, shading\nher eyes, looked at the speaker, round the room, and at the speaker once\nagain.\n\n'Alice said look again, mother;' and the speaker fixed her eyes upon\nher.\n\nAgain the old woman looked round the room, and at her visitor, and round\nthe room once more. Hastily seizing the candle, and rising from her\nseat, she held it to the visitor's face, uttered a loud cry, set down\nthe light, and fell upon her neck!\n\n'It's my gal! It's my Alice! It's my handsome daughter, living and\ncome back!' screamed the old woman, rocking herself to and fro upon the\nbreast that coldly suffered her embrace. 'It's my gal! It's my Alice!\nIt's my handsome daughter, living and come back!' she screamed again,\ndropping on the floor before her, clasping her knees, laying her head\nagainst them, and still rocking herself to and fro with every frantic\ndemonstration of which her vitality was capable.\n\n'Yes, mother,' returned Alice, stooping forward for a moment and kissing\nher, but endeavouring, even in the act, to disengage herself from her\nembrace. 'I am here, at last. Let go, mother; let go. Get up, and sit in\nyour chair. What good does this do?'\n\n'She's come back harder than she went!' cried the mother, looking up in\nher face, and still holding to her knees. 'She don't care for me! after\nall these years, and all the wretched life I've led!'\n\n'Why, mother!' said Alice, shaking her ragged skirts to detach the old\nwoman from them: 'there are two sides to that. There have been years\nfor me as well as you, and there has been wretchedness for me as well as\nyou. Get up, get up!'\n\nHer mother rose, and cried, and wrung her hands, and stood at a little\ndistance gazing on her. Then she took the candle again, and going round\nher, surveyed her from head to foot, making a low moaning all the time.\nThen she put the candle down, resumed her chair, and beating her hands\ntogether to a kind of weary tune, and rolling herself from side to side,\ncontinued moaning and wailing to herself.\n\nAlice got up, took off her wet cloak, and laid it aside. That done, she\nsat down as before, and with her arms folded, and her eyes gazing at the\nfire, remained silently listening with a contemptuous face to her old\nmother's inarticulate complainings.\n\n'Did you expect to see me return as youthful as I went away, mother?'\nshe said at length, turning her eyes upon the old woman. 'Did you think\na foreign life, like mine, was good for good looks? One would believe\nso, to hear you!'\n\n'It ain't that!' cried the mother. 'She knows it!'\n\n'What is it then?' returned the daughter. 'It had best be something that\ndon't last, mother, or my way out is easier than my way in.'\n\n'Hear that!' exclaimed the mother. 'After all these years she threatens\nto desert me in the moment of her coming back again!'\n\n'I tell you, mother, for the second time, there have been years for me\nas well as you,' said Alice. 'Come back harder? Of course I have come\nback harder. What else did you expect?'\n\n'Harder to me! To her own dear mother!' cried the old woman\n\n'I don't know who began to harden me, if my own dear mother didn't,'\nshe returned, sitting with her folded arms, and knitted brows, and\ncompressed lips as if she were bent on excluding, by force, every\nsofter feeling from her breast. 'Listen, mother, to a word or two. If\nwe understand each other now, we shall not fall out any more, perhaps.\nI went away a girl, and have come back a woman. I went away undutiful\nenough, and have come back no better, you may swear. But have you been\nvery dutiful to me?'\n\n'I!' cried the old woman. 'To my gal! A mother dutiful to her own\nchild!'\n\n'It sounds unnatural, don't it?' returned the daughter, looking coldly\non her with her stern, regardless, hardy, beautiful face; 'but I have\nthought of it sometimes, in the course of my lone years, till I have got\nused to it. I have heard some talk about duty first and last; but it has\nalways been of my duty to other people. I have wondered now and then--to\npass away the time--whether no one ever owed any duty to me.'\n\nHer mother sat mowing, and mumbling, and shaking her head, but\nwhether angrily or remorsefully, or in denial, or only in her physical\ninfirmity, did not appear.\n\n'There was a child called Alice Marwood,' said the daughter, with a\nlaugh, and looking down at herself in terrible derision of herself,\n'born, among poverty and neglect, and nursed in it. Nobody taught her,\nnobody stepped forward to help her, nobody cared for her.'\n\n'Nobody!' echoed the mother, pointing to herself, and striking her\nbreast.\n\n'The only care she knew,' returned the daughter, 'was to be beaten, and\nstinted, and abused sometimes; and she might have done better without\nthat. She lived in homes like this, and in the streets, with a crowd of\nlittle wretches like herself; and yet she brought good looks out of this\nchildhood. So much the worse for her. She had better have been hunted\nand worried to death for ugliness.'\n\n'Go on! go on!' exclaimed the mother.\n\n'I am going on,' returned the daughter. 'There was a girl called Alice\nMarwood. She was handsome. She was taught too late, and taught all\nwrong. She was too well cared for, too well trained, too well helped on,\ntoo much looked after. You were very fond of her--you were better off\nthen. What came to that girl comes to thousands every year. It was only\nruin, and she was born to it.'\n\n'After all these years!' whined the old woman. 'My gal begins with\nthis.'\n\n'She'll soon have ended,' said the daughter. 'There was a criminal\ncalled Alice Marwood--a girl still, but deserted and an outcast. And\nshe was tried, and she was sentenced. And lord, how the gentlemen in the\nCourt talked about it! and how grave the judge was on her duty, and on\nher having perverted the gifts of nature--as if he didn't know better\nthan anybody there, that they had been made curses to her!--and how he\npreached about the strong arm of the Law--so very strong to save her,\nwhen she was an innocent and helpless little wretch!--and how solemn and\nreligious it all was! I have thought of that, many times since, to be\nsure!'\n\nShe folded her arms tightly on her breast, and laughed in a tone that\nmade the howl of the old woman musical.\n\n'So Alice Marwood was transported, mother,' she pursued, 'and was sent\nto learn her duty, where there was twenty times less duty, and more\nwickedness, and wrong, and infamy, than here. And Alice Marwood is come\nback a woman. Such a woman as she ought to be, after all this. In good\ntime, there will be more solemnity, and more fine talk, and more strong\narm, most likely, and there will be an end of her; but the gentlemen\nneedn't be afraid of being thrown out of work. There's crowds of little\nwretches, boy and girl, growing up in any of the streets they live in,\nthat'll keep them to it till they've made their fortunes.'\n\nThe old woman leaned her elbows on the table, and resting her face upon\nher two hands, made a show of being in great distress--or really was,\nperhaps.\n\n'There! I have done, mother,' said the daughter, with a motion of her\nhead, as if in dismissal of the subject. 'I have said enough. Don't let\nyou and I talk of being dutiful, whatever we do. Your childhood was like\nmine, I suppose. So much the worse for both of us. I don't want to blame\nyou, or to defend myself; why should I? That's all over long ago. But\nI am a woman--not a girl, now--and you and I needn't make a show of our\nhistory, like the gentlemen in the Court. We know all about it, well\nenough.'\n\nLost and degraded as she was, there was a beauty in her, both of\nface and form, which, even in its worst expression, could not but be\nrecognised as such by anyone regarding her with the least attention. As\nshe subsided into silence, and her face which had been harshly agitated,\nquieted down; while her dark eyes, fixed upon the fire, exchanged the\nreckless light that had animated them, for one that was softened by\nsomething like sorrow; there shone through all her wayworn misery and\nfatigue, a ray of the departed radiance of the fallen angel.\n\nHer mother, after watching her for some time without speaking, ventured\nto steal her withered hand a little nearer to her across the table; and\nfinding that she permitted this, to touch her face, and smooth her hair.\nWith the feeling, as it seemed, that the old woman was at least sincere\nin this show of interest, Alice made no movement to check her; so,\nadvancing by degrees, she bound up her daughter's hair afresh, took off\nher wet shoes, if they deserved the name, spread something dry upon her\nshoulders, and hovered humbly about her, muttering to herself, as she\nrecognised her old features and expression more and more.\n\n'You are very poor, mother, I see,' said Alice, looking round, when she\nhad sat thus for some time.\n\n'Bitter poor, my deary,' replied the old woman.\n\nShe admired her daughter, and was afraid of her. Perhaps her admiration,\nsuch as it was, had originated long ago, when she first found anything\nthat was beautiful appearing in the midst of the squalid fight of\nher existence. Perhaps her fear was referable, in some sort, to the\nretrospect she had so lately heard. Be this as it might, she stood,\nsubmissively and deferentially, before her child, and inclined her head,\nas if in a pitiful entreaty to be spared any further reproach.\n\n'How have you lived?'\n\n'By begging, my deary.\n\n'And pilfering, mother?'\n\n'Sometimes, Ally--in a very small way. I am old and timid. I have taken\ntrifles from children now and then, my deary, but not often. I have\ntramped about the country, pet, and I know what I know. I have watched.'\n\n'Watched?' returned the daughter, looking at her.\n\n'I have hung about a family, my deary,' said the mother, even more\nhumbly and submissively than before.\n\n'What family?'\n\n'Hush, darling. Don't be angry with me. I did it for the love of you. In\nmemory of my poor gal beyond seas.' She put out her hand deprecatingly,\nand drawing it back again, laid it on her lips.\n\n'Years ago, my deary,' she pursued, glancing timidly at the attentive\nand stem face opposed to her, 'I came across his little child, by\nchance.'\n\n'Whose child?'\n\n'Not his, Alice deary; don't look at me like that; not his. How could it\nbe his? You know he has none.'\n\n'Whose then?' returned the daughter. 'You said his.'\n\n'Hush, Ally; you frighten me, deary. Mr Dombey's--only Mr Dombey's.\nSince then, darling, I have seen them often. I have seen him.'\n\nIn uttering this last word, the old woman shrunk and recoiled, as if\nwith sudden fear that her daughter would strike her. But though the\ndaughter's face was fixed upon her, and expressed the most vehement\npassion, she remained still: except that she clenched her arms tighter\nand tighter within each other, on her bosom, as if to restrain them\nby that means from doing an injury to herself, or someone else, in the\nblind fury of the wrath that suddenly possessed her.\n\n'Little he thought who I was!' said the old woman, shaking her clenched\nhand.\n\n'And little he cared!' muttered her daughter, between her teeth.\n\n'But there we were, said the old woman, 'face to face. I spoke to him,\nand he spoke to me. I sat and watched him as he went away down a long\ngrove of trees: and at every step he took, I cursed him soul and body.'\n\n'He will thrive in spite of that,' returned the daughter disdainfully.\n\n'Ay, he is thriving,' said the mother.\n\nShe held her peace; for the face and form before her were unshaped\nby rage. It seemed as if the bosom would burst with the emotions that\nstrove within it. The effort that constrained and held it pent up, was\nno less formidable than the rage itself: no less bespeaking the violent\nand dangerous character of the woman who made it. But it succeeded, and\nshe asked, after a silence:\n\n'Is he married?'\n\n'No, deary,' said the mother.\n\n'Going to be?'\n\n'Not that I know of, deary. But his master and friend is married. Oh, we\nmay give him joy! We may give 'em all joy!' cried the old woman, hugging\nherself with her lean arms in her exultation. 'Nothing but joy to us\nwill come of that marriage. Mind me!'\n\nThe daughter looked at her for an explanation.\n\n'But you are wet and tired; hungry and thirsty,' said the old woman,\nhobbling to the cupboard; 'and there's little here, and little'--diving\ndown into her pocket, and jingling a few half--pence on the\ntable--'little here. Have you any money, Alice, deary?'\n\nThe covetous, sharp, eager face, with which she asked the question and\nlooked on, as her daughter took out of her bosom the little gift she had\nso lately received, told almost as much of the history of this parent\nand child as the child herself had told in words.\n\n'Is that all?' said the mother.\n\n'I have no more. I should not have this, but for charity.'\n\n'But for charity, eh, deary?' said the old woman, bending greedily over\nthe table to look at the money, which she appeared distrustful of her\ndaughter's still retaining in her hand, and gazing on. 'Humph! six and\nsix is twelve, and six eighteen--so--we must make the most of it. I'll\ngo buy something to eat and drink.'\n\nWith greater alacrity than might have been expected in one of her\nappearance--for age and misery seemed to have made her as decrepit as\nugly--she began to occupy her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet on\nher head, and folding a torn shawl about herself: still eyeing the money\nin her daughter's hand, with the same sharp desire.\n\n'What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother?' asked the\ndaughter. 'You have not told me that.'\n\n'The joy,' she replied, attiring herself, with fumbling fingers, 'of no\nlove at all, and much pride and hate, my deary. The joy of confusion and\nstrife among 'em, proud as they are, and of danger--danger, Alice!'\n\n'What danger?'\n\n'I have seen what I have seen. I know what I know!' chuckled the mother.\n'Let some look to it. Let some be upon their guard. My gal may keep good\ncompany yet!'\n\nThen, seeing that in the wondering earnestness with which her daughter\nregarded her, her hand involuntarily closed upon the money, the old\nwoman made more speed to secure it, and hurriedly added, 'but I'll go\nbuy something; I'll go buy something.'\n\nAs she stood with her hand stretched out before her daughter, her\ndaughter, glancing again at the money, put it to her lips before parting\nwith it.\n\n'What, Ally! Do you kiss it?' chuckled the old woman. 'That's like me--I\noften do. Oh, it's so good to us!' squeezing her own tarnished halfpence\nup to her bag of a throat, 'so good to us in everything but not coming\nin heaps!'\n\n'I kiss it, mother,' said the daughter, 'or I did then--I don't know\nthat I ever did before--for the giver's sake.'\n\n'The giver, eh, deary?' retorted the old woman, whose dimmed eyes\nglistened as she took it. 'Ay! I'll kiss it for the giver's sake, too,\nwhen the giver can make it go farther. But I'll go spend it, deary. I'll\nbe back directly.'\n\n'You seem to say you know a great deal, mother,' said the daughter,\nfollowing her to the door with her eyes. 'You have grown very wise since\nwe parted.'\n\n'Know!' croaked the old woman, coming back a step or two, 'I know more\nthan you think I know more than he thinks, deary, as I'll tell you by\nand bye. I know all.'\n\nThe daughter smiled incredulously.\n\n'I know of his brother, Alice,' said the old woman, stretching out her\nneck with a leer of malice absolutely frightful, 'who might have been\nwhere you have been--for stealing money--and who lives with his sister,\nover yonder, by the north road out of London.'\n\n'Where?'\n\n'By the north road out of London, deary. You shall see the house if you\nlike. It ain't much to boast of, genteel as his own is. No, no, no,'\ncried the old woman, shaking her head and laughing; for her daughter had\nstarted up, 'not now; it's too far off; it's by the milestone, where the\nstones are heaped;--to-morrow, deary, if it's fine, and you are in the\nhumour. But I'll go spend--'\n\n'Stop!' and the daughter flung herself upon her, with her former passion\nraging like a fire. 'The sister is a fair-faced Devil, with brown hair?'\n\nThe old woman, amazed and terrified, nodded her head.\n\n'I see the shadow of him in her face! It's a red house standing by\nitself. Before the door there is a small green porch.'\n\nAgain the old woman nodded.\n\n'In which I sat to-day! Give me back the money.'\n\n'Alice! Deary!'\n\n'Give me back the money, or you'll be hurt.'\n\nShe forced it from the old woman's hand as she spoke, and utterly\nindifferent to her complainings and entreaties, threw on the garments\nshe had taken off, and hurried out, with headlong speed.\n\nThe mother followed, limping after her as she could, and expostulating\nwith no more effect upon her than upon the wind and rain and darkness\nthat encompassed them. Obdurate and fierce in her own purpose, and\nindifferent to all besides, the daughter defied the weather and the\ndistance, as if she had known no travel or fatigue, and made for the\nhouse where she had been relieved. After some quarter of an hour's\nwalking, the old woman, spent and out of breath, ventured to hold by\nher skirts; but she ventured no more, and they travelled on in silence\nthrough the wet and gloom. If the mother now and then uttered a word of\ncomplaint, she stifled it lest her daughter should break away from her\nand leave her behind; and the daughter was dumb.\n\nIt was within an hour or so of midnight, when they left the regular\nstreets behind them, and entered on the deeper gloom of that neutral\nground where the house was situated. The town lay in the distance, lurid\nand lowering; the bleak wind howled over the open space; all around was\nblack, wild, desolate.\n\n'This is a fit place for me!' said the daughter, stopping to look back.\n'I thought so, when I was here before, to-day.'\n\n'Alice, my deary,' cried the mother, pulling her gently by the skirt.\n'Alice!'\n\n'What now, mother?'\n\n'Don't give the money back, my darling; please don't. We can't afford\nit. We want supper, deary. Money is money, whoever gives it. Say what\nyou will, but keep the money.'\n\n'See there!' was all the daughter's answer. 'That is the house I mean.\nIs that it?'\n\nThe old woman nodded in the affirmative; and a few more paces brought\nthem to the threshold. There was the light of fire and candle in the\nroom where Alice had sat to dry her clothes; and on her knocking at the\ndoor, John Carker appeared from that room.\n\nHe was surprised to see such visitors at such an hour, and asked Alice\nwhat she wanted.\n\n'I want your sister,' she said. 'The woman who gave me money to-day.'\n\nAt the sound of her raised voice, Harriet came out.\n\n'Oh!' said Alice. 'You are here! Do you remember me?'\n\n'Yes,' she answered, wondering.\n\nThe face that had humbled itself before her, looked on her now with such\ninvincible hatred and defiance; and the hand that had gently touched\nher arm, was clenched with such a show of evil purpose, as if it would\ngladly strangle her; that she drew close to her brother for protection.\n\n'That I could speak with you, and not know you! That I could come near\nyou, and not feel what blood was running in your veins, by the tingling\nof my own!' said Alice, with a menacing gesture.\n\n'What do you mean? What have I done?'\n\n'Done!' returned the other. 'You have sat me by your fire; you have\ngiven me food and money; you have bestowed your compassion on me! You!\nwhose name I spit upon!'\n\nThe old woman, with a malevolence that made her ugliness quite awful,\nshook her withered hand at the brother and sister in confirmation of her\ndaughter, but plucked her by the skirts again, nevertheless, imploring\nher to keep the money.\n\n'If I dropped a tear upon your hand, may it wither it up! If I spoke a\ngentle word in your hearing, may it deafen you! If I touched you with my\nlips, may the touch be poison to you! A curse upon this roof that gave\nme shelter! Sorrow and shame upon your head! Ruin upon all belonging to\nyou!'\n\nAs she said the words, she threw the money down upon the ground, and\nspurned it with her foot.\n\n'I tread it in the dust: I wouldn't take it if it paved my way to\nHeaven! I would the bleeding foot that brought me here to-day, had\nrotted off, before it led me to your house!'\n\nHarriet, pale and trembling, restrained her brother, and suffered her to\ngo on uninterrupted.\n\n'It was well that I should be pitied and forgiven by you, or anyone of\nyour name, in the first hour of my return! It was well that you should\nact the kind good lady to me! I'll thank you when I die; I'll pray for\nyou, and all your race, you may be sure!'\n\nWith a fierce action of her hand, as if she sprinkled hatred on\nthe ground, and with it devoted those who were standing there to\ndestruction, she looked up once at the black sky, and strode out into\nthe wild night.\n\nThe mother, who had plucked at her skirts again and again in vain, and\nhad eyed the money lying on the threshold with an absorbing greed that\nseemed to concentrate her faculties upon it, would have prowled about,\nuntil the house was dark, and then groped in the mire on the chance of\nrepossessing herself of it. But the daughter drew her away, and they\nset forth, straight, on their return to their dwelling; the old woman\nwhimpering and bemoaning their loss upon the road, and fretfully\nbewailing, as openly as she dared, the undutiful conduct of her handsome\ngirl in depriving her of a supper, on the very first night of their\nreunion.\n\nSupperless to bed she went, saving for a few coarse fragments; and\nthose she sat mumbling and munching over a scrap of fire, long after her\nundutiful daughter lay asleep.\n\n\nWere this miserable mother, and this miserable daughter, only the\nreduction to their lowest grade, of certain social vices sometimes\nprevailing higher up? In this round world of many circles within\ncircles, do we make a weary journey from the high grade to the low, to\nfind at last that they lie close together, that the two extremes touch,\nand that our journey's end is but our starting-place? Allowing for great\ndifference of stuff and texture, was the pattern of this woof repeated\namong gentle blood at all?\n\nSay, Edith Dombey! And Cleopatra, best of mothers, let us have your\ntestimony!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 35. The Happy Pair\n\n\nThe dark blot on the street is gone. Mr Dombey's mansion, if it be a gap\namong the other houses any longer, is only so because it is not to be\nvied with in its brightness, and haughtily casts them off. The saying\nis, that home is home, be it never so homely. If it hold good in the\nopposite contingency, and home is home be it never so stately, what an\naltar to the Household Gods is raised up here!\n\nLights are sparkling in the windows this evening, and the ruddy glow\nof fires is warm and bright upon the hangings and soft carpets, and the\ndinner waits to be served, and the dinner-table is handsomely set forth,\nthough only for four persons, and the side board is cumbrous with plate.\nIt is the first time that the house has been arranged for occupation\nsince its late changes, and the happy pair are looked for every minute.\n\nOnly second to the wedding morning, in the interest and expectation it\nengenders among the household, is this evening of the coming home.\nMrs Perch is in the kitchen taking tea; and has made the tour of\nthe establishment, and priced the silks and damasks by the yard, and\nexhausted every interjection in the dictionary and out of it expressive\nof admiration and wonder. The upholsterer's foreman, who has left\nhis hat, with a pocket-handkerchief in it, both smelling strongly\nof varnish, under a chair in the hall, lurks about the house, gazing\nupwards at the cornices, and downward at the carpets, and occasionally,\nin a silent transport of enjoyment, taking a rule out of his pocket, and\nskirmishingly measuring expensive objects, with unutterable feelings.\nCook is in high spirits, and says give her a place where there's plenty\nof company (as she'll bet you sixpence there will be now), for she is\nof a lively disposition, and she always was from a child, and she don't\nmind who knows it; which sentiment elicits from the breast of Mrs Perch\na responsive murmur of support and approbation. All the housemaid hopes\nis, happiness for 'em--but marriage is a lottery, and the more she\nthinks about it, the more she feels the independence and the safety of\na single life. Mr Towlinson is saturnine and grim, and says that's his\nopinion too, and give him War besides, and down with the French--for\nthis young man has a general impression that every foreigner is a\nFrenchman, and must be by the laws of nature.\n\nAt each new sound of wheels, they all stop, whatever they are saying,\nand listen; and more than once there is a general starting up and a cry\nof 'Here they are!' But here they are not yet; and Cook begins to mourn\nover the dinner, which has been put back twice, and the upholsterer's\nforeman still goes lurking about the rooms, undisturbed in his blissful\nreverie!\n\nFlorence is ready to receive her father and her new Mama Whether the\nemotions that are throbbing in her breast originate in pleasure or in\npain, she hardly knows. But the fluttering heart sends added colour to\nher cheeks, and brightness to her eyes; and they say downstairs, drawing\ntheir heads together--for they always speak softly when they speak of\nher--how beautiful Miss Florence looks to-night, and what a sweet young\nlady she has grown, poor dear! A pause succeeds; and then Cook, feeling,\nas president, that her sentiments are waited for, wonders whether--and\nthere stops. The housemaid wonders too, and so does Mrs Perch, who has\nthe happy social faculty of always wondering when other people wonder,\nwithout being at all particular what she wonders at. Mr Towlinson, who\nnow descries an opportunity of bringing down the spirits of the ladies\nto his own level, says wait and see; he wishes some people were well\nout of this. Cook leads a sigh then, and a murmur of 'Ah, it's a\nstrange world, it is indeed!' and when it has gone round the table, adds\npersuasively, 'but Miss Florence can't well be the worse for any change,\nTom.' Mr Towlinson's rejoinder, pregnant with frightful meaning, is 'Oh,\ncan't she though!' and sensible that a mere man can scarcely be more\nprophetic, or improve upon that, he holds his peace.\n\nMrs Skewton, prepared to greet her darling daughter and dear son-in-law\nwith open arms, is appropriately attired for that purpose in a very\nyouthful costume, with short sleeves. At present, however, her ripe\ncharms are blooming in the shade of her own apartments, whence she had\nnot emerged since she took possession of them a few hours ago, and where\nshe is fast growing fretful, on account of the postponement of dinner.\nThe maid who ought to be a skeleton, but is in truth a buxom damsel, is,\non the other hand, in a most amiable state: considering her quarterly\nstipend much safer than heretofore, and foreseeing a great improvement\nin her board and lodging.\n\nWhere are the happy pair, for whom this brave home is waiting? Do\nsteam, tide, wind, and horses, all abate their speed, to linger on such\nhappiness? Does the swarm of loves and graces hovering about them retard\ntheir progress by its numbers? Are there so many flowers in their\nhappy path, that they can scarcely move along, without entanglement in\nthornless roses, and sweetest briar?\n\nThey are here at last! The noise of wheels is heard, grows louder, and\na carriage drives up to the door! A thundering knock from the obnoxious\nforeigner anticipates the rush of Mr Towlinson and party to open it; and\nMr Dombey and his bride alight, and walk in arm in arm.\n\n'My sweetest Edith!' cries an agitated voice upon the stairs. 'My\ndearest Dombey!' and the short sleeves wreath themselves about the happy\ncouple in turn, and embrace them.\n\nFlorence had come down to the hall too, but did not advance: reserving\nher timid welcome until these nearer and dearer transports should\nsubside. But the eyes of Edith sought her out, upon the threshold; and\ndismissing her sensitive parent with a slight kiss on the cheek, she\nhurried on to Florence and embraced her.\n\n'How do you do, Florence?' said Mr Dombey, putting out his hand.\n\nAs Florence, trembling, raised it to her lips, she met his glance. The\nlook was cold and distant enough, but it stirred her heart to think that\nshe observed in it something more of interest than he had ever\nshown before. It even expressed a kind of faint surprise, and not a\ndisagreeable surprise, at sight of her. She dared not raise her eyes\nto his any more; but she felt that he looked at her once again, and not\nless favourably. Oh what a thrill of joy shot through her, awakened\nby even this intangible and baseless confirmation of her hope that she\nwould learn to win him, through her new and beautiful Mama!\n\n'You will not be long dressing, Mrs Dombey, I presume?' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'I shall be ready immediately.'\n\n'Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour.'\n\nWith that Mr Dombey stalked away to his own dressing-room, and Mrs\nDombey went upstairs to hers. Mrs Skewton and Florence repaired to the\ndrawing-room, where that excellent mother considered it incumbent on her\nto shed a few irrepressible tears, supposed to be forced from her by her\ndaughter's felicity; and which she was still drying, very gingerly, with\na laced corner of her pocket-handkerchief, when her son-in-law appeared.\n\n'And how, my dearest Dombey, did you find that delightfullest of cities,\nParis?' she asked, subduing her emotion.\n\n'It was cold,' returned Mr Dombey.\n\n'Gay as ever,' said Mrs Skewton, 'of course.\n\n'Not particularly. I thought it dull,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Fie, my dearest Dombey!' archly; 'dull!'\n\n'It made that impression upon me, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with grave\npoliteness. 'I believe Mrs Dombey found it dull too. She mentioned once\nor twice that she thought it so.'\n\n'Why, you naughty girl!' cried Mrs Skewton, rallying her dear child,\nwho now entered, 'what dreadfully heretical things have you been saying\nabout Paris?'\n\nEdith raised her eyebrows with an air of weariness; and passing the\nfolding-doors which were thrown open to display the suite of rooms in\ntheir new and handsome garniture, and barely glancing at them as she\npassed, sat down by Florence.\n\n'My dear Dombey,' said Mrs Skewton, 'how charmingly these people have\ncarried out every idea that we hinted. They have made a perfect palace\nof the house, positively.'\n\n'It is handsome,' said Mr Dombey, looking round. 'I directed that no\nexpense should be spared; and all that money could do, has been done, I\nbelieve.'\n\n'And what can it not do, dear Dombey?' observed Cleopatra.\n\n'It is powerful, Madam,' said Mr Dombey.\n\nHe looked in his solemn way towards his wife, but not a word said she.\n\n'I hope, Mrs Dombey,' addressing her after a moment's silence, with\nespecial distinctness; 'that these alterations meet with your approval?'\n\n'They are as handsome as they can be,' she returned, with haughty\ncarelessness. 'They should be so, of course. And I suppose they are.'\n\nAn expression of scorn was habitual to the proud face, and seemed\ninseparable from it; but the contempt with which it received any appeal\nto admiration, respect, or consideration on the ground of his riches,\nno matter how slight or ordinary in itself, was a new and different\nexpression, unequalled in intensity by any other of which it was\ncapable. Whether Mr Dombey, wrapped in his own greatness, was at all\naware of this, or no, there had not been wanting opportunities already\nfor his complete enlightenment; and at that moment it might have been\neffected by the one glance of the dark eye that lighted on him, after it\nhad rapidly and scornfully surveyed the theme of his self-glorification.\nHe might have read in that one glance that nothing that his wealth could\ndo, though it were increased ten thousand fold, could win him for its\nown sake, one look of softened recognition from the defiant woman,\nlinked to him, but arrayed with her whole soul against him. He might\nhave read in that one glance that even for its sordid and mercenary\ninfluence upon herself, she spurned it, while she claimed its utmost\npower as her right, her bargain--as the base and worthless recompense\nfor which she had become his wife. He might have read in it that, ever\nbaring her own head for the lightning of her own contempt and pride to\nstrike, the most innocent allusion to the power of his riches degraded\nher anew, sunk her deeper in her own respect, and made the blight and\nwaste within her more complete.\n\nBut dinner was announced, and Mr Dombey led down Cleopatra; Edith and\nhis daughter following. Sweeping past the gold and silver demonstration\non the sideboard as if it were heaped-up dirt, and deigning to bestow no\nlook upon the elegancies around her, she took her place at his board for\nthe first time, and sat, like a statue, at the feast.\n\nMr Dombey, being a good deal in the statue way himself, was well enough\npleased to see his handsome wife immovable and proud and cold. Her\ndeportment being always elegant and graceful, this as a general\nbehaviour was agreeable and congenial to him. Presiding, therefore, with\nhis accustomed dignity, and not at all reflecting on his wife by any\nwarmth or hilarity of his own, he performed his share of the honours of\nthe table with a cool satisfaction; and the installation dinner, though\nnot regarded downstairs as a great success, or very promising beginning,\npassed off, above, in a sufficiently polite, genteel, and frosty manner.\n\nSoon after tea, Mrs Skewton, who affected to be quite overcome and worn\nout by her emotions of happiness, arising in the contemplation of her\ndear child united to the man of her heart, but who, there is reason to\nsuppose, found this family party somewhat dull, as she yawned for one\nhour continually behind her fan, retired to bed. Edith, also, silently\nwithdrew and came back no more. Thus, it happened that Florence, who\nhad been upstairs to have some conversation with Diogenes, returning to\nthe drawing-room with her little work-basket, found no one there but her\nfather, who was walking to and fro, in dreary magnificence.\n\n'I beg your pardon. Shall I go away, Papa?' said Florence faintly,\nhesitating at the door.\n\n'No,' returned Mr Dombey, looking round over his shoulder; 'you can come\nand go here, Florence, as you please. This is not my private room.'\n\nFlorence entered, and sat down at a distant little table with her work:\nfinding herself for the first time in her life--for the very first time\nwithin her memory from her infancy to that hour--alone with her father,\nas his companion. She, his natural companion, his only child, who in her\nlonely life and grief had known the suffering of a breaking heart; who,\nin her rejected love, had never breathed his name to God at night, but\nwith a tearful blessing, heavier on him than a curse; who had prayed\nto die young, so she might only die in his arms; who had, all through,\nrepaid the agony of slight and coldness, and dislike, with patient\nunexacting love, excusing him, and pleading for him, like his better\nangel!\n\nShe trembled, and her eyes were dim. His figure seemed to grow in height\nand bulk before her as he paced the room: now it was all blurred and\nindistinct; now clear again, and plain; and now she seemed to think that\nthis had happened, just the same, a multitude of years ago. She yearned\ntowards him, and yet shrunk from his approach. Unnatural emotion in a\nchild, innocent of wrong! Unnatural the hand that had directed the sharp\nplough, which furrowed up her gentle nature for the sowing of its seeds!\n\nBent upon not distressing or offending him by her distress, Florence\ncontrolled herself, and sat quietly at her work. After a few more turns\nacross and across the room, he left off pacing it; and withdrawing\ninto a shadowy corner at some distance, where there was an easy chair,\ncovered his head with a handkerchief, and composed himself to sleep.\n\nIt was enough for Florence to sit there watching him; turning her eyes\ntowards his chair from time to time; watching him with her thoughts,\nwhen her face was intent upon her work; and sorrowfully glad to think\nthat he could sleep, while she was there, and that he was not made\nrestless by her strange and long-forbidden presence.\n\nWhat would have been her thoughts if she had known that he was steadily\nregarding her; that the veil upon his face, by accident or by design,\nwas so adjusted that his sight was free, and that it never wandered\nfrom her face face an instant. That when she looked towards him, in the\nobscure dark corner, her speaking eyes, more earnest and pathetic\nin their voiceless speech than all the orators of all the world, and\nimpeaching him more nearly in their mute address, met his, and did not\nknow it! That when she bent her head again over her work, he drew\nhis breath more easily, but with the same attention looked upon her\nstill--upon her white brow and her falling hair, and busy hands; and\nonce attracted, seemed to have no power to turn his eyes away!\n\nAnd what were his thoughts meanwhile? With what emotions did he prolong\nthe attentive gaze covertly directed on his unknown daughter? Was there\nreproach to him in the quiet figure and the mild eyes? Had he begun to\nher disregarded claims and did they touch him home at last, and waken\nhim to some sense of his cruel injustice?\n\nThere are yielding moments in the lives of the sternest and harshest\nmen, though such men often keep their secret well. The sight of her in\nher beauty, almost changed into a woman without his knowledge, may have\nstruck out some such moments even in his life of pride. Some passing\nthought that he had had a happy home within his reach--had had a\nhousehold spirit bending at has feet--had overlooked it in his\nstiffnecked sullen arrogance, and wandered away and lost himself, may\nhave engendered them. Some simple eloquence distinctly heard, though\nonly uttered in her eyes, unconscious that he read them as 'By the\ndeath-beds I have tended, by the childhood I have suffered, by our\nmeeting in this dreary house at midnight, by the cry wrung from me in\nthe anguish of my heart, oh, father, turn to me and seek a refuge in my\nlove before it is too late!' may have arrested them. Meaner and lower\nthoughts, as that his dead boy was now superseded by new ties, and he\ncould forgive the having been supplanted in his affection, may have\noccasioned them. The mere association of her as an ornament, with all\nthe ornament and pomp about him, may have been sufficient. But as he\nlooked, he softened to her, more and more. As he looked, she became\nblended with the child he had loved, and he could hardly separate the\ntwo. As he looked, he saw her for an instant by a clearer and a brighter\nlight, not bending over that child's pillow as his rival--monstrous\nthought--but as the spirit of his home, and in the action tending\nhimself no less, as he sat once more with his bowed-down head upon his\nhand at the foot of the little bed. He felt inclined to speak to her,\nand call her to him. The words 'Florence, come here!' were rising to his\nlips--but slowly and with difficulty, they were so very strange--when\nthey were checked and stifled by a footstep on the stair.\n\nIt was his wife's. She had exchanged her dinner dress for a loose robe,\nand unbound her hair, which fell freely about her neck. But this was not\nthe change in her that startled him.\n\n'Florence, dear,' she said, 'I have been looking for you everywhere.'\n\nAs she sat down by the side of Florence, she stooped and kissed her\nhand. He hardly knew his wife. She was so changed. It was not merely\nthat her smile was new to him--though that he had never seen; but her\nmanner, the tone of her voice, the light of her eyes, the interest, and\nconfidence, and winning wish to please, expressed in all-this was not\nEdith.\n\n'Softly, dear Mama. Papa is asleep.'\n\nIt was Edith now. She looked towards the corner where he was, and he\nknew that face and manner very well.\n\n'I scarcely thought you could be here, Florence.'\n\nAgain, how altered and how softened, in an instant!\n\n'I left here early,' pursued Edith, 'purposely to sit upstairs and talk\nwith you. But, going to your room, I found my bird was flown, and I have\nbeen waiting there ever since, expecting its return.\n\nIf it had been a bird, indeed, she could not have taken it more tenderly\nand gently to her breast, than she did Florence.\n\n'Come, dear!'\n\n'Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, when he wakes,' hesitated\nFlorence.\n\n'Do you think he will, Florence?' said Edith, looking full upon her.\n\nFlorence drooped her head, and rose, and put up her work-basket Edith\ndrew her hand through her arm, and they went out of the room like\nsisters. Her very step was different and new to him, Mr Dombey thought,\nas his eyes followed her to the door.\n\nHe sat in his shadowy corner so long, that the church clocks struck the\nhour three times before he moved that night. All that while his face was\nstill intent upon the spot where Florence had been seated. The room grew\ndarker, as the candles waned and went out; but a darkness gathered on\nhis face, exceeding any that the night could cast, and rested there.\n\nFlorence and Edith, seated before the fire in the remote room where\nlittle Paul had died, talked together for a long time. Diogenes, who was\nof the party, had at first objected to the admission of Edith, and,\neven in deference to his mistress's wish, had only permitted it under\ngrowling protest. But, emerging by little and little from the ante-room,\nwhither he had retired in dudgeon, he soon appeared to comprehend, that\nwith the most amiable intentions he had made one of those mistakes which\nwill occasionally arise in the best-regulated dogs' minds; as a friendly\napology for which he stuck himself up on end between the two, in a very\nhot place in front of the fire, and sat panting at it, with his tongue\nout, and a most imbecile expression of countenance, listening to the\nconversation.\n\nIt turned, at first, on Florence's books and favourite pursuits, and on\nthe manner in which she had beguiled the interval since the marriage.\nThe last theme opened up to her a subject which lay very near her heart,\nand she said, with the tears starting to her eyes:\n\n'Oh, Mama! I have had a great sorrow since that day.'\n\n'You a great sorrow, Florence!'\n\n'Yes. Poor Walter is drowned.'\n\nFlorence spread her hands before her face, and wept with all her heart.\nMany as were the secret tears which Walter's fate had cost her, they\nflowed yet, when she thought or spoke of him.\n\n'But tell me, dear,' said Edith, soothing her. 'Who was Walter? What was\nhe to you?'\n\n'He was my brother, Mama. After dear Paul died, we said we would be\nbrother and sister. I had known him a long time--from a little child. He\nknew Paul, who liked him very much; Paul said, almost at the last, \"Take\ncare of Walter, dear Papa! I was fond of him!\" Walter had been brought\nin to see him, and was there then--in this room.'\n\n'And did he take care of Walter?' inquired Edith, sternly.\n\n'Papa? He appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in shipwreck on his\nvoyage,' said Florence, sobbing.\n\n'Does he know that he is dead?' asked Edith.\n\n'I cannot tell, Mama. I have no means of knowing. Dear Mama!' cried\nFlorence, clinging to her as for help, and hiding her face upon her\nbosom, 'I know that you have seen--'\n\n'Stay! Stop, Florence.' Edith turned so pale, and spoke so earnestly,\nthat Florence did not need her restraining hand upon her lips. 'Tell me\nall about Walter first; let me understand this history all through.'\n\nFlorence related it, and everything belonging to it, even down to the\nfriendship of Mr Toots, of whom she could hardly speak in her distress\nwithout a tearful smile, although she was deeply grateful to him. When\nshe had concluded her account, to the whole of which Edith, holding her\nhand, listened with close attention, and when a silence had succeeded,\nEdith said:\n\n'What is it that you know I have seen, Florence?'\n\n'That I am not,' said Florence, with the same mute appeal, and the same\nquick concealment of her face as before, 'that I am not a favourite\nchild, Mama. I never have been. I have never known how to be. I have\nmissed the way, and had no one to show it to me. Oh, let me learn from\nyou how to become dearer to Papa Teach me! you, who can so well!' and\nclinging closer to her, with some broken fervent words of gratitude and\nendearment, Florence, relieved of her sad secret, wept long, but not as\npainfully as of yore, within the encircling arms of her new mother.\n\nPale even to her lips, and with a face that strove for composure until\nits proud beauty was as fixed as death, Edith looked down upon the\nweeping girl, and once kissed her. Then gradually disengaging herself,\nand putting Florence away, she said, stately, and quiet as a marble\nimage, and in a voice that deepened as she spoke, but had no other token\nof emotion in it:\n\n'Florence, you do not know me! Heaven forbid that you should learn from\nme!'\n\n'Not learn from you?' repeated Florence, in surprise.\n\n'That I should teach you how to love, or be loved, Heaven forbid!' said\nEdith. 'If you could teach me, that were better; but it is too late. You\nare dear to me, Florence. I did not think that anything could ever be so\ndear to me, as you are in this little time.'\n\nShe saw that Florence would have spoken here, so checked her with her\nhand, and went on.\n\n'I will be your true friend always. I will cherish you, as much, if not\nas well as anyone in this world could. You may trust in me--I know it\nand I say it, dear,--with the whole confidence even of your pure heart.\nThere are hosts of women whom he might have married, better and truer in\nall other respects than I am, Florence; but there is not one who could\ncome here, his wife, whose heart could beat with greater truth to you\nthan mine does.'\n\n'I know it, dear Mama!' cried Florence. 'From that first most happy day\nI have known it.'\n\n'Most happy day!' Edith seemed to repeat the words involuntarily, and\nwent on. 'Though the merit is not mine, for I thought little of you\nuntil I saw you, let the undeserved reward be mine in your trust and\nlove. And in this--in this, Florence; on the first night of my taking up\nmy abode here; I am led on as it is best I should be, to say it for the\nfirst and last time.'\n\nFlorence, without knowing why, felt almost afraid to hear her proceed,\nbut kept her eyes riveted on the beautiful face so fixed upon her own.\n\n'Never seek to find in me,' said Edith, laying her hand upon her breast,\n'what is not here. Never if you can help it, Florence, fall off from me\nbecause it is not here. Little by little you will know me better, and\nthe time will come when you will know me, as I know myself. Then, be as\nlenient to me as you can, and do not turn to bitterness the only sweet\nremembrance I shall have.'\n\nThe tears that were visible in her eyes as she kept them fixed on\nFlorence, showed that the composed face was but as a handsome mask; but\nshe preserved it, and continued:\n\n'I have seen what you say, and know how true it is. But believe me--you\nwill soon, if you cannot now--there is no one on this earth less\nqualified to set it right or help you, Florence, than I. Never ask me\nwhy, or speak to me about it or of my husband, more. There should be, so\nfar, a division, and a silence between us two, like the grave itself.'\n\nShe sat for some time silent; Florence scarcely venturing to breathe\nmeanwhile, as dim and imperfect shadows of the truth, and all its daily\nconsequences, chased each other through her terrified, yet incredulous\nimagination. Almost as soon as she had ceased to speak, Edith's face\nbegan to subside from its set composure to that quieter and more\nrelenting aspect, which it usually wore when she and Florence were alone\ntogether. She shaded it, after this change, with her hands; and when she\narose, and with an affectionate embrace bade Florence good-night, went\nquickly, and without looking round.\n\nBut when Florence was in bed, and the room was dark except for the glow\nof the fire, Edith returned, and saying that she could not sleep, and\nthat her dressing-room was lonely, drew a chair upon the hearth, and\nwatched the embers as they died away. Florence watched them too from\nher bed, until they, and the noble figure before them, crowned with its\nflowing hair, and in its thoughtful eyes reflecting back their light,\nbecame confused and indistinct, and finally were lost in slumber.\n\nIn her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an undefined impression\nof what had so recently passed. It formed the subject of her dreams, and\nhaunted her; now in one shape, now in another; but always oppressively;\nand with a sense of fear. She dreamed of seeking her father in\nwildernesses, of following his track up fearful heights, and down into\ndeep mines and caverns; of being charged with something that would\nrelease him from extraordinary suffering--she knew not what, or why--yet\nnever being able to attain the goal and set him free. Then she saw him\ndead, upon that very bed, and in that very room, and knew that he had\nnever loved her to the last, and fell upon his cold breast, passionately\nweeping. Then a prospect opened, and a river flowed, and a plaintive\nvoice she knew, cried, 'It is running on, Floy! It has never stopped!\nYou are moving with it!' And she saw him at a distance stretching out\nhis arms towards her, while a figure such as Walter's used to be, stood\nnear him, awfully serene and still. In every vision, Edith came and\nwent, sometimes to her joy, sometimes to her sorrow, until they were\nalone upon the brink of a dark grave, and Edith pointing down, she\nlooked and saw--what!--another Edith lying at the bottom.\n\nIn the terror of this dream, she cried out and awoke, she thought. A\nsoft voice seemed to whisper in her ear, 'Florence, dear Florence, it\nis nothing but a dream!' and stretching out her arms, she returned the\ncaress of her new Mama, who then went out at the door in the light of\nthe grey morning. In a moment, Florence sat up wondering whether this\nhad really taken place or not; but she was only certain that it was grey\nmorning indeed, and that the blackened ashes of the fire were on the\nhearth, and that she was alone.\n\nSo passed the night on which the happy pair came home.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 36. Housewarming\n\n\nMany succeeding days passed in like manner; except that there were\nnumerous visits received and paid, and that Mrs Skewton held little\nlevees in her own apartments, at which Major Bagstock was a frequent\nattendant, and that Florence encountered no second look from her father,\nalthough she saw him every day. Nor had she much communication in words\nwith her new Mama, who was imperious and proud to all the house but\nher--Florence could not but observe that--and who, although she always\nsent for her or went to her when she came home from visiting, and would\nalways go into her room at night, before retiring to rest, however late\nthe hour, and never lost an opportunity of being with her, was often her\nsilent and thoughtful companion for a long time together.\n\nFlorence, who had hoped for so much from this marriage, could not help\nsometimes comparing the bright house with the faded dreary place out of\nwhich it had arisen, and wondering when, in any shape, it would begin to\nbe a home; for that it was no home then, for anyone, though everything\nwent on luxuriously and regularly, she had always a secret misgiving.\nMany an hour of sorrowful reflection by day and night, and many a tear\nof blighted hope, Florence bestowed upon the assurance her new Mama had\ngiven her so strongly, that there was no one on the earth more powerless\nthan herself to teach her how to win her father's heart. And soon\nFlorence began to think--resolved to think would be the truer\nphrase--that as no one knew so well, how hopeless of being subdued or\nchanged her father's coldness to her was, so she had given her this\nwarning, and forbidden the subject in very compassion. Unselfish here,\nas in her every act and fancy, Florence preferred to bear the pain of\nthis new wound, rather than encourage any faint foreshadowings of the\ntruth as it concerned her father; tender of him, even in her wandering\nthoughts. As for his home, she hoped it would become a better one, when\nits state of novelty and transition should be over; and for herself,\nthought little and lamented less.\n\nIf none of the new family were particularly at home in private, it was\nresolved that Mrs Dombey at least should be at home in public, without\ndelay. A series of entertainments in celebration of the late nuptials,\nand in cultivation of society, were arranged, chiefly by Mr Dombey and\nMrs Skewton; and it was settled that the festive proceedings should\ncommence by Mrs Dombey's being at home upon a certain evening, and by\nMr and Mrs Dombey's requesting the honour of the company of a great many\nincongruous people to dinner on the same day.\n\nAccordingly, Mr Dombey produced a list of sundry eastern magnates who\nwere to be bidden to this feast on his behalf; to which Mrs Skewton,\nacting for her dearest child, who was haughtily careless on the subject,\nsubjoined a western list, comprising Cousin Feenix, not yet returned\nto Baden-Baden, greatly to the detriment of his personal estate; and a\nvariety of moths of various degrees and ages, who had, at various times,\nfluttered round the light of her fair daughter, or herself, without any\nlasting injury to their wings. Florence was enrolled as a member of\nthe dinner-party, by Edith's command--elicited by a moment's doubt and\nhesitation on the part of Mrs Skewton; and Florence, with a wondering\nheart, and with a quick instinctive sense of everything that grated on\nher father in the least, took her silent share in the proceedings of the\nday.\n\nThe proceedings commenced by Mr Dombey, in a cravat of extraordinary\nheight and stiffness, walking restlessly about the drawing-room\nuntil the hour appointed for dinner; punctual to which, an East India\nDirector, of immense wealth, in a waistcoat apparently constructed in\nserviceable deal by some plain carpenter, but really engendered in the\ntailor's art, and composed of the material called nankeen, arrived and\nwas received by Mr Dombey alone. The next stage of the proceedings\nwas Mr Dombey's sending his compliments to Mrs Dombey, with a correct\nstatement of the time; and the next, the East India Director's falling\nprostrate, in a conversational point of view, and as Mr Dombey was not\nthe man to pick him up, staring at the fire until rescue appeared in the\nshape of Mrs Skewton; whom the director, as a pleasant start in life for\nthe evening, mistook for Mrs Dombey, and greeted with enthusiasm.\n\nThe next arrival was a Bank Director, reputed to be able to buy up\nanything--human Nature generally, if he should take it in his head to\ninfluence the money market in that direction--but who was a wonderfully\nmodest-spoken man, almost boastfully so, and mentioned his 'little\nplace' at Kingston-upon-Thames, and its just being barely equal to\ngiving Dombey a bed and a chop, if he would come and visit it. Ladies,\nhe said, it was not for a man who lived in his quiet way to take upon\nhimself to invite--but if Mrs Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Dombey,\nshould ever find themselves in that direction, and would do him the\nhonour to look at a little bit of a shrubbery they would find there, and\na poor little flower-bed or so, and a humble apology for a pinery, and\ntwo or three little attempts of that sort without any pretension,\nthey would distinguish him very much. Carrying out his character,\nthis gentleman was very plainly dressed, in a wisp of cambric for a\nneckcloth, big shoes, a coat that was too loose for him, and a pair of\ntrousers that were too spare; and mention being made of the Opera by Mrs\nSkewton, he said he very seldom went there, for he couldn't afford it.\nIt seemed greatly to delight and exhilarate him to say so: and he beamed\non his audience afterwards, with his hands in his pockets, and excessive\nsatisfaction twinkling in his eyes.\n\nNow Mrs Dombey appeared, beautiful and proud, and as disdainful and\ndefiant of them all as if the bridal wreath upon her head had been a\ngarland of steel spikes put on to force concession from her which she\nwould die sooner than yield. With her was Florence. When they entered\ntogether, the shadow of the night of the return again darkened Mr\nDombey's face. But unobserved; for Florence did not venture to raise her\neyes to his, and Edith's indifference was too supreme to take the least\nheed of him.\n\nThe arrivals quickly became numerous. More directors, chairmen of public\ncompanies, elderly ladies carrying burdens on their heads for full\ndress, Cousin Feenix, Major Bagstock, friends of Mrs Skewton, with the\nsame bright bloom on their complexion, and very precious necklaces on\nvery withered necks. Among these, a young lady of sixty-five, remarkably\ncoolly dressed as to her back and shoulders, who spoke with an engaging\nlisp, and whose eyelids wouldn't keep up well, without a great deal of\ntrouble on her part, and whose manners had that indefinable charm which\nso frequently attaches to the giddiness of youth. As the greater part of\nMr Dombey's list were disposed to be taciturn, and the greater part\nof Mrs Dombey's list were disposed to be talkative, and there was no\nsympathy between them, Mrs Dombey's list, by magnetic agreement, entered\ninto a bond of union against Mr Dombey's list, who, wandering about\nthe rooms in a desolate manner, or seeking refuge in corners, entangled\nthemselves with company coming in, and became barricaded behind sofas,\nand had doors opened smartly from without against their heads, and\nunderwent every sort of discomfiture.\n\nWhen dinner was announced, Mr Dombey took down an old lady like a\ncrimson velvet pincushion stuffed with bank notes, who might have been\nthe identical old lady of Threadneedle Street, she was so rich, and\nlooked so unaccommodating; Cousin Feenix took down Mrs Dombey; Major\nBagstock took down Mrs Skewton; the young thing with the shoulders was\nbestowed, as an extinguisher, upon the East India Director; and the\nremaining ladies were left on view in the drawing-room by the remaining\ngentlemen, until a forlorn hope volunteered to conduct them downstairs,\nand those brave spirits with their captives blocked up the dining-room\ndoor, shutting out seven mild men in the stony-hearted hall. When\nall the rest were got in and were seated, one of these mild men still\nappeared, in smiling confusion, totally destitute and unprovided for,\nand, escorted by the butler, made the complete circuit of the table\ntwice before his chair could be found, which it finally was, on Mrs\nDombey's left hand; after which the mild man never held up his head\nagain.\n\nNow, the spacious dining-room, with the company seated round the\nglittering table, busy with their glittering spoons, and knives and\nforks, and plates, might have been taken for a grown-up exposition\nof Tom Tiddler's ground, where children pick up gold and silver. Mr\nDombey, as Tiddler, looked his character to admiration; and the long\nplateau of precious metal frosted, separating him from Mrs Dombey,\nwhereon frosted Cupids offered scentless flowers to each of them, was\nallegorical to see.\n\nCousin Feenix was in great force, and looked astonishingly young. But\nhe was sometimes thoughtless in his good humour--his memory occasionally\nwandering like his legs--and on this occasion caused the company to\nshudder. It happened thus. The young lady with the back, who regarded\nCousin Feenix with sentiments of tenderness, had entrapped the East\nIndia Director into leading her to the chair next him; in return for\nwhich good office, she immediately abandoned the Director, who, being\nshaded on the other side by a gloomy black velvet hat surmounting a bony\nand speechless female with a fan, yielded to a depression of spirits and\nwithdrew into himself. Cousin Feenix and the young lady were very lively\nand humorous, and the young lady laughed so much at something Cousin\nFeenix related to her, that Major Bagstock begged leave to inquire on\nbehalf of Mrs Skewton (they were sitting opposite, a little lower down),\nwhether that might not be considered public property.\n\n'Why, upon my life,' said Cousin Feenix, 'there's nothing in it; it\nreally is not worth repeating: in point of fact, it's merely an anecdote\nof Jack Adams. I dare say my friend Dombey;' for the general attention\nwas concentrated on Cousin Feenix; 'may remember Jack Adams, Jack Adams,\nnot Joe; that was his brother. Jack--little Jack--man with a cast in\nhis eye, and slight impediment in his speech--man who sat for somebody's\nborough. We used to call him in my parliamentary time W. P. Adams, in\nconsequence of his being Warming Pan for a young fellow who was in his\nminority. Perhaps my friend Dombey may have known the man?'\n\nMr Dombey, who was as likely to have known Guy Fawkes, replied in\nthe negative. But one of the seven mild men unexpectedly leaped into\ndistinction, by saying he had known him, and adding--'always wore\nHessian boots!'\n\n'Exactly,' said Cousin Feenix, bending forward to see the mild man, and\nsmile encouragement at him down the table. 'That was Jack. Joe wore--'\n\n'Tops!' cried the mild man, rising in public estimation every Instant.\n\n'Of course,' said Cousin Feenix, 'you were intimate with em?'\n\n'I knew them both,' said the mild man. With whom Mr Dombey immediately\ntook wine.\n\n'Devilish good fellow, Jack!' said Cousin Feenix, again bending forward,\nand smiling.\n\n'Excellent,' returned the mild man, becoming bold on his success. 'One\nof the best fellows I ever knew.'\n\n'No doubt you have heard the story?' said Cousin Feenix.\n\n'I shall know,' replied the bold mild man, 'when I have heard your\nLudship tell it.' With that, he leaned back in his chair and smiled at\nthe ceiling, as knowing it by heart, and being already tickled.\n\n'In point of fact, it's nothing of a story in itself,' said Cousin\nFeenix, addressing the table with a smile, and a gay shake of his head,\n'and not worth a word of preface. But it's illustrative of the\nneatness of Jack's humour. The fact is, that Jack was invited down to a\nmarriage--which I think took place in Berkshire?'\n\n'Shropshire,' said the bold mild man, finding himself appealed to.\n\n'Was it? Well! In point of fact it might have been in any shire,' said\nCousin Feenix. 'So my friend being invited down to this marriage in\nAnyshire,' with a pleasant sense of the readiness of this joke, 'goes.\nJust as some of us, having had the honour of being invited to the\nmarriage of my lovely and accomplished relative with my friend Dombey,\ndidn't require to be asked twice, and were devilish glad to be present\non so interesting an occasion.--Goes--Jack goes. Now, this marriage was,\nin point of fact, the marriage of an uncommonly fine girl with a man for\nwhom she didn't care a button, but whom she accepted on account of\nhis property, which was immense. When Jack returned to town, after\nthe nuptials, a man he knew, meeting him in the lobby of the House\nof Commons, says, \"Well, Jack, how are the ill-matched couple?\"\n\"Ill-matched,\" says Jack \"Not at all. It's a perfectly and equal\ntransaction. She is regularly bought, and you may take your oath he is\nas regularly sold!\"'\n\nIn his full enjoyment of this culminating point of his story, the\nshudder, which had gone all round the table like an electric spark,\nstruck Cousin Feenix, and he stopped. Not a smile occasioned by the only\ngeneral topic of conversation broached that day, appeared on any face.\nA profound silence ensued; and the wretched mild man, who had been as\ninnocent of any real foreknowledge of the story as the child unborn, had\nthe exquisite misery of reading in every eye that he was regarded as the\nprime mover of the mischief.\n\nMr Dombey's face was not a changeful one, and being cast in its mould of\nstate that day, showed little other apprehension of the story, if any,\nthan that which he expressed when he said solemnly, amidst the silence,\nthat it was 'Very good.' There was a rapid glance from Edith towards\nFlorence, but otherwise she remained, externally, impassive and\nunconscious.\n\nThrough the various stages of rich meats and wines, continual gold and\nsilver, dainties of earth, air, fire, and water, heaped-up fruits, and\nthat unnecessary article in Mr Dombey's banquets--ice--the dinner slowly\nmade its way: the later stages being achieved to the sonorous music\nof incessant double knocks, announcing the arrival of visitors, whose\nportion of the feast was limited to the smell thereof. When Mrs Dombey\nrose, it was a sight to see her lord, with stiff throat and erect head,\nhold the door open for the withdrawal of the ladies; and to see how she\nswept past him with his daughter on her arm.\n\nMr Dombey was a grave sight, behind the decanters, in a state of\ndignity; and the East India Director was a forlorn sight near the\nunoccupied end of the table, in a state of solitude; and the Major was a\nmilitary sight, relating stories of the Duke of York to six of the seven\nmild men (the ambitious one was utterly quenched); and the Bank Director\nwas a lowly sight, making a plan of his little attempt at a pinery,\nwith dessert-knives, for a group of admirers; and Cousin Feenix was\na thoughtful sight, as he smoothed his long wristbands and stealthily\nadjusted his wig. But all these sights were of short duration, being\nspeedily broken up by coffee, and the desertion of the room.\n\nThere was a throng in the state-rooms upstairs, increasing every minute;\nbut still Mr Dombey's list of visitors appeared to have some native\nimpossibility of amalgamation with Mrs Dombey's list, and no one could\nhave doubted which was which. The single exception to this rule perhaps\nwas Mr Carker, who now smiled among the company, and who, as he stood in\nthe circle that was gathered about Mrs Dombey--watchful of her, of\nthem, his chief, Cleopatra and the Major, Florence, and everything\naround--appeared at ease with both divisions of guests, and not marked\nas exclusively belonging to either.\n\nFlorence had a dread of him, which made his presence in the room a\nnightmare to her. She could not avoid the recollection of it, for her\neyes were drawn towards him every now and then, by an attraction of\ndislike and distrust that she could not resist. Yet her thoughts were\nbusy with other things; for as she sat apart--not unadmired or unsought,\nbut in the gentleness of her quiet spirit--she felt how little part her\nfather had in what was going on, and saw, with pain, how ill at ease he\nseemed to be, and how little regarded he was as he lingered about\nnear the door, for those visitors whom he wished to distinguish with\nparticular attention, and took them up to introduce them to his wife,\nwho received them with proud coldness, but showed no interest or wish to\nplease, and never, after the bare ceremony of reception, in consultation\nof his wishes, or in welcome of his friends, opened her lips. It was\nnot the less perplexing or painful to Florence, that she who acted thus,\ntreated her so kindly and with such loving consideration, that it almost\nseemed an ungrateful return on her part even to know of what was passing\nbefore her eyes.\n\nHappy Florence would have been, might she have ventured to bear her\nfather company, by so much as a look; and happy Florence was, in little\nsuspecting the main cause of his uneasiness. But afraid of seeming\nto know that he was placed at any disadvantage, lest he should be\nresentful of that knowledge; and divided between her impulse towards\nhim, and her grateful affection for Edith; she scarcely dared to raise\nher eyes towards either. Anxious and unhappy for them both, the thought\nstole on her through the crowd, that it might have been better for them\nif this noise of tongues and tread of feet had never come there,--if\nthe old dulness and decay had never been replaced by novelty and\nsplendour,--if the neglected child had found no friend in Edith, but had\nlived her solitary life, unpitied and forgotten.\n\nMrs Chick had some such thoughts too, but they were not so quietly\ndeveloped in her mind. This good matron had been outraged in the first\ninstance by not receiving an invitation to dinner. That blow partially\nrecovered, she had gone to a vast expense to make such a figure before\nMrs Dombey at home, as should dazzle the senses of that lady, and heap\nmortification, mountains high, on the head of Mrs Skewton.\n\n'But I am made,' said Mrs Chick to Mr Chick, 'of no more account than\nFlorence! Who takes the smallest notice of me? No one!'\n\n'No one, my dear,' assented Mr Chick, who was seated by the side of Mrs\nChick against the wall, and could console himself, even there, by softly\nwhistling.\n\n'Does it at all appear as if I was wanted here?' exclaimed Mrs Chick,\nwith flashing eyes.\n\n'No, my dear, I don't think it does,' said Mr Chick.\n\n'Paul's mad!' said Mrs Chick.\n\nMr Chick whistled.\n\n'Unless you are a monster, which I sometimes think you are,' said Mrs\nChick with candour, 'don't sit there humming tunes. How anyone with the\nmost distant feelings of a man, can see that mother-in-law of Paul's,\ndressed as she is, going on like that, with Major Bagstock, for whom,\namong other precious things, we are indebted to your Lucretia Tox.'\n\n'My Lucretia Tox, my dear!' said Mr Chick, astounded.\n\n'Yes,' retorted Mrs Chick, with great severity, 'your Lucretia Tox--I\nsay how anybody can see that mother-in-law of Paul's, and that haughty\nwife of Paul's, and these indecent old frights with their backs and\nshoulders, and in short this at home generally, and hum--' on which\nword Mrs Chick laid a scornful emphasis that made Mr Chick start, 'is, I\nthank Heaven, a mystery to me!'\n\nMr Chick screwed his mouth into a form irreconcilable with humming or\nwhistling, and looked very contemplative.\n\n'But I hope I know what is due to myself,' said Mrs Chick, swelling\nwith indignation, 'though Paul has forgotten what is due to me. I am not\ngoing to sit here, a member of this family, to be taken no notice of. I\nam not the dirt under Mrs Dombey's feet, yet--not quite yet,' said Mrs\nChick, as if she expected to become so, about the day after to-morrow.\n'And I shall go. I will not say (whatever I may think) that this affair\nhas been got up solely to degrade and insult me. I shall merely go. I\nshall not be missed!'\n\nMrs Chick rose erect with these words, and took the arm of Mr Chick, who\nescorted her from the room, after half an hour's shady sojourn there.\nAnd it is due to her penetration to observe that she certainly was not\nmissed at all.\n\nBut she was not the only indignant guest; for Mr Dombey's list (still\nconstantly in difficulties) were, as a body, indignant with Mrs Dombey's\nlist, for looking at them through eyeglasses, and audibly wondering who\nall those people were; while Mrs Dombey's list complained of weariness,\nand the young thing with the shoulders, deprived of the attentions of\nthat gay youth Cousin Feenix (who went away from the dinner-table),\nconfidentially alleged to thirty or forty friends that she was bored to\ndeath. All the old ladies with the burdens on their heads, had greater\nor less cause of complaint against Mr Dombey; and the Directors and\nChairmen coincided in thinking that if Dombey must marry, he had better\nhave married somebody nearer his own age, not quite so handsome, and\na little better off. The general opinion among this class of gentlemen\nwas, that it was a weak thing in Dombey, and he'd live to repent it.\nHardly anybody there, except the mild men, stayed, or went away, without\nconsidering himself or herself neglected and aggrieved by Mr Dombey or\nMrs Dombey; and the speechless female in the black velvet hat was found\nto have been stricken mute, because the lady in the crimson velvet\nhad been handed down before her. The nature even of the mild men got\ncorrupted, either from their curdling it with too much lemonade, or from\nthe general inoculation that prevailed; and they made sarcastic jokes\nto one another, and whispered disparagement on stairs and in bye-places.\nThe general dissatisfaction and discomfort so diffused itself, that the\nassembled footmen in the hall were as well acquainted with it as\nthe company above. Nay, the very linkmen outside got hold of it, and\ncompared the party to a funeral out of mourning, with none of the\ncompany remembered in the will.\n\nAt last, the guests were all gone, and the linkmen too; and the street,\ncrowded so long with carriages, was clear; and the dying lights showed no\none in the rooms, but Mr Dombey and Mr Carker, who were talking together\napart, and Mrs Dombey and her mother: the former seated on an ottoman;\nthe latter reclining in the Cleopatra attitude, awaiting the arrival of\nher maid. Mr Dombey having finished his communication to Carker, the\nlatter advanced obsequiously to take leave.\n\n'I trust,' he said, 'that the fatigues of this delightful evening will\nnot inconvenience Mrs Dombey to-morrow.'\n\n'Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, advancing, 'has sufficiently spared\nherself fatigue, to relieve you from any anxiety of that kind. I regret\nto say, Mrs Dombey, that I could have wished you had fatigued yourself a\nlittle more on this occasion.\n\nShe looked at him with a supercilious glance, that it seemed not worth\nher while to protract, and turned away her eyes without speaking.\n\n'I am sorry, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'that you should not have thought\nit your duty--'\n\nShe looked at him again.\n\n'Your duty, Madam,' pursued Mr Dombey, 'to have received my friends with\na little more deference. Some of those whom you have been pleased\nto slight to-night in a very marked manner, Mrs Dombey, confer a\ndistinction upon you, I must tell you, in any visit they pay you.'\n\n'Do you know that there is someone here?' she returned, now looking at\nhim steadily.\n\n'No! Carker! I beg that you do not. I insist that you do not,' cried Mr\nDombey, stopping that noiseless gentleman in his withdrawal. 'Mr Carker,\nMadam, as you know, possesses my confidence. He is as well acquainted\nas myself with the subject on which I speak. I beg to tell you, for your\ninformation, Mrs Dombey, that I consider these wealthy and important\npersons confer a distinction upon me:' and Mr Dombey drew himself up, as\nhaving now rendered them of the highest possible importance.\n\n'I ask you,' she repeated, bending her disdainful, steady gaze upon him,\n'do you know that there is someone here, Sir?'\n\n'I must entreat,' said Mr Carker, stepping forward, 'I must beg, I must\ndemand, to be released. Slight and unimportant as this difference is--'\n\nMrs Skewton, who had been intent upon her daughter's face, took him up\nhere.\n\n'My sweetest Edith,' she said, 'and my dearest Dombey; our excellent\nfriend Mr Carker, for so I am sure I ought to mention him--'\n\nMr Carker murmured, 'Too much honour.'\n\n'--has used the very words that were in my mind, and that I have\nbeen dying, these ages, for an opportunity of introducing. Slight and\nunimportant! My sweetest Edith, and my dearest Dombey, do we not know\nthat any difference between you two--No, Flowers; not now.'\n\nFlowers was the maid, who, finding gentlemen present, retreated with\nprecipitation.\n\n'That any difference between you two,' resumed Mrs Skewton, 'with\nthe Heart you possess in common, and the excessively charming bond of\nfeeling that there is between you, must be slight and unimportant? What\nwords could better define the fact? None. Therefore I am glad to take\nthis slight occasion--this trifling occasion, that is so replete\nwith Nature, and your individual characters, and all that--so truly\ncalculated to bring the tears into a parent's eyes--to say that I attach\nno importance to them in the least, except as developing these minor\nelements of Soul; and that, unlike most Mamas-in-law (that odious\nphrase, dear Dombey!) as they have been represented to me to exist in\nthis I fear too artificial world, I never shall attempt to interpose\nbetween you, at such a time, and never can much regret, after all, such\nlittle flashes of the torch of What's-his-name--not Cupid, but the other\ndelightful creature.'\n\nThere was a sharpness in the good mother's glance at both her\nchildren as she spoke, that may have been expressive of a direct and\nwell-considered purpose hidden between these rambling words. That\npurpose, providently to detach herself in the beginning from all the\nclankings of their chain that were to come, and to shelter herself with\nthe fiction of her innocent belief in their mutual affection, and their\nadaptation to each other.\n\n'I have pointed out to Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, in his most stately\nmanner, 'that in her conduct thus early in our married life, to which I\nobject, and which, I request, may be corrected. Carker,' with a nod of\ndismissal, 'good-night to you!'\n\nMr Carker bowed to the imperious form of the Bride, whose sparkling eye\nwas fixed upon her husband; and stopping at Cleopatra's couch on his\nway out, raised to his lips the hand she graciously extended to him, in\nlowly and admiring homage.\n\nIf his handsome wife had reproached him, or even changed countenance,\nor broken the silence in which she remained, by one word, now that they\nwere alone (for Cleopatra made off with all speed), Mr Dombey would have\nbeen equal to some assertion of his case against her. But the intense,\nunutterable, withering scorn, with which, after looking upon him, she\ndropped her eyes, as if he were too worthless and indifferent to her to\nbe challenged with a syllable--the ineffable disdain and haughtiness\nin which she sat before him--the cold inflexible resolve with which her\nevery feature seemed to bear him down, and put him by--these, he had\nno resource against; and he left her, with her whole overbearing beauty\nconcentrated on despising him.\n\nWas he coward enough to watch her, an hour afterwards, on the old well\nstaircase, where he had once seen Florence in the moonlight, toiling up\nwith Paul? Or was he in the dark by accident, when, looking up, he saw\nher coming, with a light, from the room where Florence lay, and marked\nagain the face so changed, which he could not subdue?\n\nBut it could never alter as his own did. It never, in its uttermost\npride and passion, knew the shadow that had fallen on his, in the dark\ncorner, on the night of the return; and often since; and which deepened\non it now, as he looked up.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 37. More Warnings than One\n\n\nFlorence, Edith, and Mrs Skewton were together next day, and the\ncarriage was waiting at the door to take them out. For Cleopatra had\nher galley again now, and Withers, no longer the-wan, stood upright in\na pigeon-breasted jacket and military trousers, behind her wheel-less\nchair at dinner-time and butted no more. The hair of Withers was radiant\nwith pomatum, in these days of down, and he wore kid gloves and smelt of\nthe water of Cologne.\n\nThey were assembled in Cleopatra's room. The Serpent of old Nile (not\nto mention her disrespectfully) was reposing on her sofa, sipping her\nmorning chocolate at three o'clock in the afternoon, and Flowers the\nMaid was fastening on her youthful cuffs and frills, and performing a\nkind of private coronation ceremony on her, with a peach-coloured velvet\nbonnet; the artificial roses in which nodded to uncommon advantage, as\nthe palsy trifled with them, like a breeze.\n\n'I think I am a little nervous this morning, Flowers,' said Mrs Skewton.\n'My hand quite shakes.'\n\n'You were the life of the party last night, Ma'am, you know,' returned\nFlowers, 'and you suffer for it, to-day, you see.'\n\nEdith, who had beckoned Florence to the window, and was looking out,\nwith her back turned on the toilet of her esteemed mother, suddenly\nwithdrew from it, as if it had lightened.\n\n'My darling child,' cried Cleopatra, languidly, 'you are not nervous?\nDon't tell me, my dear Edith, that you, so enviably self-possessed,\nare beginning to be a martyr too, like your unfortunately constituted\nmother! Withers, someone at the door.'\n\n'Card, Ma'am,' said Withers, taking it towards Mrs Dombey.\n\n'I am going out,' she said without looking at it.\n\n'My dear love,' drawled Mrs Skewton, 'how very odd to send that message\nwithout seeing the name! Bring it here, Withers. Dear me, my love; Mr\nCarker, too! That very sensible person!'\n\n'I am going out,' repeated Edith, in so imperious a tone that Withers,\ngoing to the door, imperiously informed the servant who was waiting,\n'Mrs Dombey is going out. Get along with you,' and shut it on him.\n\nBut the servant came back after a short absence, and whispered to\nWithers again, who once more, and not very willingly, presented himself\nbefore Mrs Dombey.\n\n'If you please, Ma'am, Mr Carker sends his respectful compliments, and\nbegs you would spare him one minute, if you could--for business, Ma'am,\nif you please.'\n\n'Really, my love,' said Mrs Skewton in her mildest manner; for her\ndaughter's face was threatening; 'if you would allow me to offer a word,\nI should recommend--'\n\n'Show him this way,' said Edith. As Withers disappeared to execute\nthe command, she added, frowning on her mother, 'As he comes at your\nrecommendation, let him come to your room.'\n\n'May I--shall I go away?' asked Florence, hurriedly.\n\nEdith nodded yes, but on her way to the door Florence met the visitor\ncoming in. With the same disagreeable mixture of familiarity and\nforbearance, with which he had first addressed her, he addressed her now\nin his softest manner--hoped she was quite well--needed not to ask, with\nsuch looks to anticipate the answer--had scarcely had the honour to know\nher, last night, she was so greatly changed--and held the door open for\nher to pass out; with a secret sense of power in her shrinking from\nhim, that all the deference and politeness of his manner could not quite\nconceal.\n\nHe then bowed himself for a moment over Mrs Skewton's condescending\nhand, and lastly bowed to Edith. Coldly returning his salute without\nlooking at him, and neither seating herself nor inviting him to be\nseated, she waited for him to speak.\n\nEntrenched in her pride and power, and with all the obduracy of her\nspirit summoned about her, still her old conviction that she and her\nmother had been known by this man in their worst colours, from their\nfirst acquaintance; that every degradation she had suffered in her own\neyes was as plain to him as to herself; that he read her life as though\nit were a vile book, and fluttered the leaves before her in slight\nlooks and tones of voice which no one else could detect; weakened\nand undermined her. Proudly as she opposed herself to him, with her\ncommanding face exacting his humility, her disdainful lip repulsing\nhim, her bosom angry at his intrusion, and the dark lashes of her\neyes sullenly veiling their light, that no ray of it might shine upon\nhim--and submissively as he stood before her, with an entreating injured\nmanner, but with complete submission to her will--she knew, in her own\nsoul, that the cases were reversed, and that the triumph and superiority\nwere his, and that he knew it full well.\n\n'I have presumed,' said Mr Carker, 'to solicit an interview, and I have\nventured to describe it as being one of business, because--'\n\n'Perhaps you are charged by Mr Dombey with some message of reproof,'\nsaid Edit 'You possess Mr Dombey's confidence in such an unusual degree,\nSir, that you would scarcely surprise me if that were your business.'\n\n'I have no message to the lady who sheds a lustre upon his name,' said\nMr Carker. 'But I entreat that lady, on my own behalf to be just to a\nvery humble claimant for justice at her hands--a mere dependant of\nMr Dombey's--which is a position of humility; and to reflect upon my\nperfect helplessness last night, and the impossibility of my avoiding\nthe share that was forced upon me in a very painful occasion.'\n\n'My dearest Edith,' hinted Cleopatra in a low voice, as she held her\neye-glass aside, 'really very charming of Mr What's-his-name. And full\nof heart!'\n\n'For I do,' said Mr Carker, appealing to Mrs Skewton with a look of\ngrateful deference,--'I do venture to call it a painful occasion, though\nmerely because it was so to me, who had the misfortune to be present. So\nslight a difference, as between the principals--between those who love\neach other with disinterested devotion, and would make any sacrifice of\nself in such a cause--is nothing. As Mrs Skewton herself expressed, with\nso much truth and feeling last night, it is nothing.'\n\nEdith could not look at him, but she said after a few moments.\n\n'And your business, Sir--'\n\n'Edith, my pet,' said Mrs Skewton, 'all this time Mr Carker is standing!\nMy dear Mr Carker, take a seat, I beg.'\n\nHe offered no reply to the mother, but fixed his eyes on the proud\ndaughter, as though he would only be bidden by her, and was resolved\nto be bidden by her. Edith, in spite of herself sat down, and slightly\nmotioned with her hand to him to be seated too. No action could be\ncolder, haughtier, more insolent in its air of supremacy and disrespect,\nbut she had struggled against even that concession ineffectually, and it\nwas wrested from her. That was enough! Mr Carker sat down.\n\n'May I be allowed, Madam,' said Carker, turning his white teeth on Mrs\nSkewton like a light--'a lady of your excellent sense and quick feeling\nwill give me credit, for good reason, I am sure--to address what I have\nto say, to Mrs Dombey, and to leave her to impart it to you who are her\nbest and dearest friend--next to Mr Dombey?'\n\nMrs Skewton would have retired, but Edith stopped her. Edith would have\nstopped him too, and indignantly ordered him to speak openly or not at\nall, but that he said, in a low Voice--'Miss Florence--the young lady\nwho has just left the room--'\n\nEdith suffered him to proceed. She looked at him now. As he bent\nforward, to be nearer, with the utmost show of delicacy and respect, and\nwith his teeth persuasively arrayed, in a self-depreciating smile, she\nfelt as if she could have struck him dead.\n\n'Miss Florence's position,' he began, 'has been an unfortunate one.\nI have a difficulty in alluding to it to you, whose attachment to her\nfather is naturally watchful and jealous of every word that applies to\nhim.' Always distinct and soft in speech, no language could describe the\nextent of his distinctness and softness, when he said these words, or\ncame to any others of a similar import. 'But, as one who is devoted to\nMr Dombey in his different way, and whose life is passed in admiration\nof Mr Dombey's character, may I say, without offence to your tenderness\nas a wife, that Miss Florence has unhappily been neglected--by her\nfather. May I say by her father?'\n\nEdith replied, 'I know it.'\n\n'You know it!' said Mr Carker, with a great appearance of relief. 'It\nremoves a mountain from my breast. May I hope you know how the neglect\noriginated; in what an amiable phase of Mr Dombey's pride--character I\nmean?'\n\n'You may pass that by, Sir,' she returned, 'and come the sooner to the\nend of what you have to say.'\n\n'Indeed, I am sensible, Madam,' replied Carker,--'trust me, I am deeply\nsensible, that Mr Dombey can require no justification in anything to\nyou. But, kindly judge of my breast by your own, and you will forgive my\ninterest in him, if in its excess, it goes at all astray.'\n\nWhat a stab to her proud heart, to sit there, face to face with him, and\nhave him tendering her false oath at the altar again and again for her\nacceptance, and pressing it upon her like the dregs of a sickening\ncup she could not own her loathing of, or turn away from! How shame,\nremorse, and passion raged within her, when, upright and majestic in her\nbeauty before him, she knew that in her spirit she was down at his feet!\n\n'Miss Florence,' said Carker, 'left to the care--if one may call it\ncare--of servants and mercenary people, in every way her inferiors,\nnecessarily wanted some guide and compass in her younger days, and,\nnaturally, for want of them, has been indiscreet, and has in some degree\nforgotten her station. There was some folly about one Walter, a common\nlad, who is fortunately dead now: and some very undesirable association,\nI regret to say, with certain coasting sailors, of anything but good\nrepute, and a runaway old bankrupt.'\n\n'I have heard the circumstances, Sir,' said Edith, flashing her\ndisdainful glance upon him, 'and I know that you pervert them. You may\nnot know it. I hope so.'\n\n'Pardon me,' said Mr Carker, 'I believe that nobody knows them so well\nas I. Your generous and ardent nature, Madam--the same nature which is\nso nobly imperative in vindication of your beloved and honoured husband,\nand which has blessed him as even his merits deserve--I must respect,\ndefer to, bow before. But, as regards the circumstances, which is indeed\nthe business I presumed to solicit your attention to, I can have\nno doubt, since, in the execution of my trust as Mr Dombey's\nconfidential--I presume to say--friend, I have fully ascertained them.\nIn my execution of that trust; in my deep concern, which you can so well\nunderstand, for everything relating to him, intensified, if you will\n(for I fear I labour under your displeasure), by the lower motive of\ndesire to prove my diligence, and make myself the more acceptable;\nI have long pursued these circumstances by myself and trustworthy\ninstruments, and have innumerable and most minute proofs.'\n\nShe raised her eyes no higher than his mouth, but she saw the means of\nmischief vaunted in every tooth it contained.\n\n'Pardon me, Madam,' he continued, 'if in my perplexity, I presume to\ntake counsel with you, and to consult your pleasure. I think I have\nobserved that you are greatly interested in Miss Florence?'\n\nWhat was there in her he had not observed, and did not know? Humbled\nand yet maddened by the thought, in every new presentment of it, however\nfaint, she pressed her teeth upon her quivering lip to force composure\non it, and distantly inclined her head in reply.\n\n'This interest, Madam--so touching an evidence of everything associated\nwith Mr Dombey being dear to you--induces me to pause before I make him\nacquainted with these circumstances, which, as yet, he does not know.\nIt so shakes me, if I may make the confession, in my allegiance, that\non the intimation of the least desire to that effect from you, I would\nsuppress them.'\n\nEdith raised her head quickly, and starting back, bent her dark glance\nupon him. He met it with his blandest and most deferential smile, and\nwent on.\n\n'You say that as I describe them, they are perverted. I fear not--I fear\nnot: but let us assume that they are. The uneasiness I have for some\ntime felt on the subject, arises in this: that the mere circumstance of\nsuch association often repeated, on the part of Miss Florence, however\ninnocently and confidingly, would be conclusive with Mr Dombey, already\npredisposed against her, and would lead him to take some step (I know\nhe has occasionally contemplated it) of separation and alienation of her\nfrom his home. Madam, bear with me, and remember my intercourse with Mr\nDombey, and my knowledge of him, and my reverence for him, almost\nfrom childhood, when I say that if he has a fault, it is a lofty\nstubbornness, rooted in that noble pride and sense of power which belong\nto him, and which we must all defer to; which is not assailable like the\nobstinacy of other characters; and which grows upon itself from day to\nday, and year to year.'\n\nShe bent her glance upon him still; but, look as steadfast as she would,\nher haughty nostrils dilated, and her breath came somewhat deeper, and\nher lip would slightly curl, as he described that in his patron to which\nthey must all bow down. He saw it; and though his expression did not\nchange, she knew he saw it.\n\n'Even so slight an incident as last night's,' he said, 'if I might refer\nto it once more, would serve to illustrate my meaning, better than a\ngreater one. Dombey and Son know neither time, nor place, nor season,\nbut bear them all down. But I rejoice in its occurrence, for it has\nopened the way for me to approach Mrs Dombey with this subject\nto-day, even if it has entailed upon me the penalty of her temporary\ndispleasure. Madam, in the midst of my uneasiness and apprehension on\nthis subject, I was summoned by Mr Dombey to Leamington. There I saw\nyou. There I could not help knowing what relation you would shortly\noccupy towards him--to his enduring happiness and yours. There I\nresolved to await the time of your establishment at home here, and to do\nas I have now done. I have, at heart, no fear that I shall be wanting\nin my duty to Mr Dombey, if I bury what I know in your breast; for\nwhere there is but one heart and mind between two persons--as in such\na marriage--one almost represents the other. I can acquit my conscience\ntherefore, almost equally, by confidence, on such a theme, in you or\nhim. For the reasons I have mentioned I would select you. May I aspire\nto the distinction of believing that my confidence is accepted, and that\nI am relieved from my responsibility?'\n\nHe long remembered the look she gave him--who could see it, and forget\nit?--and the struggle that ensued within her. At last she said:\n\n'I accept it, Sir You will please to consider this matter at an end, and\nthat it goes no farther.'\n\nHe bowed low, and rose. She rose too, and he took leave with all\nhumility. But Withers, meeting him on the stairs, stood amazed at the\nbeauty of his teeth, and at his brilliant smile; and as he rode away\nupon his white-legged horse, the people took him for a dentist, such was\nthe dazzling show he made. The people took her, when she rode out in her\ncarriage presently, for a great lady, as happy as she was rich and fine.\nBut they had not seen her, just before, in her own room with no one by;\nand they had not heard her utterance of the three words, 'Oh Florence,\nFlorence!'\n\nMrs Skewton, reposing on her sofa, and sipping her chocolate, had heard\nnothing but the low word business, for which she had a mortal aversion,\ninsomuch that she had long banished it from her vocabulary, and had gone\nnigh, in a charming manner and with an immense amount of heart, to say\nnothing of soul, to ruin divers milliners and others in consequence.\nTherefore Mrs Skewton asked no questions, and showed no curiosity.\nIndeed, the peach-velvet bonnet gave her sufficient occupation out of\ndoors; for being perched on the back of her head, and the day being\nrather windy, it was frantic to escape from Mrs Skewton's company,\nand would be coaxed into no sort of compromise. When the carriage was\nclosed, and the wind shut out, the palsy played among the artificial\nroses again like an almshouse-full of superannuated zephyrs; and\naltogether Mrs Skewton had enough to do, and got on but indifferently.\n\nShe got on no better towards night; for when Mrs Dombey, in her\ndressing-room, had been dressed and waiting for her half an hour, and Mr\nDombey, in the drawing-room, had paraded himself into a state of solemn\nfretfulness (they were all three going out to dinner), Flowers the Maid\nappeared with a pale face to Mrs Dombey, saying:\n\n'If you please, Ma'am, I beg your pardon, but I can't do nothing with\nMissis!'\n\n'What do you mean?' asked Edith.\n\n'Well, Ma'am,' replied the frightened maid, 'I hardly know. She's making\nfaces!'\n\nEdith hurried with her to her mother's room. Cleopatra was arrayed in\nfull dress, with the diamonds, short sleeves, rouge, curls, teeth, and\nother juvenility all complete; but Paralysis was not to be deceived, had\nknown her for the object of its errand, and had struck her at her glass,\nwhere she lay like a horrible doll that had tumbled down.\n\nThey took her to pieces in very shame, and put the little of her that\nwas real on a bed. Doctors were sent for, and soon came. Powerful\nremedies were resorted to; opinions given that she would rally from this\nshock, but would not survive another; and there she lay speechless, and\nstaring at the ceiling, for days; sometimes making inarticulate sounds\nin answer to such questions as did she know who were present, and the\nlike: sometimes giving no reply either by sign or gesture, or in her\nunwinking eyes.\n\nAt length she began to recover consciousness, and in some degree the\npower of motion, though not yet of speech. One day the use of her right\nhand returned; and showing it to her maid who was in attendance on her,\nand appearing very uneasy in her mind, she made signs for a pencil and\nsome paper. This the maid immediately provided, thinking she was going\nto make a will, or write some last request; and Mrs Dombey being from\nhome, the maid awaited the result with solemn feelings.\n\nAfter much painful scrawling and erasing, and putting in of wrong\ncharacters, which seemed to tumble out of the pencil of their own\naccord, the old woman produced this document:\n\n              'Rose-coloured curtains.'\n\nThe maid being perfectly transfixed, and with tolerable reason,\nCleopatra amended the manuscript by adding two words more, when it stood\nthus:\n\n              'Rose-coloured curtains for doctors.'\n\nThe maid now perceived remotely that she wished these articles to be\nprovided for the better presentation of her complexion to the faculty;\nand as those in the house who knew her best, had no doubt of the\ncorrectness of this opinion, which she was soon able to establish for\nherself the rose-coloured curtains were added to her bed, and she mended\nwith increased rapidity from that hour. She was soon able to sit up,\nin curls and a laced cap and nightgown, and to have a little artificial\nbloom dropped into the hollow caverns of her cheeks.\n\nIt was a tremendous sight to see this old woman in her finery leering\nand mincing at Death, and playing off her youthful tricks upon him as if\nhe had been the Major; but an alteration in her mind that ensued on the\nparalytic stroke was fraught with as much matter for reflection, and was\nquite as ghastly.\n\nWhether the weakening of her intellect made her more cunning and false\nthan before, or whether it confused her between what she had assumed\nto be and what she really had been, or whether it had awakened any\nglimmering of remorse, which could neither struggle into light nor get\nback into total darkness, or whether, in the jumble of her faculties,\na combination of these effects had been shaken up, which is perhaps the\nmore likely supposition, the result was this:--That she became hugely\nexacting in respect of Edith's affection and gratitude and attention to\nher; highly laudatory of herself as a most inestimable parent; and very\njealous of having any rival in Edith's regard. Further, in place of\nremembering that compact made between them for an avoidance of the\nsubject, she constantly alluded to her daughter's marriage as a proof\nof her being an incomparable mother; and all this, with the weakness and\npeevishness of such a state, always serving for a sarcastic commentary\non her levity and youthfulness.\n\n'Where is Mrs Dombey?' she would say to her maid.\n\n'Gone out, Ma'am.'\n\n'Gone out! Does she go out to shun her Mama, Flowers?'\n\n'La bless you, no, Ma'am. Mrs Dombey has only gone out for a ride with\nMiss Florence.'\n\n'Miss Florence. Who's Miss Florence? Don't tell me about Miss Florence.\nWhat's Miss Florence to her, compared to me?'\n\nThe apposite display of the diamonds, or the peach-velvet bonnet (she\nsat in the bonnet to receive visitors, weeks before she could stir out\nof doors), or the dressing of her up in some gaud or other, usually\nstopped the tears that began to flow hereabouts; and she would remain in\na complacent state until Edith came to see her; when, at a glance of the\nproud face, she would relapse again.\n\n'Well, I am sure, Edith!' she would cry, shaking her head.\n\n'What is the matter, mother?'\n\n'Matter! I really don't know what is the matter. The world is coming to\nsuch an artificial and ungrateful state, that I begin to think there's\nno Heart--or anything of that sort--left in it, positively. Withers is\nmore a child to me than you are. He attends to me much more than my own\ndaughter. I almost wish I didn't look so young--and all that kind of\nthing--and then perhaps I should be more considered.'\n\n'What would you have, mother?'\n\n'Oh, a great deal, Edith,' impatiently.\n\n'Is there anything you want that you have not? It is your own fault if\nthere be.'\n\n'My own fault!' beginning to whimper. 'The parent I have been to you,\nEdith: making you a companion from your cradle! And when you neglect me,\nand have no more natural affection for me than if I was a stranger--not\na twentieth part of the affection that you have for Florence--but I am\nonly your mother, and should corrupt her in a day!--you reproach me with\nits being my own fault.'\n\n'Mother, mother, I reproach you with nothing. Why will you always dwell\non this?'\n\n'Isn't it natural that I should dwell on this, when I am all affection\nand sensitiveness, and am wounded in the cruellest way, whenever you\nlook at me?'\n\n'I do not mean to wound you, mother. Have you no remembrance of what has\nbeen said between us? Let the Past rest.'\n\n'Yes, rest! And let gratitude to me rest; and let affection for me\nrest; and let me rest in my out-of-the-way room, with no society and\nno attention, while you find new relations to make much of, who have\nno earthly claim upon you! Good gracious, Edith, do you know what an\nelegant establishment you are at the head of?'\n\n'Yes. Hush!'\n\n'And that gentlemanly creature, Dombey? Do you know that you are married\nto him, Edith, and that you have a settlement and a position, and a\ncarriage, and I don't know what?'\n\n'Indeed, I know it, mother; well.'\n\n'As you would have had with that delightful good soul--what did they\ncall him?--Granger--if he hadn't died. And who have you to thank for all\nthis, Edith?'\n\n'You, mother; you.'\n\n'Then put your arms round my neck, and kiss me; and show me, Edith,\nthat you know there never was a better Mama than I have been to you. And\ndon't let me become a perfect fright with teasing and wearing myself at\nyour ingratitude, or when I'm out again in society no soul will know me,\nnot even that hateful animal, the Major.'\n\nBut, sometimes, when Edith went nearer to her, and bending down her\nstately head, put her cold cheek to hers, the mother would draw back as\nIf she were afraid of her, and would fall into a fit of trembling, and\ncry out that there was a wandering in her wits. And sometimes she would\nentreat her, with humility, to sit down on the chair beside her bed, and\nwould look at her (as she sat there brooding) with a face that even the\nrose-coloured curtains could not make otherwise than scared and wild.\n\nThe rose-coloured curtains blushed, in course of time, on Cleopatra's\nbodily recovery, and on her dress--more juvenile than ever, to repair\nthe ravages of illness--and on the rouge, and on the teeth, and on\nthe curls, and on the diamonds, and the short sleeves, and the whole\nwardrobe of the doll that had tumbled down before the mirror. They\nblushed, too, now and then, upon an indistinctness in her speech which\nshe turned off with a girlish giggle, and on an occasional failing in\nher memory, that had no rule in it, but came and went fantastically, as\nif in mockery of her fantastic self.\n\nBut they never blushed upon a change in the new manner of her thought\nand speech towards her daughter. And though that daughter often\ncame within their influence, they never blushed upon her loveliness\nirradiated by a smile, or softened by the light of filial love, in its\nstem beauty.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 38. Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance\n\n\nThe forlorn Miss Tox, abandoned by her friend Louisa Chick, and bereft\nof Mr Dombey's countenance--for no delicate pair of wedding cards,\nunited by a silver thread, graced the chimney-glass in Princess's\nPlace, or the harpsichord, or any of those little posts of display\nwhich Lucretia reserved for holiday occupation--became depressed in her\nspirits, and suffered much from melancholy. For a time the Bird Waltz\nwas unheard in Princess's Place, the plants were neglected, and dust\ncollected on the miniature of Miss Tox's ancestor with the powdered head\nand pigtail.\n\n\nMiss Tox, however, was not of an age or of a disposition long to abandon\nherself to unavailing regrets. Only two notes of the harpsichord were\ndumb from disuse when the Bird Waltz again warbled and trilled in\nthe crooked drawing-room: only one slip of geranium fell a victim to\nimperfect nursing, before she was gardening at her green baskets again,\nregularly every morning; the powdered-headed ancestor had not been under\na cloud for more than six weeks, when Miss Tox breathed on his benignant\nvisage, and polished him up with a piece of wash-leather.\n\nStill, Miss Tox was lonely, and at a loss. Her attachments, however\nludicrously shown, were real and strong; and she was, as she expressed\nit, 'deeply hurt by the unmerited contumely she had met with from\nLouisa.' But there was no such thing as anger in Miss Tox's composition.\nIf she had ambled on through life, in her soft spoken way, without any\nopinions, she had, at least, got so far without any harsh passions.\nThe mere sight of Louisa Chick in the street one day, at a considerable\ndistance, so overpowered her milky nature, that she was fain to seek\nimmediate refuge in a pastrycook's, and there, in a musty little back\nroom usually devoted to the consumption of soups, and pervaded by an\nox-tail atmosphere, relieve her feelings by weeping plentifully.\n\nAgainst Mr Dombey Miss Tox hardly felt that she had any reason of\ncomplaint. Her sense of that gentleman's magnificence was such, that\nonce removed from him, she felt as if her distance always had been\nimmeasurable, and as if he had greatly condescended in tolerating her at\nall. No wife could be too handsome or too stately for him, according to\nMiss Tox's sincere opinion. It was perfectly natural that in looking\nfor one, he should look high. Miss Tox with tears laid down this\nproposition, and fully admitted it, twenty times a day. She never\nrecalled the lofty manner in which Mr Dombey had made her subservient to\nhis convenience and caprices, and had graciously permitted her to be\none of the nurses of his little son. She only thought, in her own words,\n'that she had passed a great many happy hours in that house, which she\nmust ever remember with gratification, and that she could never cease to\nregard Mr Dombey as one of the most impressive and dignified of men.'\n\nCut off, however, from the implacable Louisa, and being shy of the Major\n(whom she viewed with some distrust now), Miss Tox found it very irksome\nto know nothing of what was going on in Mr Dombey's establishment. And\nas she really had got into the habit of considering Dombey and Son as\nthe pivot on which the world in general turned, she resolved, rather\nthan be ignorant of intelligence which so strongly interested her, to\ncultivate her old acquaintance, Mrs Richards, who she knew, since\nher last memorable appearance before Mr Dombey, was in the habit of\nsometimes holding communication with his servants. Perhaps Miss Tox,\nin seeking out the Toodle family, had the tender motive hidden in her\nbreast of having somebody to whom she could talk about Mr Dombey, no\nmatter how humble that somebody might be.\n\nAt all events, towards the Toodle habitation Miss Tox directed her steps\none evening, what time Mr Toodle, cindery and swart, was refreshing\nhimself with tea, in the bosom of his family. Mr Toodle had only three\nstages of existence. He was either taking refreshment in the bosom just\nmentioned, or he was tearing through the country at from twenty-five\nto fifty miles an hour, or he was sleeping after his fatigues. He was\nalways in a whirlwind or a calm, and a peaceable, contented, easy-going\nman Mr Toodle was in either state, who seemed to have made over all his\nown inheritance of fuming and fretting to the engines with which he was\nconnected, which panted, and gasped, and chafed, and wore themselves\nout, in a most unsparing manner, while Mr Toodle led a mild and equable\nlife.\n\n'Polly, my gal,' said Mr Toodle, with a young Toodle on each knee, and\ntwo more making tea for him, and plenty more scattered about--Mr Toodle\nwas never out of children, but always kept a good supply on hand--'you\nain't seen our Biler lately, have you?'\n\n'No,' replied Polly, 'but he's almost certain to look in tonight. It's\nhis right evening, and he's very regular.'\n\n'I suppose,' said Mr Toodle, relishing his meal infinitely, 'as our\nBiler is a doin' now about as well as a boy can do, eh, Polly?'\n\n'Oh! he's a doing beautiful!' responded Polly.\n\n'He ain't got to be at all secret-like--has he, Polly?' inquired Mr\nToodle.\n\n'No!' said Mrs Toodle, plumply.\n\n'I'm glad he ain't got to be at all secret-like, Polly,' observed Mr\nToodle in his slow and measured way, and shovelling in his bread and\nbutter with a clasp knife, as if he were stoking himself, 'because that\ndon't look well; do it, Polly?'\n\n'Why, of course it don't, father. How can you ask!'\n\n'You see, my boys and gals,' said Mr Toodle, looking round upon his\nfamily, 'wotever you're up to in a honest way, it's my opinion as you\ncan't do better than be open. If you find yourselves in cuttings or in\ntunnels, don't you play no secret games. Keep your whistles going, and\nlet's know where you are.'\n\nThe rising Toodles set up a shrill murmur, expressive of their\nresolution to profit by the paternal advice.\n\n'But what makes you say this along of Rob, father?' asked his wife,\nanxiously.\n\n'Polly, old 'ooman,' said Mr Toodle, 'I don't know as I said it\npartickler along o' Rob, I'm sure. I starts light with Rob only; I comes\nto a branch; I takes on what I finds there; and a whole train of ideas\ngets coupled on to him, afore I knows where I am, or where they\ncomes from. What a Junction a man's thoughts is,' said Mr Toodle,\n'to-be-sure!'\n\nThis profound reflection Mr Toodle washed down with a pint mug of tea,\nand proceeded to solidify with a great weight of bread and butter;\ncharging his young daughters meanwhile, to keep plenty of hot water in\nthe pot, as he was uncommon dry, and should take the indefinite quantity\nof 'a sight of mugs,' before his thirst was appeased.\n\nIn satisfying himself, however, Mr Toodle was not regardless of the\nyounger branches about him, who, although they had made their own\nevening repast, were on the look-out for irregular morsels, as\npossessing a relish. These he distributed now and then to the expectant\ncircle, by holding out great wedges of bread and butter, to be bitten\nat by the family in lawful succession, and by serving out small doses of\ntea in like manner with a spoon; which snacks had such a relish in the\nmouths of these young Toodles, that, after partaking of the same, they\nperformed private dances of ecstasy among themselves, and stood on\none leg apiece, and hopped, and indulged in other saltatory tokens of\ngladness. These vents for their excitement found, they gradually closed\nabout Mr Toodle again, and eyed him hard as he got through more bread\nand butter and tea; affecting, however, to have no further expectations\nof their own in reference to those viands, but to be conversing on\nforeign subjects, and whispering confidentially.\n\nMr Toodle, in the midst of this family group, and setting an awful\nexample to his children in the way of appetite, was conveying the two\nyoung Toodles on his knees to Birmingham by special engine, and was\ncontemplating the rest over a barrier of bread and butter, when Rob the\nGrinder, in his sou'wester hat and mourning slops, presented himself,\nand was received with a general rush of brothers and sisters.\n\n'Well, mother!' said Rob, dutifully kissing her; 'how are you, mother?'\n\n'There's my boy!' cried Polly, giving him a hug and a pat on the back.\n'Secret! Bless you, father, not he!'\n\nThis was intended for Mr Toodle's private edification, but Rob the\nGrinder, whose withers were not unwrung, caught the words as they were\nspoken.\n\n'What! father's been a saying something more again me, has he?' cried\nthe injured innocent. 'Oh, what a hard thing it is that when a cove\nhas once gone a little wrong, a cove's own father should be always\na throwing it in his face behind his back! It's enough,' cried Rob,\nresorting to his coat-cuff in anguish of spirit, 'to make a cove go and\ndo something, out of spite!'\n\n'My poor boy!' cried Polly, 'father didn't mean anything.'\n\n'If father didn't mean anything,' blubbered the injured Grinder, 'why\ndid he go and say anything, mother? Nobody thinks half so bad of me as\nmy own father does. What a unnatural thing! I wish somebody'd take and\nchop my head off. Father wouldn't mind doing it, I believe, and I'd much\nrather he did that than t'other.'\n\nAt these desperate words all the young Toodles shrieked; a pathetic\neffect, which the Grinder improved by ironically adjuring them not to\ncry for him, for they ought to hate him, they ought, if they was good\nboys and girls; and this so touched the youngest Toodle but one, who was\neasily moved, that it touched him not only in his spirit but in his wind\ntoo; making him so purple that Mr Toodle in consternation carried him\nout to the water-butt, and would have put him under the tap, but for his\nbeing recovered by the sight of that instrument.\n\nMatters having reached this point, Mr Toodle explained, and the virtuous\nfeelings of his son being thereby calmed, they shook hands, and harmony\nreigned again.\n\n'Will you do as I do, Biler, my boy?' inquired his father, returning to\nhis tea with new strength.\n\n'No, thank'ee, father. Master and I had tea together.'\n\n'And how is master, Rob?' said Polly.\n\n'Well, I don't know, mother; not much to boast on. There ain't no\nbis'ness done, you see. He don't know anything about it--the Cap'en\ndon't. There was a man come into the shop this very day, and says, \"I\nwant a so-and-so,\" he says--some hard name or another. \"A which?\" says\nthe Cap'en. \"A so-and-so,\" says the man. \"Brother,\" says the Cap'en,\n\"will you take a observation round the shop.\" \"Well,\" says the man,\n\"I've done.\" \"Do you see wot you want?\" says the Cap'en \"No, I don't,\"\nsays the man. \"Do you know it wen you do see it?\" says the Cap'en. \"No,\nI don't,\" says the man. \"Why, then I tell you wot, my lad,\" says the\nCap'en, \"you'd better go back and ask wot it's like, outside, for no\nmore don't I!\"'\n\n'That ain't the way to make money, though, is it?' said Polly.\n\n'Money, mother! He'll never make money. He has such ways as I never see.\nHe ain't a bad master though, I'll say that for him. But that ain't much\nto me, for I don't think I shall stop with him long.'\n\n'Not stop in your place, Rob!' cried his mother; while Mr Toodle opened\nhis eyes.\n\n'Not in that place, p'raps,' returned the Grinder, with a wink. 'I\nshouldn't wonder--friends at court you know--but never you mind, mother,\njust now; I'm all right, that's all.'\n\nThe indisputable proof afforded in these hints, and in the Grinder's\nmysterious manner, of his not being subject to that failing which Mr\nToodle had, by implication, attributed to him, might have led to a\nrenewal of his wrongs, and of the sensation in the family, but for the\nopportune arrival of another visitor, who, to Polly's great surprise,\nappeared at the door, smiling patronage and friendship on all there.\n\n'How do you do, Mrs Richards?' said Miss Tox. 'I have come to see you.\nMay I come in?'\n\nThe cheery face of Mrs Richards shone with a hospitable reply, and Miss\nTox, accepting the proffered chair, and grab fully recognising Mr Toodle\non her way to it, untied her bonnet strings, and said that in the first\nplace she must beg the dear children, one and all, to come and kiss her.\n\nThe ill-starred youngest Toodle but one, who would appear, from the\nfrequency of his domestic troubles, to have been born under an\nunlucky planet, was prevented from performing his part in this general\nsalutation by having fixed the sou'wester hat (with which he had been\npreviously trifling) deep on his head, hind side before, and being\nunable to get it off again; which accident presenting to his terrified\nimagination a dismal picture of his passing the rest of his days in\ndarkness, and in hopeless seclusion from his friends and family, caused\nhim to struggle with great violence, and to utter suffocating cries.\nBeing released, his face was discovered to be very hot, and red, and\ndamp; and Miss Tox took him on her lap, much exhausted.\n\n'You have almost forgotten me, Sir, I daresay,' said Miss Tox to Mr\nToodle.\n\n'No, Ma'am, no,' said Toodle. 'But we've all on us got a little older\nsince then.'\n\n'And how do you find yourself, Sir?' inquired Miss Tox, blandly.\n\n'Hearty, Ma'am, thank'ee,' replied Toodle. 'How do you find yourself,\nMa'am? Do the rheumaticks keep off pretty well, Ma'am? We must all\nexpect to grow into 'em, as we gets on.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Miss Tox. 'I have not felt any inconvenience from that\ndisorder yet.'\n\n'You're wery fortunate, Ma'am,' returned Mr Toodle. 'Many people at\nyour time of life, Ma'am, is martyrs to it. There was my mother--' But\ncatching his wife's eye here, Mr Toodle judiciously buried the rest in\nanother mug of tea.\n\n'You never mean to say, Mrs Richards,' cried Miss Tox, looking at Rob,\n'that that is your--'\n\n'Eldest, Ma'am,' said Polly. 'Yes, indeed, it is. That's the little\nfellow, Ma'am, that was the innocent cause of so much.'\n\n'This here, Ma'am,' said Toodle, 'is him with the short legs--and they\nwas,' said Mr Toodle, with a touch of poetry in his tone, 'unusual short\nfor leathers--as Mr Dombey made a Grinder on.'\n\nThe recollection almost overpowered Miss Tox. The subject of it had a\npeculiar interest for her directly. She asked him to shake hands, and\ncongratulated his mother on his frank, ingenuous face. Rob, overhearing\nher, called up a look, to justify the eulogium, but it was hardly the\nright look.\n\n'And now, Mrs Richards,' said Miss Tox,--'and you too, Sir,' addressing\nToodle--'I'll tell you, plainly and truly, what I have come here for.\nYou may be aware, Mrs Richards--and, possibly, you may be aware too,\nSir--that a little distance has interposed itself between me and some of\nmy friends, and that where I used to visit a good deal, I do not visit\nnow.'\n\nPolly, who, with a woman's tact, understood this at once, expressed as\nmuch in a little look. Mr Toodle, who had not the faintest idea of what\nMiss Tox was talking about, expressed that also, in a stare.\n\n'Of course,' said Miss Tox, 'how our little coolness has arisen is of no\nmoment, and does not require to be discussed. It is sufficient for me to\nsay, that I have the greatest possible respect for, and interest in,\nMr Dombey;' Miss Tox's voice faltered; 'and everything that relates to\nhim.'\n\nMr Toodle, enlightened, shook his head, and said he had heerd it said,\nand, for his own part, he did think, as Mr Dombey was a difficult\nsubject.\n\n'Pray don't say so, Sir, if you please,' returned Miss Tox. 'Let me\nentreat you not to say so, Sir, either now, or at any future time. Such\nobservations cannot but be very painful to me; and to a gentleman,\nwhose mind is constituted as, I am quite sure, yours is, can afford no\npermanent satisfaction.'\n\nMr Toodle, who had not entertained the least doubt of offering a remark\nthat would be received with acquiescence, was greatly confounded.\n\n'All that I wish to say, Mrs Richards,' resumed Miss Tox,--'and I\naddress myself to you too, Sir,--is this. That any intelligence of the\nproceedings of the family, of the welfare of the family, of the health\nof the family, that reaches you, will be always most acceptable to me.\nThat I shall be always very glad to chat with Mrs Richards about the\nfamily, and about old time And as Mrs Richards and I never had the least\ndifference (though I could wish now that we had been better acquainted,\nbut I have no one but myself to blame for that), I hope she will not\nobject to our being very good friends now, and to my coming backwards\nand forwards here, when I like, without being a stranger. Now, I really\nhope, Mrs Richards,' said Miss Tox--earnestly, 'that you will take this,\nas I mean it, like a good-humoured creature, as you always were.'\n\nPolly was gratified, and showed it. Mr Toodle didn't know whether he was\ngratified or not, and preserved a stolid calmness.\n\n'You see, Mrs Richards,' said Miss Tox--'and I hope you see too,\nSir--there are many little ways in which I can be slightly useful\nto you, if you will make no stranger of me; and in which I shall be\ndelighted to be so. For instance, I can teach your children something.\nI shall bring a few little books, if you'll allow me, and some work,\nand of an evening now and then, they'll learn--dear me, they'll learn a\ngreat deal, I trust, and be a credit to their teacher.'\n\nMr Toodle, who had a great respect for learning, jerked his head\napprovingly at his wife, and moistened his hands with dawning\nsatisfaction.\n\n'Then, not being a stranger, I shall be in nobody's way,' said Miss Tox,\n'and everything will go on just as if I were not here. Mrs Richards will\ndo her mending, or her ironing, or her nursing, whatever it is, without\nminding me: and you'll smoke your pipe, too, if you're so disposed, Sir,\nwon't you?'\n\n'Thank'ee, Mum,' said Mr Toodle. 'Yes; I'll take my bit of backer.'\n\n'Very good of you to say so, Sir,' rejoined Miss Tox, 'and I really do\nassure you now, unfeignedly, that it will be a great comfort to me, and\nthat whatever good I may be fortunate enough to do the children, you\nwill more than pay back to me, if you'll enter into this little bargain\ncomfortably, and easily, and good-naturedly, without another word about\nit.'\n\nThe bargain was ratified on the spot; and Miss Tox found herself so\nmuch at home already, that without delay she instituted a preliminary\nexamination of the children all round--which Mr Toodle much admired--and\nbooked their ages, names, and acquirements, on a piece of paper. This\nceremony, and a little attendant gossip, prolonged the time until after\ntheir usual hour of going to bed, and detained Miss Tox at the Toodle\nfireside until it was too late for her to walk home alone. The gallant\nGrinder, however, being still there, politely offered to attend her to\nher own door; and as it was something to Miss Tox to be seen home by a\nyouth whom Mr Dombey had first inducted into those manly garments which\nare rarely mentioned by name, she very readily accepted the proposal.\n\nAfter shaking hands with Mr Toodle and Polly, and kissing all the\nchildren, Miss Tox left the house, therefore, with unlimited popularity,\nand carrying away with her so light a heart that it might have given Mrs\nChick offence if that good lady could have weighed it.\n\nRob the Grinder, in his modesty, would have walked behind, but Miss Tox\ndesired him to keep beside her, for conversational purposes; and, as she\nafterwards expressed it to his mother, 'drew him out,' upon the road.\n\nHe drew out so bright, and clear, and shining, that Miss Tox was charmed\nwith him. The more Miss Tox drew him out, the finer he came--like wire.\nThere never was a better or more promising youth--a more affectionate,\nsteady, prudent, sober, honest, meek, candid young man--than Rob drew\nout, that night.\n\n'I am quite glad,' said Miss Tox, arrived at her own door, 'to know you.\nI hope you'll consider me your friend, and that you'll come and see me\nas often as you like. Do you keep a money-box?'\n\n'Yes, Ma'am,' returned Rob; 'I'm saving up, against I've got enough to\nput in the Bank, Ma'am.\n\n'Very laudable indeed,' said Miss Tox. 'I'm glad to hear it. Put this\nhalf-crown into it, if you please.'\n\n'Oh thank you, Ma'am,' replied Rob, 'but really I couldn't think of\ndepriving you.'\n\n'I commend your independent spirit,' said Miss Tox, 'but it's no\ndeprivation, I assure you. I shall be offended if you don't take it, as\na mark of my good-will. Good-night, Robin.'\n\n'Good-night, Ma'am,' said Rob, 'and thank you!'\n\nWho ran sniggering off to get change, and tossed it away with a pieman.\nBut they never taught honour at the Grinders' School, where the system\nthat prevailed was particularly strong in the engendering of hypocrisy.\nInsomuch, that many of the friends and masters of past Grinders said,\nif this were what came of education for the common people, let us\nhave none. Some more rational said, let us have a better one. But the\ngoverning powers of the Grinders' Company were always ready for them, by\npicking out a few boys who had turned out well in spite of the system,\nand roundly asserting that they could have only turned out well because\nof it. Which settled the business of those objectors out of hand, and\nestablished the glory of the Grinders' Institution.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 39. Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, Mariner\n\n\nTime, sure of foot and strong of will, had so pressed onward, that the\nyear enjoined by the old Instrument-maker, as the term during which his\nfriend should refrain from opening the sealed packet accompanying the\nletter he had left for him, was now nearly expired, and Captain Cuttle\nbegan to look at it, of an evening, with feelings of mystery and\nuneasiness.\n\nThe Captain, in his honour, would as soon have thought of opening the\nparcel one hour before the expiration of the term, as he would have\nthought of opening himself, to study his own anatomy. He merely brought\nit out, at a certain stage of his first evening pipe, laid it on the\ntable, and sat gazing at the outside of it, through the smoke, in silent\ngravity, for two or three hours at a spell. Sometimes, when he had\ncontemplated it thus for a pretty long while, the Captain would hitch\nhis chair, by degrees, farther and farther off, as if to get beyond\nthe range of its fascination; but if this were his design, he never\nsucceeded: for even when he was brought up by the parlour wall, the\npacket still attracted him; or if his eyes, in thoughtful wandering,\nroved to the ceiling or the fire, its image immediately followed, and\nposted itself conspicuously among the coals, or took up an advantageous\nposition on the whitewash.\n\nIn respect of Heart's Delight, the Captain's parental and admiration\nknew no change. But since his last interview with Mr Carker, Captain\nCuttle had come to entertain doubts whether his former intervention in\nbehalf of that young lady and his dear boy Wal'r, had proved altogether\nso favourable as he could have wished, and as he at the time believed.\nThe Captain was troubled with a serious misgiving that he had done more\nharm than good, in short; and in his remorse and modesty he made the\nbest atonement he could think of, by putting himself out of the way of\ndoing any harm to anyone, and, as it were, throwing himself overboard\nfor a dangerous person.\n\nSelf-buried, therefore, among the instruments, the Captain never went\nnear Mr Dombey's house, or reported himself in any way to Florence or\nMiss Nipper. He even severed himself from Mr Perch, on the occasion of\nhis next visit, by dryly informing that gentleman, that he thanked him\nfor his company, but had cut himself adrift from all such acquaintance,\nas he didn't know what magazine he mightn't blow up, without meaning of\nit. In this self-imposed retirement, the Captain passed whole days and\nweeks without interchanging a word with anyone but Rob the Grinder, whom\nhe esteemed as a pattern of disinterested attachment and fidelity. In\nthis retirement, the Captain, gazing at the packet of an evening, would\nsit smoking, and thinking of Florence and poor Walter, until they both\nseemed to his homely fancy to be dead, and to have passed away into\neternal youth, the beautiful and innocent children of his first\nremembrance.\n\nThe Captain did not, however, in his musings, neglect his own\nimprovement, or the mental culture of Rob the Grinder. That young man\nwas generally required to read out of some book to the Captain, for one\nhour, every evening; and as the Captain implicitly believed that all\nbooks were true, he accumulated, by this means, many remarkable facts.\nOn Sunday nights, the Captain always read for himself, before going to\nbed, a certain Divine Sermon once delivered on a Mount; and although he\nwas accustomed to quote the text, without book, after his own manner,\nhe appeared to read it with as reverent an understanding of its heavenly\nspirit, as if he had got it all by heart in Greek, and had been able\nto write any number of fierce theological disquisitions on its every\nphrase.\n\nRob the Grinder, whose reverence for the inspired writings, under\nthe admirable system of the Grinders' School, had been developed by\na perpetual bruising of his intellectual shins against all the proper\nnames of all the tribes of Judah, and by the monotonous repetition of\nhard verses, especially by way of punishment, and by the parading of him\nat six years old in leather breeches, three times a Sunday, very high\nup, in a very hot church, with a great organ buzzing against his drowsy\nhead, like an exceedingly busy bee--Rob the Grinder made a mighty show\nof being edified when the Captain ceased to read, and generally yawned\nand nodded while the reading was in progress. The latter fact being\nnever so much as suspected by the good Captain.\n\nCaptain Cuttle, also, as a man of business; took to keeping books. In\nthese he entered observations on the weather, and on the currents of the\nwaggons and other vehicles: which he observed, in that quarter, to set\nwestward in the morning and during the greater part of the day, and\neastward towards the evening. Two or three stragglers appearing in one\nweek, who 'spoke him'--so the Captain entered it--on the subject of\nspectacles, and who, without positively purchasing, said they would look\nin again, the Captain decided that the business was improving, and made\nan entry in the day-book to that effect: the wind then blowing (which he\nfirst recorded) pretty fresh, west and by north; having changed in the\nnight.\n\nOne of the Captain's chief difficulties was Mr Toots, who called\nfrequently, and who without saying much seemed to have an idea that the\nlittle back parlour was an eligible room to chuckle in, as he would sit\nand avail himself of its accommodations in that regard by the half-hour\ntogether, without at all advancing in intimacy with the Captain. The\nCaptain, rendered cautious by his late experience, was unable quite to\nsatisfy his mind whether Mr Toots was the mild subject he appeared to\nbe, or was a profoundly artful and dissimulating hypocrite. His frequent\nreference to Miss Dombey was suspicious; but the Captain had a secret\nkindness for Mr Toots's apparent reliance on him, and forbore to decide\nagainst him for the present; merely eyeing him, with a sagacity not to\nbe described, whenever he approached the subject that was nearest to his\nheart.\n\n'Captain Gills,' blurted out Mr Toots, one day all at once, as his\nmanner was, 'do you think you could think favourably of that proposition\nof mine, and give me the pleasure of your acquaintance?'\n\n'Why, I tell you what it is, my lad,' replied the Captain, who had at\nlength concluded on a course of action; 'I've been turning that there,\nover.'\n\n'Captain Gills, it's very kind of you,' retorted Mr Toots. 'I'm much\nobliged to you. Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills, it would be a\ncharity to give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. It really would.'\n\n'You see, brother,' argued the Captain slowly, 'I don't know you.'\n\n'But you never can know me, Captain Gills,' replied Mr Toots, steadfast\nto his point, 'if you don't give me the pleasure of your acquaintance.'\n\nThe Captain seemed struck by the originality and power of this remark,\nand looked at Mr Toots as if he thought there was a great deal more in\nhim than he had expected.\n\n'Well said, my lad,' observed the Captain, nodding his head\nthoughtfully; 'and true. Now look'ee here: You've made some observations\nto me, which gives me to understand as you admire a certain sweet\ncreetur. Hey?'\n\n'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, gesticulating violently with the hand in\nwhich he held his hat, 'Admiration is not the word. Upon my honour, you\nhave no conception what my feelings are. If I could be dyed black, and\nmade Miss Dombey's slave, I should consider it a compliment. If, at\nthe sacrifice of all my property, I could get transmigrated into Miss\nDombey's dog--I--I really think I should never leave off wagging my\ntail. I should be so perfectly happy, Captain Gills!'\n\nMr Toots said it with watery eyes, and pressed his hat against his bosom\nwith deep emotion.\n\n'My lad,' returned the Captain, moved to compassion, 'if you're in\narnest--'\n\n'Captain Gills,' cried Mr Toots, 'I'm in such a state of mind, and am so\ndreadfully in earnest, that if I could swear to it upon a hot piece\nof iron, or a live coal, or melted lead, or burning sealing-wax, Or\nanything of that sort, I should be glad to hurt myself, as a relief to\nmy feelings.' And Mr Toots looked hurriedly about the room, as if for\nsome sufficiently painful means of accomplishing his dread purpose.\n\nThe Captain pushed his glazed hat back upon his head, stroked his\nface down with his heavy hand--making his nose more mottled in the\nprocess--and planting himself before Mr Toots, and hooking him by the\nlapel of his coat, addressed him in these words, while Mr Toots looked\nup into his face, with much attention and some wonder.\n\n'If you're in arnest, you see, my lad,' said the Captain, 'you're a\nobject of clemency, and clemency is the brightest jewel in the crown of\na Briton's head, for which you'll overhaul the constitution as laid down\nin Rule Britannia, and, when found, that is the charter as them garden\nangels was a singing of, so many times over. Stand by! This here\nproposal o' you'rn takes me a little aback. And why? Because I holds\nmy own only, you understand, in these here waters, and haven't got no\nconsort, and may be don't wish for none. Steady! You hailed me first,\nalong of a certain young lady, as you was chartered by. Now if you and\nme is to keep one another's company at all, that there young creetur's\nname must never be named nor referred to. I don't know what harm mayn't\nhave been done by naming of it too free, afore now, and thereby I brings\nup short. D'ye make me out pretty clear, brother?'\n\n'Well, you'll excuse me, Captain Gills,' replied Mr Toots, 'if I don't\nquite follow you sometimes. But upon my word I--it's a hard thing,\nCaptain Gills, not to be able to mention Miss Dombey. I really have\ngot such a dreadful load here!'--Mr Toots pathetically touched his\nshirt-front with both hands--'that I feel night and day, exactly as if\nsomebody was sitting upon me.'\n\n'Them,' said the Captain, 'is the terms I offer. If they're hard upon\nyou, brother, as mayhap they are, give 'em a wide berth, sheer off, and\npart company cheerily!'\n\n'Captain Gills,' returned Mr Toots, 'I hardly know how it is, but after\nwhat you told me when I came here, for the first time, I--I feel that\nI'd rather think about Miss Dombey in your society than talk about her\nin almost anybody else's. Therefore, Captain Gills, if you'll give me\nthe pleasure of your acquaintance, I shall be very happy to accept it\non your own conditions. I wish to be honourable, Captain Gills,' said Mr\nToots, holding back his extended hand for a moment, 'and therefore I\nam obliged to say that I can not help thinking about Miss Dombey. It's\nimpossible for me to make a promise not to think about her.'\n\n'My lad,' said the Captain, whose opinion of Mr Toots was much improved\nby this candid avowal, 'a man's thoughts is like the winds, and nobody\ncan't answer for 'em for certain, any length of time together. Is it a\ntreaty as to words?'\n\n'As to words, Captain Gills,' returned Mr Toots, 'I think I can bind\nmyself.'\n\nMr Toots gave Captain Cuttle his hand upon it, then and there; and the\nCaptain with a pleasant and gracious show of condescension, bestowed\nhis acquaintance upon him formally. Mr Toots seemed much relieved\nand gladdened by the acquisition, and chuckled rapturously during the\nremainder of his visit. The Captain, for his part, was not ill pleased\nto occupy that position of patronage, and was exceedingly well satisfied\nby his own prudence and foresight.\n\nBut rich as Captain Cuttle was in the latter quality, he received a\nsurprise that same evening from a no less ingenuous and simple youth,\nthan Rob the Grinder. That artless lad, drinking tea at the same table,\nand bending meekly over his cup and saucer, having taken sidelong\nobservations of his master for some time, who was reading the newspaper\nwith great difficulty, but much dignity, through his glasses, broke\nsilence by saying--\n\n'Oh! I beg your pardon, Captain, but you mayn't be in want of any\npigeons, may you, Sir?'\n\n'No, my lad,' replied the Captain.\n\n'Because I was wishing to dispose of mine, Captain,' said Rob.\n\n'Ay, ay?' cried the Captain, lifting up his bushy eyebrows a little.\n\n'Yes; I'm going, Captain, if you please,' said Rob.\n\n'Going? Where are you going?' asked the Captain, looking round at him\nover the glasses.\n\n'What? didn't you know that I was going to leave you, Captain?' asked\nRob, with a sneaking smile.\n\nThe Captain put down the paper, took off his spectacles, and brought his\neyes to bear on the deserter.\n\n'Oh yes, Captain, I am going to give you warning. I thought you'd\nhave known that beforehand, perhaps,' said Rob, rubbing his hands, and\ngetting up. 'If you could be so good as provide yourself soon, Captain,\nit would be a great convenience to me. You couldn't provide yourself by\nto-morrow morning, I am afraid, Captain: could you, do you think?'\n\n'And you're a going to desert your colours, are you, my lad?' said the\nCaptain, after a long examination of his face.\n\n'Oh, it's very hard upon a cove, Captain,' cried the tender Rob, injured\nand indignant in a moment, 'that he can't give lawful warning, without\nbeing frowned at in that way, and called a deserter. You haven't any\nright to call a poor cove names, Captain. It ain't because I'm a servant\nand you're a master, that you're to go and libel me. What wrong have I\ndone? Come, Captain, let me know what my crime is, will you?'\n\nThe stricken Grinder wept, and put his coat-cuff in his eye.\n\n'Come, Captain,' cried the injured youth, 'give my crime a name! What\nhave I been and done? Have I stolen any of the property? have I set the\nhouse a-fire? If I have, why don't you give me in charge, and try it?\nBut to take away the character of a lad that's been a good servant to\nyou, because he can't afford to stand in his own light for your good,\nwhat a injury it is, and what a bad return for faithful service! This is\nthe way young coves is spiled and drove wrong. I wonder at you, Captain,\nI do.'\n\nAll of which the Grinder howled forth in a lachrymose whine, and backing\ncarefully towards the door.\n\n'And so you've got another berth, have you, my lad?' said the Captain,\neyeing him intently.\n\n'Yes, Captain, since you put it in that shape, I have got another\nberth,' cried Rob, backing more and more; 'a better berth than I've got\nhere, and one where I don't so much as want your good word, Captain,\nwhich is fort'nate for me, after all the dirt you've throw'd at me,\nbecause I'm poor, and can't afford to stand in my own light for your\ngood. Yes, I have got another berth; and if it wasn't for leaving you\nunprovided, Captain, I'd go to it now, sooner than I'd take them names\nfrom you, because I'm poor, and can't afford to stand in my own light\nfor your good. Why do you reproach me for being poor, and not standing\nin my own light for your good, Captain? How can you so demean yourself?'\n\n'Look ye here, my boy,' replied the peaceful Captain. 'Don't you pay out\nno more of them words.'\n\n'Well, then, don't you pay in no more of your words, Captain,' retorted\nthe roused innocent, getting louder in his whine, and backing into the\nshop. 'I'd sooner you took my blood than my character.'\n\n'Because,' pursued the Captain calmly, 'you have heerd, may be, of such\na thing as a rope's end.'\n\n'Oh, have I though, Captain?' cried the taunting Grinder. 'No I haven't.\nI never heerd of any such a article!'\n\n'Well,' said the Captain, 'it's my belief as you'll know more about\nit pretty soon, if you don't keep a bright look-out. I can read your\nsignals, my lad. You may go.'\n\n'Oh! I may go at once, may I, Captain?' cried Rob, exulting in his\nsuccess. 'But mind! I never asked to go at once, Captain. You are not\nto take away my character again, because you send me off of your own\naccord. And you're not to stop any of my wages, Captain!'\n\nHis employer settled the last point by producing the tin canister and\ntelling the Grinder's money out in full upon the table. Rob, snivelling\nand sobbing, and grievously wounded in his feelings, took up the\npieces one by one, with a sob and a snivel for each, and tied them up\nseparately in knots in his pockethandkerchief; then he ascended to the\nroof of the house and filled his hat and pockets with pigeons;\nthen, came down to his bed under the counter and made up his bundle,\nsnivelling and sobbing louder, as if he were cut to the heart by old\nassociations; then he whined, 'Good-night, Captain. I leave you without\nmalice!' and then, going out upon the door-step, pulled the little\nMidshipman's nose as a parting indignity, and went away down the street\ngrinning triumphantly.\n\nThe Captain, left to himself, resumed his perusal of the news as if\nnothing unusual or unexpected had taken place, and went reading on with\nthe greatest assiduity. But never a word did Captain Cuttle understand,\nthough he read a vast number, for Rob the Grinder was scampering up one\ncolumn and down another all through the newspaper.\n\nIt is doubtful whether the worthy Captain had ever felt himself quite\nabandoned until now; but now, old Sol Gills, Walter, and Heart's Delight\nwere lost to him indeed, and now Mr Carker deceived and jeered him\ncruelly. They were all represented in the false Rob, to whom he had held\nforth many a time on the recollections that were warm within him; he had\nbelieved in the false Rob, and had been glad to believe in him; he had\nmade a companion of him as the last of the old ship's company; he had\ntaken the command of the little Midshipman with him at his right hand;\nhe had meant to do his duty by him, and had felt almost as kindly\ntowards the boy as if they had been shipwrecked and cast upon a desert\nplace together. And now, that the false Rob had brought distrust,\ntreachery, and meanness into the very parlour, which was a kind of\nsacred place, Captain Cuttle felt as if the parlour might have gone down\nnext, and not surprised him much by its sinking, or given him any very\ngreat concern.\n\nTherefore Captain Cuttle read the newspaper with profound attention and\nno comprehension, and therefore Captain Cuttle said nothing whatever\nabout Rob to himself, or admitted to himself that he was thinking about\nhim, or would recognise in the most distant manner that Rob had anything\nto do with his feeling as lonely as Robinson Crusoe.\n\nIn the same composed, business-like way, the Captain stepped over\nto Leadenhall Market in the dusk, and effected an arrangement with a\nprivate watchman on duty there, to come and put up and take down the\nshutters of the wooden Midshipman every night and morning. He then\ncalled in at the eating-house to diminish by one half the daily rations\ntheretofore supplied to the Midshipman, and at the public-house to stop\nthe traitor's beer. 'My young man,' said the Captain, in explanation to\nthe young lady at the bar, 'my young man having bettered himself, Miss.'\nLastly, the Captain resolved to take possession of the bed under the\ncounter, and to turn in there o' nights instead of upstairs, as sole\nguardian of the property.\n\nFrom this bed Captain Cuttle daily rose thenceforth, and clapped on\nhis glazed hat at six o'clock in the morning, with the solitary air of\nCrusoe finishing his toilet with his goat-skin cap; and although his\nfears of a visitation from the savage tribe, MacStinger, were somewhat\ncooled, as similar apprehensions on the part of that lone mariner\nused to be by the lapse of a long interval without any symptoms of the\ncannibals, he still observed a regular routine of defensive operations,\nand never encountered a bonnet without previous survey from his castle\nof retreat. In the meantime (during which he received no call from Mr\nToots, who wrote to say he was out of town) his own voice began to have\na strange sound in his ears; and he acquired such habits of profound\nmeditation from much polishing and stowing away of the stock, and from\nmuch sitting behind the counter reading, or looking out of window, that\nthe red rim made on his forehead by the hard glazed hat, sometimes ached\nagain with excess of reflection.\n\nThe year being now expired, Captain Cuttle deemed it expedient to open\nthe packet; but as he had always designed doing this in the presence of\nRob the Grinder, who had brought it to him, and as he had an idea\nthat it would be regular and ship-shape to open it in the presence\nof somebody, he was sadly put to it for want of a witness. In this\ndifficulty, he hailed one day with unusual delight the announcement in\nthe Shipping Intelligence of the arrival of the Cautious Clara, Captain\nJohn Bunsby, from a coasting voyage; and to that philosopher immediately\ndispatched a letter by post, enjoining inviolable secrecy as to his\nplace of residence, and requesting to be favoured with an early visit,\nin the evening season.\n\nBunsby, who was one of those sages who act upon conviction, took\nsome days to get the conviction thoroughly into his mind, that he had\nreceived a letter to this effect. But when he had grappled with the\nfact, and mastered it, he promptly sent his boy with the message, 'He's\na coming to-night.' Who being instructed to deliver those words and\ndisappear, fulfilled his mission like a tarry spirit, charged with a\nmysterious warning.\n\nThe Captain, well pleased to receive it, made preparation of pipes and\nrum and water, and awaited his visitor in the back parlour. At the hour\nof eight, a deep lowing, as of a nautical Bull, outside the shop-door,\nsucceeded by the knocking of a stick on the panel, announced to the\nlistening ear of Captain Cuttle, that Bunsby was alongside; whom he\ninstantly admitted, shaggy and loose, and with his stolid mahogany\nvisage, as usual, appearing to have no consciousness of anything before\nit, but to be attentively observing something that was taking place in\nquite another part of the world.\n\n'Bunsby,' said the Captain, grasping him by the hand, 'what cheer, my\nlad, what cheer?'\n\n'Shipmet,' replied the voice within Bunsby, unaccompanied by any sign on\nthe part of the Commander himself, 'hearty, hearty.'\n\n'Bunsby!' said the Captain, rendering irrepressible homage to his\ngenius, 'here you are! a man as can give an opinion as is brighter than\ndi'monds--and give me the lad with the tarry trousers as shines to me\nlike di'monds bright, for which you'll overhaul the Stanfell's Budget,\nand when found make a note. Here you are, a man as gave an opinion in\nthis here very place, that has come true, every letter on it,' which the\nCaptain sincerely believed.\n\n'Ay, ay?' growled Bunsby.\n\n'Every letter,' said the Captain.\n\n'For why?' growled Bunsby, looking at his friend for the first time.\n'Which way? If so, why not? Therefore.' With these oracular words--they\nseemed almost to make the Captain giddy; they launched him upon such a\nsea of speculation and conjecture--the sage submitted to be helped off\nwith his pilot-coat, and accompanied his friend into the back parlour,\nwhere his hand presently alighted on the rum-bottle, from which he\nbrewed a stiff glass of grog; and presently afterwards on a pipe, which\nhe filled, lighted, and began to smoke.\n\nCaptain Cuttle, imitating his visitor in the matter of these\nparticulars, though the rapt and imperturbable manner of the great\nCommander was far above his powers, sat in the opposite corner of the\nfireside, observing him respectfully, and as if he waited for some\nencouragement or expression of curiosity on Bunsby's part which should\nlead him to his own affairs. But as the mahogany philosopher gave no\nevidence of being sentient of anything but warmth and tobacco, except\nonce, when taking his pipe from his lips to make room for his glass, he\nincidentally remarked with exceeding gruffness, that his name was\nJack Bunsby--a declaration that presented but small opening for\nconversation--the Captain bespeaking his attention in a short\ncomplimentary exordium, narrated the whole history of Uncle Sol's\ndeparture, with the change it had produced in his own life and fortunes;\nand concluded by placing the packet on the table.\n\nAfter a long pause, Mr Bunsby nodded his head.\n\n'Open?' said the Captain.\n\nBunsby nodded again.\n\nThe Captain accordingly broke the seal, and disclosed to view two folded\npapers, of which he severally read the endorsements, thus: 'Last Will\nand Testament of Solomon Gills.' 'Letter for Ned Cuttle.'\n\nBunsby, with his eye on the coast of Greenland, seemed to listen for the\ncontents. The Captain therefore hemmed to clear his throat, and read the\nletter aloud.\n\n'\"My dear Ned Cuttle. When I left home for the West Indies\"--'\n\nHere the Captain stopped, and looked hard at Bunsby, who looked fixedly\nat the coast of Greenland.\n\n'--\"in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear boy, I knew that if you\nwere acquainted with my design, you would thwart it, or accompany me;\nand therefore I kept it secret. If you ever read this letter, Ned, I am\nlikely to be dead. You will easily forgive an old friend's folly then,\nand will feel for the restlessness and uncertainty in which he wandered\naway on such a wild voyage. So no more of that. I have little hope that\nmy poor boy will ever read these words, or gladden your eyes with\nthe sight of his frank face any more.\" No, no; no more,' said Captain\nCuttle, sorrowfully meditating; 'no more. There he lays, all his days--'\n\nMr Bunsby, who had a musical ear, suddenly bellowed, 'In the Bays\nof Biscay, O!' which so affected the good Captain, as an appropriate\ntribute to departed worth, that he shook him by the hand in\nacknowledgment, and was fain to wipe his eyes.\n\n'Well, well!' said the Captain with a sigh, as the Lament of Bunsby\nceased to ring and vibrate in the skylight. 'Affliction sore, long time\nhe bore, and let us overhaul the wollume, and there find it.'\n\n'Physicians,' observed Bunsby, 'was in vain.'\n\n'Ay, ay, to be sure,' said the Captain, 'what's the good o' them in two\nor three hundred fathoms o' water!' Then, returning to the letter, he\nread on:--'\"But if he should be by, when it is opened;\"' the Captain\ninvoluntarily looked round, and shook his head; '\"or should know of it\nat any other time;\"' the Captain shook his head again; '\"my blessing on\nhim! In case the accompanying paper is not legally written, it matters\nvery little, for there is no one interested but you and he, and my plain\nwish is, that if he is living he should have what little there may be,\nand if (as I fear) otherwise, that you should have it, Ned. You\nwill respect my wish, I know. God bless you for it, and for all your\nfriendliness besides, to Solomon Gills.\" Bunsby!' said the Captain,\nappealing to him solemnly, 'what do you make of this? There you sit, a\nman as has had his head broke from infancy up'ards, and has got a new\nopinion into it at every seam as has been opened. Now, what do you make\no' this?'\n\n'If so be,' returned Bunsby, with unusual promptitude, 'as he's dead,\nmy opinion is he won't come back no more. If so be as he's alive, my\nopinion is he will. Do I say he will? No. Why not? Because the bearings\nof this obserwation lays in the application on it.'\n\n'Bunsby!' said Captain Cuttle, who would seem to have estimated the\nvalue of his distinguished friend's opinions in proportion to the\nimmensity of the difficulty he experienced in making anything out of\nthem; 'Bunsby,' said the Captain, quite confounded by admiration, 'you\ncarry a weight of mind easy, as would swamp one of my tonnage soon. But\nin regard o' this here will, I don't mean to take no steps towards the\nproperty--Lord forbid!--except to keep it for a more rightful owner; and\nI hope yet as the rightful owner, Sol Gills, is living and'll come back,\nstrange as it is that he ain't forwarded no dispatches. Now, what is\nyour opinion, Bunsby, as to stowing of these here papers away again, and\nmarking outside as they was opened, such a day, in the presence of John\nBunsby and Ed'ard Cuttle?'\n\nBunsby, descrying no objection, on the coast of Greenland or elsewhere,\nto this proposal, it was carried into execution; and that great man,\nbringing his eye into the present for a moment, affixed his sign-manual\nto the cover, totally abstaining, with characteristic modesty, from\nthe use of capital letters. Captain Cuttle, having attached his own\nleft-handed signature, and locked up the packet in the iron safe,\nentreated his guest to mix another glass and smoke another pipe; and\ndoing the like himself, fell a musing over the fire on the possible\nfortunes of the poor old Instrument-maker.\n\nAnd now a surprise occurred, so overwhelming and terrific that Captain\nCuttle, unsupported by the presence of Bunsby, must have sunk beneath\nit, and been a lost man from that fatal hour.\n\nHow the Captain, even in the satisfaction of admitting such a guest,\ncould have only shut the door, and not locked it, of which negligence\nhe was undoubtedly guilty, is one of those questions that must for ever\nremain mere points of speculation, or vague charges against destiny.\nBut by that unlocked door, at this quiet moment, did the fell MacStinger\ndash into the parlour, bringing Alexander MacStinger in her parental\narms, and confusion and vengeance (not to mention Juliana MacStinger,\nand the sweet child's brother, Charles MacStinger, popularly known about\nthe scenes of his youthful sports, as Chowley) in her train. She came\nso swiftly and so silently, like a rushing air from the neighbourhood of\nthe East India Docks, that Captain Cuttle found himself in the very act\nof sitting looking at her, before the calm face with which he had been\nmeditating, changed to one of horror and dismay.\n\nBut the moment Captain Cuttle understood the full extent of his\nmisfortune, self-preservation dictated an attempt at flight. Darting at\nthe little door which opened from the parlour on the steep little range\nof cellar-steps, the Captain made a rush, head-foremost, at the latter,\nlike a man indifferent to bruises and contusions, who only sought to\nhide himself in the bowels of the earth. In this gallant effort he\nwould probably have succeeded, but for the affectionate dispositions\nof Juliana and Chowley, who pinning him by the legs--one of those\ndear children holding on to each--claimed him as their friend, with\nlamentable cries. In the meantime, Mrs MacStinger, who never entered\nupon any action of importance without previously inverting Alexander\nMacStinger, to bring him within the range of a brisk battery of slaps,\nand then sitting him down to cool as the reader first beheld him,\nperformed that solemn rite, as if on this occasion it were a sacrifice\nto the Furies; and having deposited the victim on the floor, made at the\nCaptain with a strength of purpose that appeared to threaten scratches\nto the interposing Bunsby.\n\nThe cries of the two elder MacStingers, and the wailing of young\nAlexander, who may be said to have passed a piebald childhood, forasmuch\nas he was black in the face during one half of that fairy period of\nexistence, combined to make this visitation the more awful. But when\nsilence reigned again, and the Captain, in a violent perspiration, stood\nmeekly looking at Mrs MacStinger, its terrors were at their height.\n\n'Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en Cuttle!' said Mrs MacStinger, making her chin\nrigid, and shaking it in unison with what, but for the weakness of her\nsex, might be described as her fist. 'Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en Cuttle,\ndo you dare to look me in the face, and not be struck down in the\nberth!'\n\nThe Captain, who looked anything but daring, feebly muttered 'Stand by!'\n\n'Oh I was a weak and trusting Fool when I took you under my roof, Cap'en\nCuttle, I was!' cried Mrs MacStinger. 'To think of the benefits I've\nshowered on that man, and the way in which I brought my children up to\nlove and honour him as if he was a father to 'em, when there ain't a\nhousekeeper, no nor a lodger in our street, don't know that I lost money\nby that man, and by his guzzlings and his muzzlings'--Mrs MacStinger\nused the last word for the joint sake of alliteration and aggravation,\nrather than for the expression of any idea--'and when they cried out one\nand all, shame upon him for putting upon an industrious woman, up early\nand late for the good of her young family, and keeping her poor place so\nclean that a individual might have ate his dinner, yes, and his tea too,\nif he was so disposed, off any one of the floors or stairs, in spite\nof all his guzzlings and his muzzlings, such was the care and pains\nbestowed upon him!'\n\nMrs MacStinger stopped to fetch her breath; and her face flushed with\ntriumph in this second happy introduction of Captain Cuttle's muzzlings.\n\n'And he runs awa-a-a-y!' cried Mrs MacStinger, with a lengthening out of\nthe last syllable that made the unfortunate Captain regard himself as\nthe meanest of men; 'and keeps away a twelve-month! From a woman! Such\nis his conscience! He hasn't the courage to meet her hi-i-igh;' long\nsyllable again; 'but steals away, like a fellon. Why, if that baby of\nmine,' said Mrs MacStinger, with sudden rapidity, 'was to offer to go\nand steal away, I'd do my duty as a mother by him, till he was covered\nwith wales!'\n\nThe young Alexander, interpreting this into a positive promise, to be\nshortly redeemed, tumbled over with fear and grief, and lay upon the\nfloor, exhibiting the soles of his shoes and making such a deafening\noutcry, that Mrs MacStinger found it necessary to take him up in her\narms, where she quieted him, ever and anon, as he broke out again, by a\nshake that seemed enough to loosen his teeth.\n\n'A pretty sort of a man is Cap'en Cuttle,' said Mrs MacStinger, with a\nsharp stress on the first syllable of the Captain's name, 'to take on\nfor--and to lose sleep for--and to faint along of--and to think dead\nforsooth--and to go up and down the blessed town like a madwoman, asking\nquestions after! Oh, a pretty sort of a man! Ha ha ha ha! He's worth all\nthat trouble and distress of mind, and much more. That's nothing, bless\nyou! Ha ha ha ha! Cap'en Cuttle,' said Mrs MacStinger, with severe\nreaction in her voice and manner, 'I wish to know if you're a-coming\nhome.'\n\nThe frightened Captain looked into his hat, as if he saw nothing for it\nbut to put it on, and give himself up.\n\n'Cap'en Cuttle,' repeated Mrs MacStinger, in the same determined manner,\n'I wish to know if you're a-coming home, Sir.'\n\nThe Captain seemed quite ready to go, but faintly suggested something to\nthe effect of 'not making so much noise about it.'\n\n'Ay, ay, ay,' said Bunsby, in a soothing tone. 'Awast, my lass, awast!'\n\n'And who may you be, if you please!' retorted Mrs MacStinger, with\nchaste loftiness. 'Did you ever lodge at Number Nine, Brig Place, Sir?\nMy memory may be bad, but not with me, I think. There was a Mrs Jollson\nlived at Number Nine before me, and perhaps you're mistaking me for her.\nThat is my only ways of accounting for your familiarity, Sir.'\n\n'Come, come, my lass, awast, awast!' said Bunsby.\n\nCaptain Cuttle could hardly believe it, even of this great man, though\nhe saw it done with his waking eyes; but Bunsby, advancing boldly, put\nhis shaggy blue arm round Mrs MacStinger, and so softened her by his\nmagic way of doing it, and by these few words--he said no more--that\nshe melted into tears, after looking upon him for a few moments, and\nobserved that a child might conquer her now, she was so low in her\ncourage.\n\nSpeechless and utterly amazed, the Captain saw him gradually persuade\nthis inexorable woman into the shop, return for rum and water and a\ncandle, take them to her, and pacify her without appearing to utter one\nword. Presently he looked in with his pilot-coat on, and said, 'Cuttle,\nI'm a-going to act as convoy home;' and Captain Cuttle, more to his\nconfusion than if he had been put in irons himself, for safe transport\nto Brig Place, saw the family pacifically filing off, with Mrs\nMacStinger at their head. He had scarcely time to take down his\ncanister, and stealthily convey some money into the hands of Juliana\nMacStinger, his former favourite, and Chowley, who had the claim upon\nhim that he was naturally of a maritime build, before the Midshipman was\nabandoned by them all; and Bunsby whispering that he'd carry on smart,\nand hail Ned Cuttle again before he went aboard, shut the door upon\nhimself, as the last member of the party.\n\nSome uneasy ideas that he must be walking in his sleep, or that he had\nbeen troubled with phantoms, and not a family of flesh and blood, beset\nthe Captain at first, when he went back to the little parlour, and found\nhimself alone. Illimitable faith in, and immeasurable admiration of, the\nCommander of the Cautious Clara, succeeded, and threw the Captain into a\nwondering trance.\n\nStill, as time wore on, and Bunsby failed to reappear, the Captain began\nto entertain uncomfortable doubts of another kind. Whether Bunsby had\nbeen artfully decoyed to Brig Place, and was there detained in safe\ncustody as hostage for his friend; in which case it would become the\nCaptain, as a man of honour, to release him, by the sacrifice of his own\nliberty. Whether he had been attacked and defeated by Mrs MacStinger,\nand was ashamed to show himself after his discomfiture. Whether Mrs\nMacStinger, thinking better of it, in the uncertainty of her temper,\nhad turned back to board the Midshipman again, and Bunsby, pretending to\nconduct her by a short cut, was endeavouring to lose the family amid\nthe wilds and savage places of the City. Above all, what it would behove\nhim, Captain Cuttle, to do, in case of his hearing no more, either of\nthe MacStingers or of Bunsby, which, in these wonderful and unforeseen\nconjunctions of events, might possibly happen.\n\nHe debated all this until he was tired; and still no Bunsby. He made\nup his bed under the counter, all ready for turning in; and still no\nBunsby. At length, when the Captain had given him up, for that night\nat least, and had begun to undress, the sound of approaching wheels was\nheard, and, stopping at the door, was succeeded by Bunsby's hail.\n\nThe Captain trembled to think that Mrs MacStinger was not to be got rid\nof, and had been brought back in a coach.\n\nBut no. Bunsby was accompanied by nothing but a large box, which he\nhauled into the shop with his own hands, and as soon as he had hauled\nin, sat upon. Captain Cuttle knew it for the chest he had left at\nMrs MacStinger's house, and looking, candle in hand, at Bunsby more\nattentively, believed that he was three sheets in the wind, or, in\nplain words, drunk. It was difficult, however, to be sure of this; the\nCommander having no trace of expression in his face when sober.\n\n'Cuttle,' said the Commander, getting off the chest, and opening the\nlid, 'are these here your traps?'\n\nCaptain Cuttle looked in and identified his property.\n\n'Done pretty taut and trim, hey, shipmet?' said Bunsby.\n\nThe grateful and bewildered Captain grasped him by the hand, and was\nlaunching into a reply expressive of his astonished feelings, when\nBunsby disengaged himself by a jerk of his wrist, and seemed to make an\neffort to wink with his revolving eye, the only effect of which attempt,\nin his condition, was nearly to over-balance him. He then abruptly\nopened the door, and shot away to rejoin the Cautious Clara with all\nspeed--supposed to be his invariable custom, whenever he considered he\nhad made a point.\n\nAs it was not his humour to be often sought, Captain Cuttle decided\nnot to go or send to him next day, or until he should make his gracious\npleasure known in such wise, or failing that, until some little time\nshould have lapsed. The Captain, therefore, renewed his solitary life\nnext morning, and thought profoundly, many mornings, noons, and nights,\nof old Sol Gills, and Bunsby's sentiments concerning him, and the hopes\nthere were of his return. Much of such thinking strengthened Captain\nCuttle's hopes; and he humoured them and himself by watching for the\nInstrument-maker at the door--as he ventured to do now, in his strange\nliberty--and setting his chair in its place, and arranging the little\nparlour as it used to be, in case he should come home unexpectedly. He\nlikewise, in his thoughtfulness, took down a certain little miniature\nof Walter as a schoolboy, from its accustomed nail, lest it should\nshock the old man on his return. The Captain had his presentiments, too,\nsometimes, that he would come on such a day; and one particular Sunday,\neven ordered a double allowance of dinner, he was so sanguine. But come,\nold Solomon did not; and still the neighbours noticed how the seafaring\nman in the glazed hat, stood at the shop-door of an evening, looking up\nand down the street.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 40. Domestic Relations\n\n\nIt was not in the nature of things that a man of Mr Dombey's mood,\nopposed to such a spirit as he had raised against himself, should be\nsoftened in the imperious asperity of his temper; or that the cold hard\narmour of pride in which he lived encased, should be made more flexible\nby constant collision with haughty scorn and defiance. It is the curse\nof such a nature--it is a main part of the heavy retribution on itself\nit bears within itself--that while deference and concession swell\nits evil qualities, and are the food it grows upon, resistance and a\nquestioning of its exacting claims, foster it too, no less. The evil\nthat is in it finds equally its means of growth and propagation in\nopposites. It draws support and life from sweets and bitters; bowed down\nbefore, or unacknowledged, it still enslaves the breast in which it\nhas its throne; and, worshipped or rejected, is as hard a master as the\nDevil in dark fables.\n\nTowards his first wife, Mr Dombey, in his cold and lofty arrogance, had\nborne himself like the removed Being he almost conceived himself to be.\nHe had been 'Mr Dombey' with her when she first saw him, and he was 'Mr\nDombey' when she died. He had asserted his greatness during their whole\nmarried life, and she had meekly recognised it. He had kept his distant\nseat of state on the top of his throne, and she her humble station on\nits lowest step; and much good it had done him, so to live in solitary\nbondage to his one idea. He had imagined that the proud character of his\nsecond wife would have been added to his own--would have merged into it,\nand exalted his greatness. He had pictured himself haughtier than ever,\nwith Edith's haughtiness subservient to his. He had never entertained\nthe possibility of its arraying itself against him. And now, when he\nfound it rising in his path at every step and turn of his daily life,\nfixing its cold, defiant, and contemptuous face upon him, this pride of\nhis, instead of withering, or hanging down its head beneath the shock,\nput forth new shoots, became more concentrated and intense, more gloomy,\nsullen, irksome, and unyielding, than it had ever been before.\n\nWho wears such armour, too, bears with him ever another heavy\nretribution. It is of proof against conciliation, love, and confidence;\nagainst all gentle sympathy from without, all trust, all tenderness, all\nsoft emotion; but to deep stabs in the self-love, it is as vulnerable as\nthe bare breast to steel; and such tormenting festers rankle there,\nas follow on no other wounds, no, though dealt with the mailed hand of\nPride itself, on weaker pride, disarmed and thrown down.\n\nSuch wounds were his. He felt them sharply, in the solitude of his\nold rooms; whither he now began often to retire again, and pass long\nsolitary hours. It seemed his fate to be ever proud and powerful; ever\nhumbled and powerless where he would be most strong. Who seemed fated to\nwork out that doom?\n\nWho? Who was it who could win his wife as she had won his boy? Who was\nit who had shown him that new victory, as he sat in the dark corner? Who\nwas it whose least word did what his utmost means could not? Who was it\nwho, unaided by his love, regard or notice, thrived and grew beautiful\nwhen those so aided died? Who could it be, but the same child at whom\nhe had often glanced uneasily in her motherless infancy, with a kind of\ndread, lest he might come to hate her; and of whom his foreboding was\nfulfilled, for he DID hate her in his heart?\n\nYes, and he would have it hatred, and he made it hatred, though some\nsparkles of the light in which she had appeared before him on the\nmemorable night of his return home with his Bride, occasionally hung\nabout her still. He knew now that she was beautiful; he did not dispute\nthat she was graceful and winning, and that in the bright dawn of her\nwomanhood she had come upon him, a surprise. But he turned even this\nagainst her. In his sullen and unwholesome brooding, the unhappy man,\nwith a dull perception of his alienation from all hearts, and a vague\nyearning for what he had all his life repelled, made a distorted picture\nof his rights and wrongs, and justified himself with it against her. The\nworthier she promised to be of him, the greater claim he was disposed to\nantedate upon her duty and submission. When had she ever shown him duty\nand submission? Did she grace his life--or Edith's? Had her attractions\nbeen manifested first to him--or Edith? Why, he and she had never been,\nfrom her birth, like father and child! They had always been estranged.\nShe had crossed him every way and everywhere. She was leagued against\nhim now. Her very beauty softened natures that were obdurate to him, and\ninsulted him with an unnatural triumph.\n\nIt may have been that in all this there were mutterings of an awakened\nfeeling in his breast, however selfishly aroused by his position of\ndisadvantage, in comparison with what she might have made his life. But\nhe silenced the distant thunder with the rolling of his sea of pride.\nHe would bear nothing but his pride. And in his pride, a heap of\ninconsistency, and misery, and self-inflicted torment, he hated her.\n\nTo the moody, stubborn, sullen demon, that possessed him, his wife\nopposed her different pride in its full force. They never could have led\na happy life together; but nothing could have made it more unhappy, than\nthe wilful and determined warfare of such elements. His pride was set\nupon maintaining his magnificent supremacy, and forcing recognition of\nit from her. She would have been racked to death, and turned but her\nhaughty glance of calm inflexible disdain upon him, to the last. Such\nrecognition from Edith! He little knew through what a storm and struggle\nshe had been driven onward to the crowning honour of his hand. He little\nknew how much she thought she had conceded, when she suffered him to\ncall her wife.\n\nMr Dombey was resolved to show her that he was supreme. There must be no\nwill but his. Proud he desired that she should be, but she must be proud\nfor, not against him. As he sat alone, hardening, he would often hear\nher go out and come home, treading the round of London life with no more\nheed of his liking or disliking, pleasure or displeasure, than if he\nhad been her groom. Her cold supreme indifference--his own unquestioned\nattribute usurped--stung him more than any other kind of treatment could\nhave done; and he determined to bend her to his magnificent and stately\nwill.\n\nHe had been long communing with these thoughts, when one night he sought\nher in her own apartment, after he had heard her return home late. She\nwas alone, in her brilliant dress, and had but that moment come from her\nmother's room. Her face was melancholy and pensive, when he came upon\nher; but it marked him at the door; for, glancing at the mirror before\nit, he saw immediately, as in a picture-frame, the knitted brow, and\ndarkened beauty that he knew so well.\n\n'Mrs Dombey,' he said, entering, 'I must beg leave to have a few words\nwith you.'\n\n'To-morrow,' she replied.\n\n'There is no time like the present, Madam,' he returned. 'You mistake\nyour position. I am used to choose my own times; not to have them chosen\nfor me. I think you scarcely understand who and what I am, Mrs Dombey.'\n\n'I think,' she answered, 'that I understand you very well.'\n\nShe looked upon him as she said so, and folding her white arms,\nsparkling with gold and gems, upon her swelling breast, turned away her\neyes.\n\nIf she had been less handsome, and less stately in her cold composure,\nshe might not have had the power of impressing him with the sense of\ndisadvantage that penetrated through his utmost pride. But she had the\npower, and he felt it keenly. He glanced round the room: saw how the\nsplendid means of personal adornment, and the luxuries of dress, were\nscattered here and there, and disregarded; not in mere caprice and\ncarelessness (or so he thought), but in a steadfast haughty disregard of\ncostly things: and felt it more and more. Chaplets of flowers, plumes of\nfeathers, jewels, laces, silks and satins; look where he would, he\nsaw riches, despised, poured out, and made of no account. The very\ndiamonds--a marriage gift--that rose and fell impatiently upon her\nbosom, seemed to pant to break the chain that clasped them round her\nneck, and roll down on the floor where she might tread upon them.\n\nHe felt his disadvantage, and he showed it. Solemn and strange among\nthis wealth of colour and voluptuous glitter, strange and constrained\ntowards its haughty mistress, whose repellent beauty it repeated, and\npresented all around him, as in so many fragments of a mirror, he was\nconscious of embarrassment and awkwardness. Nothing that ministered\nto her disdainful self-possession could fail to gall him. Galled and\nirritated with himself, he sat down, and went on, in no improved humour:\n\n'Mrs Dombey, it is very necessary that there should be some\nunderstanding arrived at between us. Your conduct does not please me,\nMadam.'\n\nShe merely glanced at him again, and again averted her eyes; but she\nmight have spoken for an hour, and expressed less.\n\n'I repeat, Mrs Dombey, does not please me. I have already taken occasion\nto request that it may be corrected. I now insist upon it.'\n\n'You chose a fitting occasion for your first remonstrance, Sir, and you\nadopt a fitting manner, and a fitting word for your second. You insist!\nTo me!'\n\n'Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with his most offensive air of state, 'I have\nmade you my wife. You bear my name. You are associated with my position\nand my reputation. I will not say that the world in general may be\ndisposed to think you honoured by that association; but I will say that\nI am accustomed to \"insist,\" to my connexions and dependents.'\n\n'Which may you be pleased to consider me? she asked.\n\n'Possibly I may think that my wife should partake--or does partake, and\ncannot help herself--of both characters, Mrs Dombey.'\n\nShe bent her eyes upon him steadily, and set her trembling lips. He\nsaw her bosom throb, and saw her face flush and turn white. All this he\ncould know, and did: but he could not know that one word was whispering\nin the deep recesses of her heart, to keep her quiet; and that the word\nwas Florence.\n\nBlind idiot, rushing to a precipice! He thought she stood in awe of him.\n\n'You are too expensive, Madam,' said Mr Dombey. 'You are extravagant.\nYou waste a great deal of money--or what would be a great deal in the\npockets of most gentlemen--in cultivating a kind of society that is\nuseless to me, and, indeed, that upon the whole is disagreeable to me. I\nhave to insist upon a total change in all these respects. I know that in\nthe novelty of possessing a tithe of such means as Fortune has placed\nat your disposal, ladies are apt to run into a sudden extreme. There\nhas been more than enough of that extreme. I beg that Mrs Granger's very\ndifferent experiences may now come to the instruction of Mrs Dombey.'\n\nStill the fixed look, the trembling lips, the throbbing breast, the\nface now crimson and now white; and still the deep whisper Florence,\nFlorence, speaking to her in the beating of her heart.\n\nHis insolence of self-importance dilated as he saw this alteration in\nher. Swollen no less by her past scorn of him, and his so recent feeling\nof disadvantage, than by her present submission (as he took it to be),\nit became too mighty for his breast, and burst all bounds. Why, who\ncould long resist his lofty will and pleasure! He had resolved to\nconquer her, and look here!\n\n'You will further please, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, in a tone of sovereign\ncommand, 'to understand distinctly, that I am to be deferred to and\nobeyed. That I must have a positive show and confession of deference\nbefore the world, Madam. I am used to this. I require it as my right.\nIn short I will have it. I consider it no unreasonable return for the\nworldly advancement that has befallen you; and I believe nobody will\nbe surprised, either at its being required from you, or at your making\nit.--To Me--To Me!' he added, with emphasis.\n\nNo word from her. No change in her. Her eyes upon him.\n\n'I have learnt from your mother, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, with\nmagisterial importance, 'what no doubt you know, namely, that Brighton is\nrecommended for her health. Mr Carker has been so good.'\n\nShe changed suddenly. Her face and bosom glowed as if the red light of\nan angry sunset had been flung upon them. Not unobservant of the change,\nand putting his own interpretation upon it, Mr Dombey resumed:\n\n'Mr Carker has been so good as to go down and secure a house there, for\na time. On the return of the establishment to London, I shall take such\nsteps for its better management as I consider necessary. One of these,\nwill be the engagement at Brighton (if it is to be effected), of a very\nrespectable reduced person there, a Mrs Pipchin, formerly employed in a\nsituation of trust in my family, to act as housekeeper. An establishment\nlike this, presided over but nominally, Mrs Dombey, requires a competent\nhead.'\n\nShe had changed her attitude before he arrived at these words, and now\nsat--still looking at him fixedly--turning a bracelet round and round\nupon her arm; not winding it about with a light, womanly touch, but\npressing and dragging it over the smooth skin, until the white limb\nshowed a bar of red.\n\n'I observed,' said Mr Dombey--'and this concludes what I deem it\nnecessary to say to you at present, Mrs Dombey--I observed a moment ago,\nMadam, that my allusion to Mr Carker was received in a peculiar manner.\nOn the occasion of my happening to point out to you, before that\nconfidential agent, the objection I had to your mode of receiving my\nvisitors, you were pleased to object to his presence. You will have to\nget the better of that objection, Madam, and to accustom yourself to\nit very probably on many similar occasions; unless you adopt the remedy\nwhich is in your own hands, of giving me no cause of complaint. Mr\nCarker,' said Mr Dombey, who, after the emotion he had just seen,\nset great store by this means of reducing his proud wife, and who was\nperhaps sufficiently willing to exhibit his power to that gentleman in\na new and triumphant aspect, 'Mr Carker being in my confidence, Mrs\nDombey, may very well be in yours to such an extent. I hope, Mrs\nDombey,' he continued, after a few moments, during which, in his\nincreasing haughtiness, he had improved on his idea, 'I may not find\nit necessary ever to entrust Mr Carker with any message of objection or\nremonstrance to you; but as it would be derogatory to my position and\nreputation to be frequently holding trivial disputes with a lady upon\nwhom I have conferred the highest distinction that it is in my power\nto bestow, I shall not scruple to avail myself of his services if I see\noccasion.'\n\n'And now,' he thought, rising in his moral magnificence, and rising\na stiffer and more impenetrable man than ever, 'she knows me and my\nresolution.'\n\nThe hand that had so pressed the bracelet was laid heavily upon her\nbreast, but she looked at him still, with an unaltered face, and said in\na low voice:\n\n'Wait! For God's sake! I must speak to you.'\n\nWhy did she not, and what was the inward struggle that rendered her\nincapable of doing so, for minutes, while, in the strong constraint she\nput upon her face, it was as fixed as any statue's--looking upon him\nwith neither yielding nor unyielding, liking nor hatred, pride not\nhumility: nothing but a searching gaze?\n\n'Did I ever tempt you to seek my hand? Did I ever use any art to win\nyou? Was I ever more conciliating to you when you pursued me, than I\nhave been since our marriage? Was I ever other to you than I am?'\n\n'It is wholly unnecessary, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'to enter upon such\ndiscussions.'\n\n'Did you think I loved you? Did you know I did not? Did you ever care,\nMan! for my heart, or propose to yourself to win the worthless thing?\nWas there any poor pretence of any in our bargain? Upon your side, or on\nmine?'\n\n'These questions,' said Mr Dombey, 'are all wide of the purpose, Madam.'\n\nShe moved between him and the door to prevent his going away, and\ndrawing her majestic figure to its height, looked steadily upon him\nstill.\n\n'You answer each of them. You answer me before I speak, I see. How can\nyou help it; you who know the miserable truth as well as I? Now, tell\nme. If I loved you to devotion, could I do more than render up my whole\nwill and being to you, as you have just demanded? If my heart were pure\nand all untried, and you its idol, could you ask more; could you have\nmore?'\n\n'Possibly not, Madam,' he returned coolly.\n\n'You know how different I am. You see me looking on you now, and you can\nread the warmth of passion for you that is breathing in my face.' Not a\ncurl of the proud lip, not a flash of the dark eye, nothing but the same\nintent and searching look, accompanied these words. 'You know my general\nhistory. You have spoken of my mother. Do you think you can degrade, or\nbend or break, me to submission and obedience?'\n\nMr Dombey smiled, as he might have smiled at an inquiry whether he\nthought he could raise ten thousand pounds.\n\n'If there is anything unusual here,' she said, with a slight motion of\nher hand before her brow, which did not for a moment flinch from its\nimmovable and otherwise expressionless gaze, 'as I know there are\nunusual feelings here,' raising the hand she pressed upon her bosom, and\nheavily returning it, 'consider that there is no common meaning in the\nappeal I am going to make you. Yes, for I am going;' she said it as in\nprompt reply to something in his face; 'to appeal to you.'\n\nMr Dombey, with a slightly condescending bend of his chin that rustled\nand crackled his stiff cravat, sat down on a sofa that was near him, to\nhear the appeal.\n\n'If you can believe that I am of such a nature now,'--he fancied he saw\ntears glistening in her eyes, and he thought, complacently, that he had\nforced them from her, though none fell on her cheek, and she regarded\nhim as steadily as ever,--'as would make what I now say almost\nincredible to myself, said to any man who had become my husband, but,\nabove all, said to you, you may, perhaps, attach the greater weight to\nit. In the dark end to which we are tending, and may come, we shall not\ninvolve ourselves alone (that might not be much) but others.'\n\nOthers! He knew at whom that word pointed, and frowned heavily.\n\n'I speak to you for the sake of others. Also your own sake; and for\nmine. Since our marriage, you have been arrogant to me; and I have\nrepaid you in kind. You have shown to me and everyone around us, every\nday and hour, that you think I am graced and distinguished by your\nalliance. I do not think so, and have shown that too. It seems you do\nnot understand, or (so far as your power can go) intend that each of us\nshall take a separate course; and you expect from me instead, a homage\nyou will never have.'\n\nAlthough her face was still the same, there was emphatic confirmation of\nthis 'Never' in the very breath she drew.\n\n'I feel no tenderness towards you; that you know. You would care nothing\nfor it, if I did or could. I know as well that you feel none towards\nme. But we are linked together; and in the knot that ties us, as I have\nsaid, others are bound up. We must both die; we are both connected with\nthe dead already, each by a little child. Let us forbear.'\n\nMr Dombey took a long respiration, as if he would have said, Oh! was\nthis all!\n\n'There is no wealth,' she went on, turning paler as she watched him,\nwhile her eyes grew yet more lustrous in their earnestness, 'that could\nbuy these words of me, and the meaning that belongs to them. Once cast\naway as idle breath, no wealth or power can bring them back. I mean\nthem; I have weighed them; and I will be true to what I undertake. If\nyou will promise to forbear on your part, I will promise to forbear on\nmine. We are a most unhappy pair, in whom, from different causes, every\nsentiment that blesses marriage, or justifies it, is rooted out; but in\nthe course of time, some friendship, or some fitness for each other, may\narise between us. I will try to hope so, if you will make the endeavour\ntoo; and I will look forward to a better and a happier use of age than I\nhave made of youth or prime.'\n\nThroughout she had spoken in a low plain voice, that neither rose nor\nfell; ceasing, she dropped the hand with which she had enforced herself\nto be so passionless and distinct, but not the eyes with which she had\nso steadily observed him.\n\n'Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with his utmost dignity, 'I cannot entertain\nany proposal of this extraordinary nature.'\n\nShe looked at him yet, without the least change.\n\n'I cannot,' said Mr Dombey, rising as he spoke, 'consent to temporise\nor treat with you, Mrs Dombey, upon a subject as to which you are in\npossession of my opinions and expectations. I have stated my ultimatum,\nMadam, and have only to request your very serious attention to it.'\n\nTo see the face change to its old expression, deepened in intensity!\nTo see the eyes droop as from some mean and odious object! To see the\nlighting of the haughty brow! To see scorn, anger, indignation, and\nabhorrence starting into sight, and the pale blank earnestness vanish\nlike a mist! He could not choose but look, although he looked to his\ndismay.\n\n'Go, Sir!' she said, pointing with an imperious hand towards the\ndoor. 'Our first and last confidence is at an end. Nothing can make us\nstranger to each other than we are henceforth.'\n\n'I shall take my rightful course, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'undeterred,\nyou may be sure, by any general declamation.'\n\nShe turned her back upon him, and, without reply, sat down before her\nglass.\n\n'I place my reliance on your improved sense of duty, and more correct\nfeeling, and better reflection, Madam,' said Mr Dombey.\n\nShe answered not one word. He saw no more expression of any heed of\nhim, in the mirror, than if he had been an unseen spider on the wall,\nor beetle on the floor, or rather, than if he had been the one or other,\nseen and crushed when she last turned from him, and forgotten among the\nignominious and dead vermin of the ground.\n\nHe looked back, as he went out at the door, upon the well-lighted\nand luxurious room, the beautiful and glittering objects everywhere\ndisplayed, the shape of Edith in its rich dress seated before her glass,\nand the face of Edith as the glass presented it to him; and betook\nhimself to his old chamber of cogitation, carrying away with him a\nvivid picture in his mind of all these things, and a rambling and\nunaccountable speculation (such as sometimes comes into a man's head)\nhow they would all look when he saw them next.\n\nFor the rest, Mr Dombey was very taciturn, and very dignified, and very\nconfident of carrying out his purpose; and remained so.\n\nHe did not design accompanying the family to Brighton; but he graciously\ninformed Cleopatra at breakfast, on the morning of departure, which\narrived a day or two afterwards, that he might be expected down,\nsoon. There was no time to be lost in getting Cleopatra to any place\nrecommended as being salutary; for, indeed, she seemed upon the wane,\nand turning of the earth, earthy.\n\nWithout having undergone any decided second attack of her malady, the\nold woman seemed to have crawled backward in her recovery from the\nfirst. She was more lean and shrunken, more uncertain in her imbecility,\nand made stranger confusions in her mind and memory. Among other\nsymptoms of this last affliction, she fell into the habit of confounding\nthe names of her two sons-in-law, the living and the deceased; and\nin general called Mr Dombey, either 'Grangeby,' or 'Domber,' or\nindifferently, both.\n\nBut she was youthful, very youthful still; and in her youthfulness\nappeared at breakfast, before going away, in a new bonnet made express,\nand a travelling robe that was embroidered and braided like an old\nbaby's. It was not easy to put her into a fly-away bonnet now, or to\nkeep the bonnet in its place on the back of her poor nodding head, when\nit was got on. In this instance, it had not only the extraneous effect\nof being always on one side, but of being perpetually tapped on the\ncrown by Flowers the maid, who attended in the background during\nbreakfast to perform that duty.\n\n'Now, my dearest Grangeby,' said Mrs Skewton, 'you must posively prom,'\nshe cut some of her words short, and cut out others altogether, 'come\ndown very soon.'\n\n'I said just now, Madam,' returned Mr Dombey, loudly and laboriously,\n'that I am coming in a day or two.'\n\n'Bless you, Domber!'\n\nHere the Major, who was come to take leave of the ladies, and who was\nstaring through his apoplectic eyes at Mrs Skewton's face with the\ndisinterested composure of an immortal being, said:\n\n'Begad, Ma'am, you don't ask old Joe to come!'\n\n'Sterious wretch, who's he?' lisped Cleopatra. But a tap on the bonnet\nfrom Flowers seeming to jog her memory, she added, 'Oh! You mean\nyourself, you naughty creature!'\n\n'Devilish queer, Sir,' whispered the Major to Mr Dombey. 'Bad case.\nNever did wrap up enough;' the Major being buttoned to the chin.\n'Why who should J. B. mean by Joe, but old Joe Bagstock--Joseph--your\nslave--Joe, Ma'am? Here! Here's the man! Here are the Bagstock bellows,\nMa'am!' cried the Major, striking himself a sounding blow on the chest.\n\n'My dearest Edith--Grangeby--it's most trordinry thing,' said Cleopatra,\npettishly, 'that Major--'\n\n'Bagstock! J. B.!' cried the Major, seeing that she faltered for his\nname.\n\n'Well, it don't matter,' said Cleopatra. 'Edith, my love, you know I\nnever could remember names--what was it? oh!--most trordinry thing that\nso many people want to come down to see me. I'm not going for long. I'm\ncoming back. Surely they can wait, till I come back!'\n\nCleopatra looked all round the table as she said it, and appeared very\nuneasy.\n\n'I won't have visitors--really don't want visitors,' she said; 'little\nrepose--and all that sort of thing--is what I quire. No odious brutes\nmust proach me till I've shaken off this numbness;' and in a grisly\nresumption of her coquettish ways, she made a dab at the Major with her\nfan, but overset Mr Dombey's breakfast cup instead, which was in quite a\ndifferent direction.\n\nThen she called for Withers, and charged him to see particularly that\nword was left about some trivial alterations in her room, which must be\nall made before she came back, and which must be set about immediately,\nas there was no saying how soon she might come back; for she had a great\nmany engagements, and all sorts of people to call upon. Withers received\nthese directions with becoming deference, and gave his guarantee for\ntheir execution; but when he withdrew a pace or two behind her, it\nappeared as if he couldn't help looking strangely at the Major, who\ncouldn't help looking strangely at Mr Dombey, who couldn't help looking\nstrangely at Cleopatra, who couldn't help nodding her bonnet over one\neye, and rattling her knife and fork upon her plate in using them, as if\nshe were playing castanets.\n\nEdith alone never lifted her eyes to any face at the table, and never\nseemed dismayed by anything her mother said or did. She listened to\nher disjointed talk, or at least, turned her head towards her when\naddressed; replied in a few low words when necessary; and sometimes\nstopped her when she was rambling, or brought her thoughts back with\na monosyllable, to the point from which they had strayed. The mother,\nhowever unsteady in other things, was constant in this--that she was\nalways observant of her. She would look at the beautiful face, in its\nmarble stillness and severity, now with a kind of fearful admiration;\nnow in a giggling foolish effort to move it to a smile; now with\ncapricious tears and jealous shakings of her head, as imagining herself\nneglected by it; always with an attraction towards it, that never\nfluctuated like her other ideas, but had constant possession of her.\nFrom Edith she would sometimes look at Florence, and back again at\nEdith, in a manner that was wild enough; and sometimes she would try to\nlook elsewhere, as if to escape from her daughter's face; but back to it\nshe seemed forced to come, although it never sought hers unless sought,\nor troubled her with one single glance.\n\nThe breakfast concluded, Mrs Skewton, affecting to lean girlishly upon\nthe Major's arm, but heavily supported on the other side by Flowers the\nmaid, and propped up behind by Withers the page, was conducted to the\ncarriage, which was to take her, Florence, and Edith to Brighton.\n\n'And is Joseph absolutely banished?' said the Major, thrusting in his\npurple face over the steps. 'Damme, Ma'am, is Cleopatra so hard-hearted\nas to forbid her faithful Antony Bagstock to approach the presence?'\n\n'Go along!' said Cleopatra, 'I can't bear you. You shall see me when I\ncome back, if you are very good.'\n\n'Tell Joseph, he may live in hope, Ma'am,' said the Major; 'or he'll die\nin despair.'\n\nCleopatra shuddered, and leaned back. 'Edith, my dear,' she said. 'Tell\nhim--'\n\n'What?'\n\n'Such dreadful words,' said Cleopatra. 'He uses such dreadful words!'\n\nEdith signed to him to retire, gave the word to go on, and left the\nobjectionable Major to Mr Dombey. To whom he returned, whistling.\n\n'I'll tell you what, Sir,' said the Major, with his hands behind him,\nand his legs very wide asunder, 'a fair friend of ours has removed to\nQueer Street.'\n\n'What do you mean, Major?' inquired Mr Dombey.\n\n'I mean to say, Dombey,' returned the Major, 'that you'll soon be an\norphan-in-law.'\n\nMr Dombey appeared to relish this waggish description of himself so very\nlittle, that the Major wound up with the horse's cough, as an expression\nof gravity.\n\n'Damme, Sir,' said the Major, 'there is no use in disguising a fact. Joe\nis blunt, Sir. That's his nature. If you take old Josh at all, you\ntake him as you find him; and a devilish rusty, old rasper, of a\nclose-toothed, J. B. file, you do find him. Dombey,' said the Major,\n'your wife's mother is on the move, Sir.'\n\n'I fear,' returned Mr Dombey, with much philosophy, 'that Mrs Skewton is\nshaken.'\n\n'Shaken, Dombey!' said the Major. 'Smashed!'\n\n'Change, however,' pursued Mr Dombey, 'and attention, may do much yet.'\n\n'Don't believe it, Sir,' returned the Major. 'Damme, Sir, she never\nwrapped up enough. If a man don't wrap up,' said the Major, taking in\nanother button of his buff waistcoat, 'he has nothing to fall back upon.\nBut some people will die. They will do it. Damme, they will. They're\nobstinate. I tell you what, Dombey, it may not be ornamental; it may not\nbe refined; it may be rough and tough; but a little of the genuine old\nEnglish Bagstock stamina, Sir, would do all the good in the world to the\nhuman breed.'\n\nAfter imparting this precious piece of information, the Major, who\nwas certainly true-blue, whatever other endowments he may have had or\nwanted, coming within the 'genuine old English' classification, which\nhas never been exactly ascertained, took his lobster-eyes and his\napoplexy to the club, and choked there all day.\n\nCleopatra, at one time fretful, at another self-complacent, sometimes\nawake, sometimes asleep, and at all times juvenile, reached Brighton the\nsame night, fell to pieces as usual, and was put away in bed; where a\ngloomy fancy might have pictured a more potent skeleton than the maid,\nwho should have been one, watching at the rose-coloured curtains, which\nwere carried down to shed their bloom upon her.\n\nIt was settled in high council of medical authority that she should take\na carriage airing every day, and that it was important she should\nget out every day, and walk if she could. Edith was ready to attend\nher--always ready to attend her, with the same mechanical attention and\nimmovable beauty--and they drove out alone; for Edith had an uneasiness\nin the presence of Florence, now that her mother was worse, and told\nFlorence, with a kiss, that she would rather they two went alone.\n\nMrs Skewton, on one particular day, was in the irresolute, exacting,\njealous temper that had developed itself on her recovery from her first\nattack. After sitting silent in the carriage watching Edith for some\ntime, she took her hand and kissed it passionately. The hand was neither\ngiven nor withdrawn, but simply yielded to her raising of it, and being\nreleased, dropped down again, almost as if it were insensible. At this\nshe began to whimper and moan, and say what a mother she had been, and\nhow she was forgotten! This she continued to do at capricious intervals,\neven when they had alighted: when she herself was halting along with the\njoint support of Withers and a stick, and Edith was walking by her side,\nand the carriage slowly following at a little distance.\n\nIt was a bleak, lowering, windy day, and they were out upon the Downs\nwith nothing but a bare sweep of land between them and the sky. The\nmother, with a querulous satisfaction in the monotony of her complaint,\nwas still repeating it in a low voice from time to time, and the proud\nform of her daughter moved beside her slowly, when there came advancing\nover a dark ridge before them, two other figures, which in the distance,\nwere so like an exaggerated imitation of their own, that Edith stopped.\n\nAlmost as she stopped, the two figures stopped; and that one which to\nEdith's thinking was like a distorted shadow of her mother, spoke to the\nother, earnestly, and with a pointing hand towards them. That one seemed\ninclined to turn back, but the other, in which Edith recognised enough\nthat was like herself to strike her with an unusual feeling, not quite\nfree from fear, came on; and then they came on together.\n\nThe greater part of this observation, she made while walking towards\nthem, for her stoppage had been momentary. Nearer observation showed her\nthat they were poorly dressed, as wanderers about the country; that the\nyounger woman carried knitted work or some such goods for sale; and that\nthe old one toiled on empty-handed.\n\nAnd yet, however far removed she was in dress, in dignity, in beauty,\nEdith could not but compare the younger woman with herself, still. It\nmay have been that she saw upon her face some traces which she knew were\nlingering in her own soul, if not yet written on that index; but, as\nthe woman came on, returning her gaze, fixing her shining eyes upon\nher, undoubtedly presenting something of her own air and stature, and\nappearing to reciprocate her own thoughts, she felt a chill creep over\nher, as if the day were darkening, and the wind were colder.\n\nThey had now come up. The old woman, holding out her hand importunately,\nstopped to beg of Mrs Skewton. The younger one stopped too, and she and\nEdith looked in one another's eyes.\n\n'What is it that you have to sell?' said Edith.\n\n'Only this,' returned the woman, holding out her wares, without looking\nat them. 'I sold myself long ago.'\n\n'My Lady, don't believe her,' croaked the old woman to Mrs Skewton;\n'don't believe what she says. She loves to talk like that. She's my\nhandsome and undutiful daughter. She gives me nothing but reproaches,\nmy Lady, for all I have done for her. Look at her now, my Lady, how she\nturns upon her poor old mother with her looks.'\n\nAs Mrs Skewton drew her purse out with a trembling hand, and eagerly\nfumbled for some money, which the other old woman greedily watched\nfor--their heads all but touching, in their hurry and decrepitude--Edith\ninterposed:\n\n'I have seen you,' addressing the old woman, 'before.'\n\n'Yes, my Lady,' with a curtsey. 'Down in Warwickshire. The morning among\nthe trees. When you wouldn't give me nothing. But the gentleman, he give\nme something! Oh, bless him, bless him!' mumbled the old woman, holding\nup her skinny hand, and grinning frightfully at her daughter.\n\n'It's of no use attempting to stay me, Edith!' said Mrs Skewton, angrily\nanticipating an objection from her. 'You know nothing about it. I won't\nbe dissuaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and a good mother.'\n\n'Yes, my Lady, yes,' chattered the old woman, holding out her avaricious\nhand. 'Thankee, my Lady. Lord bless you, my Lady. Sixpence more, my\npretty Lady, as a good mother yourself.'\n\n'And treated undutifully enough, too, my good old creature, sometimes, I\nassure you,' said Mrs Skewton, whimpering. 'There! Shake hands with me.\nYou're a very good old creature--full of what's-his-name--and all that.\nYou're all affection and et cetera, ain't you?'\n\n'Oh, yes, my Lady!'\n\n'Yes, I'm sure you are; and so's that gentlemanly creature Grangeby. I\nmust really shake hands with you again. And now you can go, you know;\nand I hope,' addressing the daughter, 'that you'll show more gratitude,\nand natural what's-its-name, and all the rest of it--but I never\nremember names--for there never was a better mother than the good old\ncreature's been to you. Come, Edith!'\n\nAs the ruin of Cleopatra tottered off whimpering, and wiping its eyes\nwith a gingerly remembrance of rouge in their neighbourhood, the old\nwoman hobbled another way, mumbling and counting her money. Not one word\nmore, nor one other gesture, had been exchanged between Edith and the\nyounger woman, but neither had removed her eyes from the other for a\nmoment. They had remained confronted until now, when Edith, as awakening\nfrom a dream, passed slowly on.\n\n'You're a handsome woman,' muttered her shadow, looking after her; 'but\ngood looks won't save us. And you're a proud woman; but pride won't save\nus. We had need to know each other when we meet again!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 41. New Voices in the Waves\n\n\nAll is going on as it was wont. The waves are hoarse with repetition of\ntheir mystery; the dust lies piled upon the shore; the sea-birds soar\nand hover; the winds and clouds go forth upon their trackless flight;\nthe white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far\naway.\n\nWith a tender melancholy pleasure, Florence finds herself again on the\nold ground so sadly trodden, yet so happily, and thinks of him in\nthe quiet place, where he and she have many and many a time conversed\ntogether, with the water welling up about his couch. And now, as she\nsits pensive there, she hears in the wild low murmur of the sea, his\nlittle story told again, his very words repeated; and finds that all\nher life and hopes, and griefs, since--in the solitary house, and in\nthe pageant it has changed to--have a portion in the burden of the\nmarvellous song.\n\nAnd gentle Mr Toots, who wanders at a distance, looking wistfully\ntowards the figure that he dotes upon, and has followed there, but\ncannot in his delicacy disturb at such a time, likewise hears the\nrequiem of little Dombey on the waters, rising and falling in the lulls\nof their eternal madrigal in praise of Florence. Yes! and he faintly\nunderstands, poor Mr Toots, that they are saying something of a time\nwhen he was sensible of being brighter and not addle-brained; and the\ntears rising in his eyes when he fears that he is dull and stupid now,\nand good for little but to be laughed at, diminish his satisfaction in\ntheir soothing reminder that he is relieved from present responsibility\nto the Chicken, by the absence of that game head of poultry in the\ncountry, training (at Toots's cost) for his great mill with the Larkey\nBoy.\n\nBut Mr Toots takes courage, when they whisper a kind thought to him;\nand by slow degrees and with many indecisive stoppages on the way,\napproaches Florence. Stammering and blushing, Mr Toots affects amazement\nwhen he comes near her, and says (having followed close on the carriage\nin which she travelled, every inch of the way from London, loving even\nto be choked by the dust of its wheels) that he never was so surprised\nin all his life.\n\n'And you've brought Diogenes, too, Miss Dombey!' says Mr Toots, thrilled\nthrough and through by the touch of the small hand so pleasantly and\nfrankly given him.\n\nNo doubt Diogenes is there, and no doubt Mr Toots has reason to observe\nhim, for he comes straightway at Mr Toots's legs, and tumbles over\nhimself in the desperation with which he makes at him, like a very dog\nof Montargis. But he is checked by his sweet mistress.\n\n'Down, Di, down. Don't you remember who first made us friends, Di? For\nshame!'\n\nOh! Well may Di lay his loving cheek against her hand, and run off, and\nrun back, and run round her, barking, and run headlong at anybody coming\nby, to show his devotion. Mr Toots would run headlong at anybody, too.\nA military gentleman goes past, and Mr Toots would like nothing better\nthan to run at him, full tilt.\n\n'Diogenes is quite in his native air, isn't he, Miss Dombey?' says Mr\nToots.\n\nFlorence assents, with a grateful smile.\n\n'Miss Dombey,' says Mr Toots, 'beg your pardon, but if you would like to\nwalk to Blimber's, I--I'm going there.'\n\nFlorence puts her arm in that of Mr Toots without a word, and they walk\naway together, with Diogenes going on before. Mr Toots's legs shake\nunder him; and though he is splendidly dressed, he feels misfits, and\nsees wrinkles, in the masterpieces of Burgess and Co., and wishes he had\nput on that brightest pair of boots.\n\nDoctor Blimber's house, outside, has as scholastic and studious an air\nas ever; and up there is the window where she used to look for the pale\nface, and where the pale face brightened when it saw her, and the wasted\nlittle hand waved kisses as she passed. The door is opened by the same\nweak-eyed young man, whose imbecility of grin at sight of Mr Toots is\nfeebleness of character personified. They are shown into the Doctor's\nstudy, where blind Homer and Minerva give them audience as of yore, to\nthe sober ticking of the great clock in the hall; and where the globes\nstand still in their accustomed places, as if the world were stationary\ntoo, and nothing in it ever perished in obedience to the universal law,\nthat, while it keeps it on the roll, calls everything to earth.\n\nAnd here is Doctor Blimber, with his learned legs; and here is Mrs\nBlimber, with her sky-blue cap; and here Cornelia, with her sandy little\nrow of curls, and her bright spectacles, still working like a sexton in\nthe graves of languages. Here is the table upon which he sat forlorn\nand strange, the 'new boy' of the school; and hither comes the distant\ncooing of the old boys, at their old lives in the old room on the old\nprinciple!\n\n'Toots,' says Doctor Blimber, 'I am very glad to see you, Toots.'\n\nMr Toots chuckles in reply.\n\n'Also to see you, Toots, in such good company,' says Doctor Blimber.\n\nMr Toots, with a scarlet visage, explains that he has met Miss Dombey\nby accident, and that Miss Dombey wishing, like himself, to see the old\nplace, they have come together.\n\n'You will like,' says Doctor Blimber, 'to step among our young friends,\nMiss Dombey, no doubt. All fellow-students of yours, Toots, once. I\nthink we have no new disciples in our little portico, my dear,' says\nDoctor Blimber to Cornelia, 'since Mr Toots left us.'\n\n'Except Bitherstone,' returns Cornelia.\n\n'Ay, truly,' says the Doctor. 'Bitherstone is new to Mr Toots.'\n\nNew to Florence, too, almost; for, in the schoolroom, Bitherstone--no\nlonger Master Bitherstone of Mrs Pipchin's--shows in collars and a\nneckcloth, and wears a watch. But Bitherstone, born beneath some\nBengal star of ill-omen, is extremely inky; and his Lexicon has got so\ndropsical from constant reference, that it won't shut, and yawns as\nif it really could not bear to be so bothered. So does Bitherstone its\nmaster, forced at Doctor Blimber's highest pressure; but in the yawn of\nBitherstone there is malice and snarl, and he has been heard to say that\nhe wishes he could catch 'old Blimber' in India. He'd precious soon find\nhimself carried up the country by a few of his (Bitherstone's) Coolies,\nand handed over to the Thugs; he can tell him that.\n\nBriggs is still grinding in the mill of knowledge; and Tozer, too;\nand Johnson, too; and all the rest; the older pupils being principally\nengaged in forgetting, with prodigious labour, everything they knew\nwhen they were younger. All are as polite and as pale as ever; and among\nthem, Mr Feeder, B.A., with his bony hand and bristly head, is still\nhard at it; with his Herodotus stop on just at present, and his other\nbarrels on a shelf behind him.\n\nA mighty sensation is created, even among these grave young gentlemen,\nby a visit from the emancipated Toots; who is regarded with a kind of\nawe, as one who has passed the Rubicon, and is pledged never to come\nback, and concerning the cut of whose clothes, and fashion of whose\njewellery, whispers go about, behind hands; the bilious Bitherstone,\nwho is not of Mr Toots's time, affecting to despise the latter to the\nsmaller boys, and saying he knows better, and that he should like to\nsee him coming that sort of thing in Bengal, where his mother had got an\nemerald belonging to him that was taken out of the footstool of a Rajah.\nCome now!\n\nBewildering emotions are awakened also by the sight of Florence, with\nwhom every young gentleman immediately falls in love, again; except,\nas aforesaid, the bilious Bitherstone, who declines to do so, out of\ncontradiction. Black jealousies of Mr Toots arise, and Briggs is of\nopinion that he ain't so very old after all. But this disparaging\ninsinuation is speedily made nought by Mr Toots saying aloud to Mr\nFeeder, B.A., 'How are you, Feeder?' and asking him to come and dine\nwith him to-day at the Bedford; in right of which feats he might set up\nas Old Parr, if he chose, unquestioned.\n\nThere is much shaking of hands, and much bowing, and a great desire on\nthe part of each young gentleman to take Toots down in Miss Dombey's\ngood graces; and then, Mr Toots having bestowed a chuckle on his old\ndesk, Florence and he withdraw with Mrs Blimber and Cornelia; and Doctor\nBlimber is heard to observe behind them as he comes out last, and shuts\nthe door, 'Gentlemen, we will now resume our studies,' For that and\nlittle else is what the Doctor hears the sea say, or has heard it saying\nall his life.\n\nFlorence then steals away and goes upstairs to the old bedroom with Mrs\nBlimber and Cornelia; Mr Toots, who feels that neither he nor anybody\nelse is wanted there, stands talking to the Doctor at the study-door, or\nrather hearing the Doctor talk to him, and wondering how he ever thought\nthe study a great sanctuary, and the Doctor, with his round turned legs,\nlike a clerical pianoforte, an awful man. Florence soon comes down and\ntakes leave; Mr Toots takes leave; and Diogenes, who has been worrying\nthe weak-eyed young man pitilessly all the time, shoots out at the door,\nand barks a glad defiance down the cliff; while Melia, and another of\nthe Doctor's female domestics, looks out of an upper window, laughing\n'at that there Toots,' and saying of Miss Dombey, 'But really though,\nnow--ain't she like her brother, only prettier?'\n\nMr Toots, who saw when Florence came down that there were tears upon her\nface, is desperately anxious and uneasy, and at first fears that he did\nwrong in proposing the visit. But he is soon relieved by her saying\nshe is very glad to have been there again, and by her talking quite\ncheerfully about it all, as they walked on by the sea. What with the\nvoices there, and her sweet voice, when they come near Mr Dombey's\nhouse, and Mr Toots must leave her, he is so enslaved that he has not\na scrap of free-will left; when she gives him her hand at parting, he\ncannot let it go.\n\n'Miss Dombey, I beg your pardon,' says Mr Toots, in a sad fluster, 'but\nif you would allow me to--to--'\n\nThe smiling and unconscious look of Florence brings him to a dead stop.\n\n'If you would allow me to--if you would not consider it a liberty, Miss\nDombey, if I was to--without any encouragement at all, if I was to hope,\nyou know,' says Mr Toots.\n\nFlorence looks at him inquiringly.\n\n'Miss Dombey,' says Mr Toots, who feels that he is in for it now, 'I\nreally am in that state of adoration of you that I don't know what to do\nwith myself. I am the most deplorable wretch. If it wasn't at the corner\nof the Square at present, I should go down on my knees, and beg and\nentreat of you, without any encouragement at all, just to let me hope\nthat I may--may think it possible that you--'\n\n'Oh, if you please, don't!' cries Florence, for the moment quite alarmed\nand distressed. 'Oh, pray don't, Mr Toots. Stop, if you please. Don't\nsay any more. As a kindness and a favour to me, don't.'\n\nMr Toots is dreadfully abashed, and his mouth opens.\n\n'You have been so good to me,' says Florence, 'I am so grateful to you,\nI have such reason to like you for being a kind friend to me, and I do\nlike you so much;' and here the ingenuous face smiles upon him with the\npleasantest look of honesty in the world; 'that I am sure you are only\ngoing to say good-bye!'\n\n'Certainly, Miss Dombey,' says Mr Toots, 'I--I--that's exactly what I\nmean. It's of no consequence.'\n\n'Good-bye!' cries Florence.\n\n'Good-bye, Miss Dombey!' stammers Mr Toots. 'I hope you won't think\nanything about it. It's--it's of no consequence, thank you. It's not of\nthe least consequence in the world.'\n\nPoor Mr Toots goes home to his hotel in a state of desperation, locks\nhimself into his bedroom, flings himself upon his bed, and lies\nthere for a long time; as if it were of the greatest consequence,\nnevertheless. But Mr Feeder, B.A., is coming to dinner, which happens\nwell for Mr Toots, or there is no knowing when he might get up again.\nMr Toots is obliged to get up to receive him, and to give him hospitable\nentertainment.\n\nAnd the generous influence of that social virtue, hospitality (to make\nno mention of wine and good cheer), opens Mr Toots's heart, and warms\nhim to conversation. He does not tell Mr Feeder, B.A., what passed at\nthe corner of the Square; but when Mr Feeder asks him 'When it is to\ncome off?' Mr Toots replies, 'that there are certain subjects'--which\nbrings Mr Feeder down a peg or two immediately. Mr Toots adds, that he\ndon't know what right Blimber had to notice his being in Miss Dombey's\ncompany, and that if he thought he meant impudence by it, he'd have him\nout, Doctor or no Doctor; but he supposes its only his ignorance. Mr\nFeeder says he has no doubt of it.\n\nMr Feeder, however, as an intimate friend, is not excluded from\nthe subject. Mr Toots merely requires that it should be mentioned\nmysteriously, and with feeling. After a few glasses of wine, he gives\nMiss Dombey's health, observing, 'Feeder, you have no idea of the\nsentiments with which I propose that toast.' Mr Feeder replies, 'Oh,\nyes, I have, my dear Toots; and greatly they redound to your honour, old\nboy.' Mr Feeder is then agitated by friendship, and shakes hands; and\nsays, if ever Toots wants a brother, he knows where to find him, either\nby post or parcel. Mr Feeder like-wise says, that if he may advise, he\nwould recommend Mr Toots to learn the guitar, or, at least the flute;\nfor women like music, when you are paying your addresses to 'em, and he\nhas found the advantage of it himself.\n\nThis brings Mr Feeder, B.A., to the confession that he has his eye\nupon Cornelia Blimber. He informs Mr Toots that he don't object to\nspectacles, and that if the Doctor were to do the handsome thing and\ngive up the business, why, there they are--provided for. He says it's\nhis opinion that when a man has made a handsome sum by his business, he\nis bound to give it up; and that Cornelia would be an assistance in it\nwhich any man might be proud of. Mr Toots replies by launching wildly\nout into Miss Dombey's praises, and by insinuations that sometimes he\nthinks he should like to blow his brains out. Mr Feeder strongly urges\nthat it would be a rash attempt, and shows him, as a reconcilement to\nexistence, Cornelia's portrait, spectacles and all.\n\nThus these quiet spirits pass the evening; and when it has yielded place\nto night, Mr Toots walks home with Mr Feeder, and parts with him at\nDoctor Blimber's door. But Mr Feeder only goes up the steps, and when\nMr Toots is gone, comes down again, to stroll upon the beach alone, and\nthink about his prospects. Mr Feeder plainly hears the waves informing\nhim, as he loiters along, that Doctor Blimber will give up the business;\nand he feels a soft romantic pleasure in looking at the outside of the\nhouse, and thinking that the Doctor will first paint it, and put it into\nthorough repair.\n\nMr Toots is likewise roaming up and down, outside the casket that\ncontains his jewel; and in a deplorable condition of mind, and not\nunsuspected by the police, gazes at a window where he sees a light,\nand which he has no doubt is Florence's. But it is not, for that is Mrs\nSkewton's room; and while Florence, sleeping in another chamber, dreams\nlovingly, in the midst of the old scenes, and their old associations\nlive again, the figure which in grim reality is substituted for the\npatient boy's on the same theatre, once more to connect it--but how\ndifferently!--with decay and death, is stretched there, wakeful and\ncomplaining. Ugly and haggard it lies upon its bed of unrest; and by it,\nin the terror of her unimpassioned loveliness--for it has terror in\nthe sufferer's failing eyes--sits Edith. What do the waves say, in the\nstillness of the night, to them?\n\n'Edith, what is that stone arm raised to strike me? Don't you see it?'\n\n'There is nothing, mother, but your fancy.'\n\n'But my fancy! Everything is my fancy. Look! Is it possible that you\ndon't see it?'\n\n'Indeed, mother, there is nothing. Should I sit unmoved, if there were\nany such thing there?'\n\n'Unmoved?' looking wildly at her--'it's gone now--and why are you\nso unmoved? That is not my fancy, Edith. It turns me cold to see you\nsitting at my side.'\n\n'I am sorry, mother.'\n\n'Sorry! You seem always sorry. But it is not for me!'\n\nWith that, she cries; and tossing her restless head from side to side\nupon her pillow, runs on about neglect, and the mother she has been, and\nthe mother the good old creature was, whom they met, and the cold return\nthe daughters of such mothers make. In the midst of her incoherence,\nshe stops, looks at her daughter, cries out that her wits are going, and\nhides her face upon the bed.\n\nEdith, in compassion, bends over her and speaks to her. The sick old\nwoman clutches her round the neck, and says, with a look of horror,\n\n'Edith! we are going home soon; going back. You mean that I shall go\nhome again?'\n\n'Yes, mother, yes.'\n\n'And what he said--what's-his-name, I never could remember\nnames--Major--that dreadful word, when we came away--it's not true?\nEdith!' with a shriek and a stare, 'it's not that that is the matter\nwith me.'\n\nNight after night, the lights burn in the window, and the figure lies\nupon the bed, and Edith sits beside it, and the restless waves are\ncalling to them both the whole night long. Night after night, the waves\nare hoarse with repetition of their mystery; the dust lies piled upon\nthe shore; the sea-birds soar and hover; the winds and clouds are on\ntheir trackless flight; the white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the\ninvisible country far away.\n\nAnd still the sick old woman looks into the corner, where the stone\narm--part of a figure of some tomb, she says--is raised to strike her.\nAt last it falls; and then a dumb old woman lies upon the bed, and\nshe is crooked and shrunk up, and half of her is dead.\n\nSuch is the figure, painted and patched for the sun to mock, that is\ndrawn slowly through the crowd from day to day; looking, as it goes,\nfor the good old creature who was such a mother, and making mouths as it\npeers among the crowd in vain. Such is the figure that is often wheeled\ndown to the margin of the sea, and stationed there; but on which no\nwind can blow freshness, and for which the murmur of the ocean has no\nsoothing word. She lies and listens to it by the hour; but its speech\nis dark and gloomy to her, and a dread is on her face, and when her\neyes wander over the expanse, they see but a broad stretch of desolation\nbetween earth and heaven.\n\nFlorence she seldom sees, and when she does, is angry with and mows at.\nEdith is beside her always, and keeps Florence away; and Florence, in\nher bed at night, trembles at the thought of death in such a shape, and\noften wakes and listens, thinking it has come. No one attends on her\nbut Edith. It is better that few eyes should see her; and her daughter\nwatches alone by the bedside.\n\nA shadow even on that shadowed face, a sharpening even of the sharpened\nfeatures, and a thickening of the veil before the eyes into a pall that\nshuts out the dim world, is come. Her wandering hands upon the coverlet\njoin feebly palm to palm, and move towards her daughter; and a voice\nnot like hers, not like any voice that speaks our mortal language--says,\n'For I nursed you!'\n\nEdith, without a tear, kneels down to bring her voice closer to the\nsinking head, and answers:\n\n'Mother, can you hear me?'\n\nStaring wide, she tries to nod in answer.\n\n'Can you recollect the night before I married?'\n\nThe head is motionless, but it expresses somehow that she does.\n\n'I told you then that I forgave your part in it, and prayed God to\nforgive my own. I told you that time past was at an end between us. I\nsay so now, again. Kiss me, mother.'\n\nEdith touches the white lips, and for a moment all is still. A moment\nafterwards, her mother, with her girlish laugh, and the skeleton of the\nCleopatra manner, rises in her bed.\n\nDraw the rose-coloured curtains. There is something else upon its flight\nbesides the wind and clouds. Draw the rose-coloured curtains close!\n\nIntelligence of the event is sent to Mr Dombey in town, who waits upon\nCousin Feenix (not yet able to make up his mind for Baden-Baden), who\nhas just received it too. A good-natured creature like Cousin Feenix is\nthe very man for a marriage or a funeral, and his position in the family\nrenders it right that he should be consulted.\n\n'Dombey,' said Cousin Feenix, 'upon my soul, I am very much shocked to\nsee you on such a melancholy occasion. My poor aunt! She was a devilish\nlively woman.'\n\nMr Dombey replies, 'Very much so.'\n\n'And made up,' says Cousin Feenix, 'really young, you know, considering.\nI am sure, on the day of your marriage, I thought she was good\nfor another twenty years. In point of fact, I said so to a man at\nBrooks's--little Billy Joper--you know him, no doubt--man with a glass\nin his eye?'\n\nMr Dombey bows a negative. 'In reference to the obsequies,' he hints,\n'whether there is any suggestion--'\n\n'Well, upon my life,' says Cousin Feenix, stroking his chin, which he\nhas just enough of hand below his wristbands to do; 'I really don't\nknow. There's a Mausoleum down at my place, in the park, but I'm afraid\nit's in bad repair, and, in point of fact, in a devil of a state. But\nfor being a little out at elbows, I should have had it put to rights;\nbut I believe the people come and make pic-nic parties there inside the\niron railings.'\n\nMr Dombey is clear that this won't do.\n\n'There's an uncommon good church in the village,' says Cousin Feenix,\nthoughtfully; 'pure specimen of the Anglo-Norman style, and admirably\nwell sketched too by Lady Jane Finchbury--woman with tight stays--but\nthey've spoilt it with whitewash, I understand, and it's a long journey.'\n\n'Perhaps Brighton itself,' Mr Dombey suggests.\n\n'Upon my honour, Dombey, I don't think we could do better,' says Cousin\nFeenix. 'It's on the spot, you see, and a very cheerful place.'\n\n'And when,' hints Mr Dombey, 'would it be convenient?'\n\n'I shall make a point,' says Cousin Feenix, 'of pledging myself for any\nday you think best. I shall have great pleasure (melancholy pleasure,\nof course) in following my poor aunt to the confines of the--in point\nof fact, to the grave,' says Cousin Feenix, failing in the other turn of\nspeech.\n\n'Would Monday do for leaving town?' says Mr Dombey.\n\n'Monday would suit me to perfection,' replies Cousin Feenix. Therefore\nMr Dombey arranges to take Cousin Feenix down on that day, and presently\ntakes his leave, attended to the stairs by Cousin Feenix, who says, at\nparting, 'I'm really excessively sorry, Dombey, that you should have so\nmuch trouble about it;' to which Mr Dombey answers, 'Not at all.'\n\nAt the appointed time, Cousin Feenix and Mr Dombey meet, and go down to\nBrighton, and representing, in their two selves, all the other mourners\nfor the deceased lady's loss, attend her remains to their place of rest.\nCousin Feenix, sitting in the mourning-coach, recognises innumerable\nacquaintances on the road, but takes no other notice of them, in\ndecorum, than checking them off aloud, as they go by, for Mr Dombey's\ninformation, as 'Tom Johnson. Man with cork leg, from White's. What,\nare you here, Tommy? Foley on a blood mare. The Smalder girls'--and so\nforth. At the ceremony Cousin Feenix is depressed, observing, that these\nare the occasions to make a man think, in point of fact, that he is\ngetting shaky; and his eyes are really moistened, when it is over. But\nhe soon recovers; and so do the rest of Mrs Skewton's relatives and\nfriends, of whom the Major continually tells the club that she never\ndid wrap up enough; while the young lady with the back, who has so much\ntrouble with her eyelids, says, with a little scream, that she must have\nbeen enormously old, and that she died of all kinds of horrors, and you\nmustn't mention it.\n\nSo Edith's mother lies unmentioned of her dear friends, who are deaf to\nthe waves that are hoarse with repetition of their mystery, and blind\nto the dust that is piled upon the shore, and to the white arms that are\nbeckoning, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far away. But all\ngoes on, as it was wont, upon the margin of the unknown sea; and Edith\nstanding there alone, and listening to its waves, has dank weed cast up\nat her feet, to strew her path in life withal.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 42. Confidential and Accidental\n\n\nAttired no more in Captain Cuttle's sable slops and sou'-wester hat, but\ndressed in a substantial suit of brown livery, which, while it\naffected to be a very sober and demure livery indeed, was really as\nself-satisfied and confident a one as tailor need desire to make, Rob\nthe Grinder, thus transformed as to his outer man, and all regardless\nwithin of the Captain and the Midshipman, except when he devoted a few\nminutes of his leisure time to crowing over those inseparable worthies,\nand recalling, with much applauding music from that brazen instrument,\nhis conscience, the triumphant manner in which he had disembarrassed\nhimself of their company, now served his patron, Mr Carker. Inmate of Mr\nCarker's house, and serving about his person, Rob kept his round eyes\non the white teeth with fear and trembling, and felt that he had need to\nopen them wider than ever.\n\nHe could not have quaked more, through his whole being, before the\nteeth, though he had come into the service of some powerful enchanter,\nand they had been his strongest spells. The boy had a sense of power and\nauthority in this patron of his that engrossed his whole attention and\nexacted his most implicit submission and obedience. He hardly considered\nhimself safe in thinking about him when he was absent, lest he should\nfeel himself immediately taken by the throat again, as on the morning\nwhen he first became bound to him, and should see every one of the teeth\nfinding him out, and taxing him with every fancy of his mind. Face to\nface with him, Rob had no more doubt that Mr Carker read his secret\nthoughts, or that he could read them by the least exertion of his will\nif he were so inclined, than he had that Mr Carker saw him when he\nlooked at him. The ascendancy was so complete, and held him in such\nenthralment, that, hardly daring to think at all, but with his\nmind filled with a constantly dilating impression of his patron's\nirresistible command over him, and power of doing anything with him, he\nwould stand watching his pleasure, and trying to anticipate his orders,\nin a state of mental suspension, as to all other things.\n\nRob had not informed himself perhaps--in his then state of mind it would\nhave been an act of no common temerity to inquire--whether he yielded\nso completely to this influence in any part, because he had floating\nsuspicions of his patron's being a master of certain treacherous arts\nin which he had himself been a poor scholar at the Grinders' School. But\ncertainly Rob admired him, as well as feared him. Mr Carker, perhaps,\nwas better acquainted with the sources of his power, which lost nothing\nby his management of it.\n\nOn the very night when he left the Captain's service, Rob, after\ndisposing of his pigeons, and even making a bad bargain in his hurry,\nhad gone straight down to Mr Carker's house, and hotly presented\nhimself before his new master with a glowing face that seemed to expect\ncommendation.\n\n'What, scapegrace!' said Mr Carker, glancing at his bundle 'Have you\nleft your situation and come to me?'\n\n'Oh if you please, Sir,' faltered Rob, 'you said, you know, when I come\nhere last--'\n\n'I said,' returned Mr Carker, 'what did I say?'\n\n'If you please, Sir, you didn't say nothing at all, Sir,' returned Rob,\nwarned by the manner of this inquiry, and very much disconcerted.\n\nHis patron looked at him with a wide display of gums, and shaking his\nforefinger, observed:\n\n'You'll come to an evil end, my vagabond friend, I foresee. There's ruin\nin store for you.\n\n'Oh if you please, don't, Sir!' cried Rob, with his legs trembling under\nhim. 'I'm sure, Sir, I only want to work for you, Sir, and to wait upon\nyou, Sir, and to do faithful whatever I'm bid, Sir.'\n\n'You had better do faithfully whatever you are bid,' returned his\npatron, 'if you have anything to do with me.'\n\n'Yes, I know that, Sir,' pleaded the submissive Rob; 'I'm sure of that,\nSIr. If you'll only be so good as try me, Sir! And if ever you find me\nout, Sir, doing anything against your wishes, I give you leave to kill\nme.'\n\n'You dog!' said Mr Carker, leaning back in his chair, and smiling at him\nserenely. 'That's nothing to what I'd do to you, if you tried to deceive\nme.'\n\n'Yes, Sir,' replied the abject Grinder, 'I'm sure you would be down upon\nme dreadful, Sir. I wouldn't attempt for to go and do it, Sir, not if I\nwas bribed with golden guineas.'\n\nThoroughly checked in his expectations of commendation, the crestfallen\nGrinder stood looking at his patron, and vainly endeavouring not to look\nat him, with the uneasiness which a cur will often manifest in a similar\nsituation.\n\n'So you have left your old service, and come here to ask me to take you\ninto mine, eh?' said Mr Carker.\n\n'Yes, if you please, Sir,' returned Rob, who, in doing so, had acted\non his patron's own instructions, but dared not justify himself by the\nleast insinuation to that effect.\n\n'Well!' said Mr Carker. 'You know me, boy?'\n\n'Please, Sir, yes, Sir,' returned Rob, tumbling with his hat, and still\nfixed by Mr Carker's eye, and fruitlessly endeavouring to unfix himself.\n\nMr Carker nodded. 'Take care, then!'\n\nRob expressed in a number of short bows his lively understanding of this\ncaution, and was bowing himself back to the door, greatly relieved by\nthe prospect of getting on the outside of it, when his patron stopped\nhim.\n\n'Halloa!' he cried, calling him roughly back. 'You have been--shut that\ndoor.'\n\nRob obeyed as if his life had depended on his alacrity.\n\n'You have been used to eaves-dropping. Do you know what that means?'\n\n'Listening, Sir?' Rob hazarded, after some embarrassed reflection.\n\nHis patron nodded. 'And watching, and so forth.'\n\n'I wouldn't do such a thing here, Sir,' answered Rob; 'upon my word and\nhonour, I wouldn't, Sir, I wish I may die if I would, Sir, for anything\nthat could be promised to me. I should consider it is as much as all\nthe world was worth, to offer to do such a thing, unless I was ordered,\nSir.'\n\n'You had better not' You have been used, too, to babbling and tattling,'\nsaid his patron with perfect coolness. 'Beware of that here, or you're\na lost rascal,' and he smiled again, and again cautioned him with his\nforefinger.\n\nThe Grinder's breath came short and thick with consternation. He tried\nto protest the purity of his intentions, but could only stare at the\nsmiling gentleman in a stupor of submission, with which the smiling\ngentleman seemed well enough satisfied, for he ordered him downstairs,\nafter observing him for some moments in silence, and gave him to\nunderstand that he was retained in his employment.\n\nThis was the manner of Rob the Grinder's engagement by Mr Carker, and\nhis awe-stricken devotion to that gentleman had strengthened and\nincreased, if possible, with every minute of his service.\n\nIt was a service of some months' duration, when early one morning, Rob\nopened the garden gate to Mr Dombey, who was come to breakfast with\nhis master, by appointment. At the same moment his master himself came,\nhurrying forth to receive the distinguished guest, and give him welcome\nwith all his teeth.\n\n'I never thought,' said Carker, when he had assisted him to alight from\nhis horse, 'to see you here, I'm sure. This is an extraordinary day in\nmy calendar. No occasion is very special to a man like you, who may do\nanything; but to a man like me, the case is widely different.'\n\n'You have a tasteful place here, Carker,' said Mr Dombey, condescending\nto stop upon the lawn, to look about him.\n\n'You can afford to say so,' returned Carker. 'Thank you.'\n\n'Indeed,' said Mr Dombey, in his lofty patronage, 'anyone might say\nso. As far as it goes, it is a very commodious and well-arranged\nplace--quite elegant.'\n\n'As far as it goes, truly,' returned Carker, with an air of\ndisparagement. 'It wants that qualification. Well! we have said\nenough about it; and though you can afford to praise it, I thank you\nnonetheless. Will you walk in?'\n\nMr Dombey, entering the house, noticed, as he had reason to do, the\ncomplete arrangement of the rooms, and the numerous contrivances for\ncomfort and effect that abounded there. Mr Carker, in his ostentation\nof humility, received this notice with a deferential smile, and said he\nunderstood its delicate meaning, and appreciated it, but in truth the\ncottage was good enough for one in his position--better, perhaps, than\nsuch a man should occupy, poor as it was.\n\n'But perhaps to you, who are so far removed, it really does look better\nthan it is,' he said, with his false mouth distended to its fullest\nstretch. 'Just as monarchs imagine attractions in the lives of beggars.'\n\nHe directed a sharp glance and a sharp smile at Mr Dombey as he spoke,\nand a sharper glance, and a sharper smile yet, when Mr Dombey, drawing\nhimself up before the fire, in the attitude so often copied by his\nsecond in command, looked round at the pictures on the walls. Cursorily\nas his cold eye wandered over them, Carker's keen glance accompanied\nhis, and kept pace with his, marking exactly where it went, and what it\nsaw. As it rested on one picture in particular, Carker hardly seemed to\nbreathe, his sidelong scrutiny was so cat-like and vigilant, but the eye\nof his great chief passed from that, as from the others, and appeared no\nmore impressed by it than by the rest.\n\nCarker looked at it--it was the picture that resembled Edith--as if it\nwere a living thing; and with a wicked, silent laugh upon his face, that\nseemed in part addressed to it, though it was all derisive of the great\nman standing so unconscious beside him. Breakfast was soon set upon the\ntable; and, inviting Mr Dombey to a chair which had its back towards\nthis picture, he took his own seat opposite to it as usual.\n\nMr Dombey was even graver than it was his custom to be, and quite\nsilent. The parrot, swinging in the gilded hoop within her gaudy cage,\nattempted in vain to attract notice, for Carker was too observant of his\nvisitor to heed her; and the visitor, abstracted in meditation, looked\nfixedly, not to say sullenly, over his stiff neckcloth, without raising\nhis eyes from the table-cloth. As to Rob, who was in attendance, all his\nfaculties and energies were so locked up in observation of his master,\nthat he scarcely ventured to give shelter to the thought that the\nvisitor was the great gentleman before whom he had been carried as a\ncertificate of the family health, in his childhood, and to whom he had\nbeen indebted for his leather smalls.\n\n'Allow me,' said Carker suddenly, 'to ask how Mrs Dombey is?'\n\nHe leaned forward obsequiously, as he made the inquiry, with his chin\nresting on his hand; and at the same time his eyes went up to the\npicture, as if he said to it, 'Now, see, how I will lead him on!'\n\nMr Dombey reddened as he answered:\n\n'Mrs Dombey is quite well. You remind me, Carker, of some conversation\nthat I wish to have with you.'\n\n'Robin, you can leave us,' said his master, at whose mild tones Robin\nstarted and disappeared, with his eyes fixed on his patron to the last.\n'You don't remember that boy, of course?' he added, when the enmeshed\nGrinder was gone.\n\n'No,' said Mr Dombey, with magnificent indifference.\n\n'Not likely that a man like you would. Hardly possible,' murmured\nCarker. 'But he is one of that family from whom you took a nurse.\nPerhaps you may remember having generously charged yourself with his\neducation?'\n\n'Is it that boy?' said Mr Dombey, with a frown. 'He does little credit\nto his education, I believe.'\n\n'Why, he is a young rip, I am afraid,' returned Carker, with a shrug.\n'He bears that character. But the truth is, I took him into my service\nbecause, being able to get no other employment, he conceived (had been\ntaught at home, I daresay) that he had some sort of claim upon you, and\nwas constantly trying to dog your heels with his petition. And although\nmy defined and recognised connexion with your affairs is merely of a\nbusiness character, still I have that spontaneous interest in everything\nbelonging to you, that--'\n\nHe stopped again, as if to discover whether he had led Mr Dombey far\nenough yet. And again, with his chin resting on his hand, he leered at\nthe picture.\n\n'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, 'I am sensible that you do not limit your--'\n\n'Service,' suggested his smiling entertainer.\n\n'No; I prefer to say your regard,' observed Mr Dombey; very sensible, as\nhe said so, that he was paying him a handsome and flattering compliment,\n'to our mere business relations. Your consideration for my feelings,\nhopes, and disappointments, in the little instance you have just now\nmentioned, is an example in point. I am obliged to you, Carker.'\n\nMr Carker bent his head slowly, and very softly rubbed his hands, as\nif he were afraid by any action to disturb the current of Mr Dombey's\nconfidence.\n\n'Your allusion to it is opportune,' said Mr Dombey, after a little\nhesitation; 'for it prepares the way to what I was beginning to say\nto you, and reminds me that that involves no absolutely new relations\nbetween us, although it may involve more personal confidence on my part\nthan I have hitherto--'\n\n'Distinguished me with,' suggested Carker, bending his head again: 'I\nwill not say to you how honoured I am; for a man like you well knows how\nmuch honour he has in his power to bestow at pleasure.'\n\n'Mrs Dombey and myself,' said Mr Dombey, passing this compliment with\naugust self-denial, 'are not quite agreed upon some points. We do not\nappear to understand each other yet. Mrs Dombey has something to learn.'\n\n'Mrs Dombey is distinguished by many rare attractions; and has been\naccustomed, no doubt, to receive much adulation,' said the smooth, sleek\nwatcher of his slightest look and tone. 'But where there is affection,\nduty, and respect, any little mistakes engendered by such causes are\nsoon set right.'\n\nMr Dombey's thoughts instinctively flew back to the face that had looked\nat him in his wife's dressing-room when an imperious hand was stretched\ntowards the door; and remembering the affection, duty, and respect,\nexpressed in it, he felt the blood rush to his own face quite as plainly\nas the watchful eyes upon him saw it there.\n\n'Mrs Dombey and myself,' he went on to say, 'had some discussion, before\nMrs Skewton's death, upon the causes of my dissatisfaction; of which you\nwill have formed a general understanding from having been a witness of\nwhat passed between Mrs Dombey and myself on the evening when you were\nat our--at my house.'\n\n'When I so much regretted being present,' said the smiling Carker.\n'Proud as a man in my position necessarily must be of your familiar\nnotice--though I give you no credit for it; you may do anything\nyou please without losing caste--and honoured as I was by an early\npresentation to Mrs Dombey, before she was made eminent by bearing your\nname, I almost regretted that night, I assure you, that I had been the\nobject of such especial good fortune.'\n\nThat any man could, under any possible circumstances, regret the being\ndistinguished by his condescension and patronage, was a moral phenomenon\nwhich Mr Dombey could not comprehend. He therefore responded, with a\nconsiderable accession of dignity. 'Indeed! And why, Carker?'\n\n'I fear,' returned the confidential agent, 'that Mrs Dombey, never very\nmuch disposed to regard me with favourable interest--one in my position\ncould not expect that, from a lady naturally proud, and whose pride\nbecomes her so well--may not easily forgive my innocent part in that\nconversation. Your displeasure is no light matter, you must remember;\nand to be visited with it before a third party--'\n\n'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, arrogantly; 'I presume that I am the first\nconsideration?'\n\n'Oh! Can there be a doubt about it?' replied the other, with the\nimpatience of a man admitting a notorious and incontrovertible fact.\n\n'Mrs Dombey becomes a secondary consideration, when we are both in\nquestion, I imagine,' said Mr Dombey. 'Is that so?'\n\n'Is it so?' returned Carker. 'Do you know better than anyone, that you\nhave no need to ask?'\n\n'Then I hope, Carker,' said Mr Dombey, 'that your regret in the\nacquisition of Mrs Dombey's displeasure, may be almost counterbalanced\nby your satisfaction in retaining my confidence and good opinion.'\n\n'I have the misfortune, I find,' returned Carker, 'to have incurred that\ndispleasure. Mrs Dombey has expressed it to you?'\n\n'Mrs Dombey has expressed various opinions,' said Mr Dombey, with\nmajestic coldness and indifference, 'in which I do not participate, and\nwhich I am not inclined to discuss, or to recall. I made Mr Dombey\nacquainted, some time since, as I have already told you, with certain\npoints of domestic deference and submission on which I felt it necessary\nto insist. I failed to convince Mrs Dombey of the expediency of her\nimmediately altering her conduct in those respects, with a view to her\nown peace and welfare, and my dignity; and I informed Mrs Dombey that\nif I should find it necessary to object or remonstrate again, I should\nexpress my opinion to her through yourself, my confidential agent.'\n\nBlended with the look that Carker bent upon him, was a devilish look\nat the picture over his head, that struck upon it like a flash of\nlightning.\n\n'Now, Carker,' said Mr Dombey, 'I do not hesitate to say to you that\nI will carry my point. I am not to be trifled with. Mrs Dombey must\nunderstand that my will is law, and that I cannot allow of one exception\nto the whole rule of my life. You will have the goodness to undertake\nthis charge, which, coming from me, is not unacceptable to you, I hope,\nwhatever regret you may politely profess--for which I am obliged to you\non behalf of Mrs Dombey; and you will have the goodness, I am persuaded,\nto discharge it as exactly as any other commission.'\n\n'You know,' said Mr Carker, 'that you have only to command me.'\n\n'I know,' said Mr Dombey, with a majestic indication of assent, 'that I\nhave only to command you. It is necessary that I should proceed in this.\nMrs Dombey is a lady undoubtedly highly qualified, in many respects,\nto--'\n\n'To do credit even to your choice,' suggested Carker, with a yawning\nshow of teeth.\n\n'Yes; if you please to adopt that form of words,' said Mr Dombey, in his\ntone of state; 'and at present I do not conceive that Mrs Dombey does\nthat credit to it, to which it is entitled. There is a principle of\nopposition in Mrs Dombey that must be eradicated; that must be overcome:\nMrs Dombey does not appear to understand,' said Mr Dombey, forcibly,\n'that the idea of opposition to Me is monstrous and absurd.'\n\n'We, in the City, know you better,' replied Carker, with a smile from\near to ear.\n\n'You know me better,' said Mr Dombey. 'I hope so. Though, indeed, I am\nbound to do Mrs Dombey the justice of saying, however inconsistent it\nmay seem with her subsequent conduct (which remains unchanged), that\non my expressing my disapprobation and determination to her, with\nsome severity, on the occasion to which I have referred, my admonition\nappeared to produce a very powerful effect.' Mr Dombey delivered himself\nof those words with most portentous stateliness. 'I wish you to have\nthe goodness, then, to inform Mrs Dombey, Carker, from me, that I must\nrecall our former conversation to her remembrance, in some surprise that\nit has not yet had its effect. That I must insist upon her regulating\nher conduct by the injunctions laid upon her in that conversation. That\nI am not satisfied with her conduct. That I am greatly dissatisfied with\nit. And that I shall be under the very disagreeable necessity of making\nyou the bearer of yet more unwelcome and explicit communications, if\nshe has not the good sense and the proper feeling to adapt herself to\nmy wishes, as the first Mrs Dombey did, and, I believe I may add, as any\nother lady in her place would.'\n\n'The first Mrs Dombey lived very happily,' said Carker.\n\n'The first Mrs Dombey had great good sense,' said Mr Dombey, in a\ngentlemanly toleration of the dead, 'and very correct feeling.'\n\n'Is Miss Dombey like her mother, do you think?' said Carker.\n\nSwiftly and darkly, Mr Dombey's face changed. His confidential agent\neyed it keenly.\n\n'I have approached a painful subject,' he said, in a soft regretful tone\nof voice, irreconcilable with his eager eye. 'Pray forgive me. I forget\nthese chains of association in the interest I have. Pray forgive me.'\n\nBut for all he said, his eager eye scanned Mr Dombey's downcast face\nnone the less closely; and then it shot a strange triumphant look at the\npicture, as appealing to it to bear witness how he led him on again, and\nwhat was coming.\n\n'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, looking here and there upon the table, and\nsaying in a somewhat altered and more hurried voice, and with a paler\nlip, 'there is no occasion for apology. You mistake. The association is\nwith the matter in hand, and not with any recollection, as you suppose.\nI do not approve of Mrs Dombey's behaviour towards my daughter.'\n\n'Pardon me,' said Mr Carker, 'I don't quite understand.'\n\n'Understand then,' returned Mr Dombey, 'that you may make that--that you\nwill make that, if you please--matter of direct objection from me to\nMrs Dombey. You will please to tell her that her show of devotion for my\ndaughter is disagreeable to me. It is likely to be noticed. It is likely\nto induce people to contrast Mrs Dombey in her relation towards my\ndaughter, with Mrs Dombey in her relation towards myself. You will have\nthe goodness to let Mrs Dombey know, plainly, that I object to it; and\nthat I expect her to defer, immediately, to my objection. Mrs Dombey may\nbe in earnest, or she may be pursuing a whim, or she may be opposing me;\nbut I object to it in any case, and in every case. If Mrs Dombey is in\nearnest, so much the less reluctant should she be to desist; for she\nwill not serve my daughter by any such display. If my wife has any\nsuperfluous gentleness, and duty over and above her proper submission\nto me, she may bestow them where she pleases, perhaps; but I will have\nsubmission first!--Carker,' said Mr Dombey, checking the unusual emotion\nwith which he had spoken, and falling into a tone more like that in\nwhich he was accustomed to assert his greatness, 'you will have the\ngoodness not to omit or slur this point, but to consider it a very\nimportant part of your instructions.'\n\nMr Carker bowed his head, and rising from the table, and standing\nthoughtfully before the fire, with his hand to his smooth chin, looked\ndown at Mr Dombey with the evil slyness of some monkish carving, half\nhuman and half brute; or like a leering face on an old water-spout. Mr\nDombey, recovering his composure by degrees, or cooling his emotion\nin his sense of having taken a high position, sat gradually stiffening\nagain, and looking at the parrot as she swung to and fro, in her great\nwedding ring.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Carker, after a silence, suddenly resuming his\nchair, and drawing it opposite to Mr Dombey's, 'but let me understand.\nMrs Dombey is aware of the probability of your making me the organ of\nyour displeasure?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Mr Dombey. 'I have said so.'\n\n'Yes,' rejoined Carker, quickly; 'but why?'\n\n'Why!' Mr Dombey repeated, not without hesitation. 'Because I told her.'\n\n'Ay,' replied Carker. 'But why did you tell her? You see,' he continued\nwith a smile, and softly laying his velvet hand, as a cat might have\nlaid its sheathed claws, on Mr Dombey's arm; 'if I perfectly understand\nwhat is in your mind, I am so much more likely to be useful, and to have\nthe happiness of being effectually employed. I think I do understand. I\nhave not the honour of Mrs Dombey's good opinion. In my position, I have\nno reason to expect it; but I take the fact to be, that I have not got\nit?'\n\n'Possibly not,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Consequently,' pursued Carker, 'your making the communications to Mrs\nDombey through me, is sure to be particularly unpalatable to that lady?'\n\n'It appears to me,' said Mr Dombey, with haughty reserve, and yet with\nsome embarrassment, 'that Mrs Dombey's views upon the subject form no\npart of it as it presents itself to you and me, Carker. But it may be\nso.'\n\n'And--pardon me--do I misconceive you,' said Carker, 'when I think you\ndescry in this, a likely means of humbling Mrs Dombey's pride--I use the\nword as expressive of a quality which, kept within due bounds,\nadorns and graces a lady so distinguished for her beauty and\naccomplishments--and, not to say of punishing her, but of reducing her\nto the submission you so naturally and justly require?'\n\n'I am not accustomed, Carker, as you know,' said Mr Dombey, 'to give\nsuch close reasons for any course of conduct I think proper to adopt,\nbut I will gainsay nothing of this. If you have any objection to found\nupon it, that is indeed another thing, and the mere statement that you\nhave one will be sufficient. But I have not supposed, I confess, that\nany confidence I could entrust to you, would be likely to degrade you--'\n\n'Oh! I degraded!' exclaimed Carker. 'In your service!'\n\n'--or to place you,' pursued Mr Dombey, 'in a false position.'\n\n'I in a false position!' exclaimed Carker. 'I shall be\nproud--delighted--to execute your trust. I could have wished, I own,\nto have given the lady at whose feet I would lay my humble duty and\ndevotion--for is she not your wife!--no new cause of dislike; but a wish\nfrom you is, of course, paramount to every other consideration on\nearth. Besides, when Mrs Dombey is converted from these little errors\nof judgment, incidental, I would presume to say, to the novelty of her\nsituation, I shall hope that she will perceive in the slight part I\ntake, only a grain--my removed and different sphere gives room for\nlittle more--of the respect for you, and sacrifice of all considerations\nto you, of which it will be her pleasure and privilege to garner up a\ngreat store every day.'\n\nMr Dombey seemed, at the moment, again to see her with her hand\nstretched out towards the door, and again to hear through the mild\nspeech of his confidential agent an echo of the words, 'Nothing can make\nus stranger to each other than we are henceforth!' But he shook off the\nfancy, and did not shake in his resolution, and said, 'Certainly, no\ndoubt.'\n\n'There is nothing more,' quoth Carker, drawing his chair back to its old\nplace--for they had taken little breakfast as yet--and pausing for an\nanswer before he sat down.\n\n'Nothing,' said Mr Dombey, 'but this. You will be good enough to\nobserve, Carker, that no message to Mrs Dombey with which you are or\nmay be charged, admits of reply. You will be good enough to bring me no\nreply. Mrs Dombey is informed that it does not become me to temporise or\ntreat upon any matter that is at issue between us, and that what I say\nis final.'\n\nMr Carker signified his understanding of these credentials, and they\nfell to breakfast with what appetite they might. The Grinder also, in\ndue time reappeared, keeping his eyes upon his master without a\nmoment's respite, and passing the time in a reverie of worshipful tenor.\nBreakfast concluded, Mr Dombey's horse was ordered out again, and Mr\nCarker mounting his own, they rode off for the City together.\n\nMr Carker was in capital spirits, and talked much. Mr Dombey received\nhis conversation with the sovereign air of a man who had a right to\nbe talked to, and occasionally condescended to throw in a few words to\ncarry on the conversation. So they rode on characteristically enough.\nBut Mr Dombey, in his dignity, rode with very long stirrups, and a very\nloose rein, and very rarely deigned to look down to see where his horse\nwent. In consequence of which it happened that Mr Dombey's horse, while\ngoing at a round trot, stumbled on some loose stones, threw him, rolled\nover him, and lashing out with his iron-shod feet, in his struggles to\nget up, kicked him.\n\nMr Carker, quick of eye, steady of hand, and a good horseman, was afoot,\nand had the struggling animal upon his legs and by the bridle, in a\nmoment. Otherwise that morning's confidence would have been Mr Dombey's\nlast. Yet even with the flush and hurry of this action red upon him, he\nbent over his prostrate chief with every tooth disclosed, and muttered\nas he stooped down, 'I have given good cause of offence to Mrs Dombey\nnow, if she knew it!'\n\nMr Dombey being insensible, and bleeding from the head and face, was\ncarried by certain menders of the road, under Carker's direction, to\nthe nearest public-house, which was not far off, and where he was soon\nattended by divers surgeons, who arrived in quick succession from all\nparts, and who seemed to come by some mysterious instinct, as vultures\nare said to gather about a camel who dies in the desert. After being\nat some pains to restore him to consciousness, these gentlemen examined\ninto the nature of his injuries. One surgeon who lived hard by was strong\nfor a compound fracture of the leg, which was the landlord's opinion\nalso; but two surgeons who lived at a distance, and were only in that\nneighbourhood by accident, combated this opinion so disinterestedly, that\nit was decided at last that the patient, though severely cut and bruised,\nhad broken no bones but a lesser rib or so, and might be carefully taken\nhome before night. His injuries being dressed and bandaged, which was a\nlong operation, and he at length left to repose, Mr Carker mounted his\nhorse again, and rode away to carry the intelligence home.\n\nCrafty and cruel as his face was at the best of times, though it was a\nsufficiently fair face as to form and regularity of feature, it was at\nits worst when he set forth on this errand; animated by the craft and\ncruelty of thoughts within him, suggestions of remote possibility rather\nthan of design or plot, that made him ride as if he hunted men and\nwomen. Drawing rein at length, and slackening in his speed, as he came\ninto the more public roads, he checked his white-legged horse into\npicking his way along as usual, and hid himself beneath his sleek,\nhushed, crouched manner, and his ivory smile, as he best could.\n\nHe rode direct to Mr Dombey's house, alighted at the door, and begged to\nsee Mrs Dombey on an affair of importance. The servant who showed him to\nMr Dombey's own room, soon returned to say that it was not Mrs Dombey's\nhour for receiving visitors, and that he begged pardon for not having\nmentioned it before.\n\nMr Carker, who was quite prepared for a cold reception, wrote upon a\ncard that he must take the liberty of pressing for an interview, and\nthat he would not be so bold as to do so, for the second time (this\nhe underlined), if he were not equally sure of the occasion being\nsufficient for his justification. After a trifling delay, Mrs Dombey's\nmaid appeared, and conducted him to a morning room upstairs, where Edith\nand Florence were together.\n\nHe had never thought Edith half so beautiful before. Much as he admired\nthe graces of her face and form, and freshly as they dwelt within his\nsensual remembrance, he had never thought her half so beautiful.\n\nHer glance fell haughtily upon him in the doorway; but he looked\nat Florence--though only in the act of bending his head, as he came\nin--with some irrepressible expression of the new power he held; and\nit was his triumph to see the glance droop and falter, and to see that\nEdith half rose up to receive him.\n\nHe was very sorry, he was deeply grieved; he couldn't say with what\nunwillingness he came to prepare her for the intelligence of a very\nslight accident. He entreated Mrs Dombey to compose herself. Upon his\nsacred word of honour, there was no cause of alarm. But Mr Dombey--\n\nFlorence uttered a sudden cry. He did not look at her, but at Edith.\nEdith composed and reassured her. She uttered no cry of distress. No,\nno.\n\nMr Dombey had met with an accident in riding. His horse had slipped, and\nhe had been thrown.\n\nFlorence wildly exclaimed that he was badly hurt; that he was killed!\n\nNo. Upon his honour, Mr Dombey, though stunned at first, was soon\nrecovered, and though certainly hurt was in no kind of danger. If this\nwere not the truth, he, the distressed intruder, never could have had\nthe courage to present himself before Mrs Dombey. It was the truth\nindeed, he solemnly assured her.\n\nAll this he said as if he were answering Edith, and not Florence, and\nwith his eyes and his smile fastened on Edith.\n\nHe then went on to tell her where Mr Dombey was lying, and to request\nthat a carriage might be placed at his disposal to bring him home.\n\n'Mama,' faltered Florence in tears, 'if I might venture to go!'\n\nMr Carker, having his eyes on Edith when he heard these words, gave her\na secret look and slightly shook his head. He saw how she battled with\nherself before she answered him with her handsome eyes, but he wrested\nthe answer from her--he showed her that he would have it, or that he\nwould speak and cut Florence to the heart--and she gave it to him. As\nhe had looked at the picture in the morning, so he looked at her\nafterwards, when she turned her eyes away.\n\n'I am directed to request,' he said, 'that the new housekeeper--Mrs\nPipchin, I think, is the name--'\n\nNothing escaped him. He saw in an instant, that she was another slight\nof Mr Dombey's on his wife.\n\n'--may be informed that Mr Dombey wishes to have his bed prepared in\nhis own apartments downstairs, as he prefers those rooms to any other.\nI shall return to Mr Dombey almost immediately. That every possible\nattention has been paid to his comfort, and that he is the object of\nevery possible solicitude, I need not assure you, Madam. Let me again\nsay, there is no cause for the least alarm. Even you may be quite at\nease, believe me.'\n\nHe bowed himself out, with his extremest show of deference and\nconciliation; and having returned to Mr Dombey's room, and there\narranged for a carriage being sent after him to the City, mounted his\nhorse again, and rode slowly thither. He was very thoughtful as he went\nalong, and very thoughtful there, and very thoughtful in the carriage\non his way back to the place where Mr Dombey had been left. It was only\nwhen sitting by that gentleman's couch that he was quite himself again,\nand conscious of his teeth.\n\nAbout the time of twilight, Mr Dombey, grievously afflicted with aches\nand pains, was helped into his carriage, and propped with cloaks and\npillows on one side of it, while his confidential agent bore him company\nupon the other. As he was not to be shaken, they moved at little more\nthan a foot pace; and hence it was quite dark when he was brought home.\nMrs Pipchin, bitter and grim, and not oblivious of the Peruvian mines,\nas the establishment in general had good reason to know, received him at\nthe door, and freshened the domestics with several little sprinklings\nof wordy vinegar, while they assisted in conveying him to his room. Mr\nCarker remained in attendance until he was safe in bed, and then, as\nhe declined to receive any female visitor, but the excellent Ogress who\npresided over his household, waited on Mrs Dombey once more, with his\nreport on her lord's condition.\n\nHe again found Edith alone with Florence, and he again addressed the\nwhole of his soothing speech to Edith, as if she were a prey to the\nliveliest and most affectionate anxieties. So earnest he was in his\nrespectful sympathy, that on taking leave, he ventured--with one more\nglance towards Florence at the moment--to take her hand, and bending\nover it, to touch it with his lips.\n\nEdith did not withdraw the hand, nor did she strike his fair face with\nit, despite the flush upon her cheek, the bright light in her eyes, and\nthe dilation of her whole form. But when she was alone in her own room,\nshe struck it on the marble chimney-shelf, so that, at one blow, it was\nbruised, and bled; and held it from her, near the shining fire, as if\nshe could have thrust it in and burned it.\n\nFar into the night she sat alone, by the sinking blaze, in dark and\nthreatening beauty, watching the murky shadows looming on the wall, as\nif her thoughts were tangible, and cast them there. Whatever shapes\nof outrage and affront, and black foreshadowings of things that might\nhappen, flickered, indistinct and giant-like, before her, one resented\nfigure marshalled them against her. And that figure was her husband.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 43. The Watches of the Night\n\n\nFlorence, long since awakened from her dream, mournfully observed the\nestrangement between her father and Edith, and saw it widen more and\nmore, and knew that there was greater bitterness between them every day.\nEach day's added knowledge deepened the shade upon her love and hope,\nroused up the old sorrow that had slumbered for a little time, and made\nit even heavier to bear than it had been before.\n\nIt had been hard--how hard may none but Florence ever know!--to have\nthe natural affection of a true and earnest nature turned to agony; and\nslight, or stern repulse, substituted for the tenderest protection and\nthe dearest care. It had been hard to feel in her deep heart what she\nhad felt, and never know the happiness of one touch of response. But it\nwas much more hard to be compelled to doubt either her father or Edith,\nso affectionate and dear to her, and to think of her love for each of\nthem, by turns, with fear, distrust, and wonder.\n\nYet Florence now began to do so; and the doing of it was a task imposed\nupon her by the very purity of her soul, as one she could not fly\nfrom. She saw her father cold and obdurate to Edith, as to her; hard,\ninflexible, unyielding. Could it be, she asked herself with starting\ntears, that her own dear mother had been made unhappy by such treatment,\nand had pined away and died? Then she would think how proud and stately\nEdith was to everyone but her, with what disdain she treated him, how\ndistantly she kept apart from him, and what she had said on the night\nwhen they came home; and quickly it would come on Florence, almost as a\ncrime, that she loved one who was set in opposition to her father, and\nthat her father knowing of it, must think of her in his solitary room as\nthe unnatural child who added this wrong to the old fault, so much wept\nfor, of never having won his fatherly affection from her birth. The next\nkind word from Edith, the next kind glance, would shake these thoughts\nagain, and make them seem like black ingratitude; for who but she had\ncheered the drooping heart of Florence, so lonely and so hurt, and been\nits best of comforters! Thus, with her gentle nature yearning to them\nboth, feeling for the misery of both, and whispering doubts of her own\nduty to both, Florence in her wider and expanded love, and by the side\nof Edith, endured more than when she had hoarded up her undivided secret\nin the mournful house, and her beautiful Mama had never dawned upon it.\n\nOne exquisite unhappiness that would have far outweighed this, Florence\nwas spared. She never had the least suspicion that Edith by her\ntenderness for her widened the separation from her father, or gave him\nnew cause of dislike. If Florence had conceived the possibility of such\nan effect being wrought by such a cause, what grief she would have felt,\nwhat sacrifice she would have tried to make, poor loving girl, how fast\nand sure her quiet passage might have been beneath it to the presence\nof that higher Father who does not reject his children's love, or spurn\ntheir tried and broken hearts, Heaven knows! But it was otherwise, and\nthat was well.\n\nNo word was ever spoken between Florence and Edith now, on these\nsubjects. Edith had said there ought to be between them, in that wise, a\ndivision and a silence like the grave itself: and Florence felt she was\nright.\n\nIn this state of affairs her father was brought home, suffering and\ndisabled; and gloomily retired to his own rooms, where he was tended by\nservants, not approached by Edith, and had no friend or companion but Mr\nCarker, who withdrew near midnight.\n\n'And nice company he is, Miss Floy,' said Susan Nipper. 'Oh, he's a\nprecious piece of goods! If ever he wants a character don't let him come\nto me whatever he does, that's all I tell him.'\n\n'Dear Susan,' urged Florence, 'don't!'\n\n'Oh, it's very well to say \"don't\" Miss Floy,' returned the Nipper, much\nexasperated; 'but raly begging your pardon we're coming to such passes\nthat it turns all the blood in a person's body into pins and needles,\nwith their pints all ways. Don't mistake me, Miss Floy, I don't mean\nnothing again your ma-in-law who has always treated me as a lady should\nthough she is rather high I must say not that I have any right to object\nto that particular, but when we come to Mrs Pipchinses and having them\nput over us and keeping guard at your Pa's door like crocodiles\n(only make us thankful that they lay no eggs!) we are a growing too\noutrageous!'\n\n'Papa thinks well of Mrs Pipchin, Susan,' returned Florence, 'and has a\nright to choose his housekeeper, you know. Pray don't!'\n\n'Well Miss Floy,' returned the Nipper, 'when you say don't, I never do\nI hope but Mrs Pipchin acts like early gooseberries upon me Miss, and\nnothing less.'\n\nSusan was unusually emphatic and destitute of punctuation in her\ndiscourse on this night, which was the night of Mr Dombey's being\nbrought home, because, having been sent downstairs by Florence to\ninquire after him, she had been obliged to deliver her message to her\nmortal enemy Mrs Pipchin; who, without carrying it in to Mr Dombey, had\ntaken upon herself to return what Miss Nipper called a huffish answer,\non her own responsibility. This, Susan Nipper construed into presumption\non the part of that exemplary sufferer by the Peruvian mines, and a deed\nof disparagement upon her young lady, that was not to be forgiven; and\nso far her emphatic state was special. But she had been in a condition\nof greatly increased suspicion and distrust, ever since the marriage;\nfor, like most persons of her quality of mind, who form a strong and\nsincere attachment to one in the different station which Florence\noccupied, Susan was very jealous, and her jealousy naturally attached to\nEdith, who divided her old empire, and came between them. Proud and glad\nas Susan Nipper truly was, that her young mistress should be advanced\ntowards her proper place in the scene of her old neglect, and that\nshe should have her father's handsome wife for her companion and\nprotectress, she could not relinquish any part of her own dominion to\nthe handsome wife, without a grudge and a vague feeling of ill-will,\nfor which she did not fail to find a disinterested justification in her\nsharp perception of the pride and passion of the lady's character. From\nthe background to which she had necessarily retired somewhat, since\nthe marriage, Miss Nipper looked on, therefore, at domestic affairs\nin general, with a resolute conviction that no good would come of Mrs\nDombey: always being very careful to publish on all possible occasions,\nthat she had nothing to say against her.\n\n'Susan,' said Florence, who was sitting thoughtfully at her table, 'it\nis very late. I shall want nothing more to-night.'\n\n'Ah, Miss Floy!' returned the Nipper, 'I'm sure I often wish for them\nold times when I sat up with you hours later than this and fell asleep\nthrough being tired out when you was as broad awake as spectacles,\nbut you've ma's-in-law to come and sit with you now Miss Floy and I'm\nthankful for it I'm sure. I've not a word to say against 'em.'\n\n'I shall not forget who was my old companion when I had none, Susan,'\nreturned Florence, gently, 'never!' And looking up, she put her arm\nround the neck of her humble friend, drew her face down to hers, and\nbidding her good-night, kissed it; which so mollified Miss Nipper, that\nshe fell a sobbing.\n\n'Now my dear Miss Floy,' said Susan, 'let me go downstairs again and\nsee how your Pa is, I know you're wretched about him, do let me go\ndownstairs again and knock at his door my own self.'\n\n'No,' said Florence, 'go to bed. We shall hear more in the morning.\nI will inquire myself in the morning. Mama has been down, I daresay;'\nFlorence blushed, for she had no such hope; 'or is there now, perhaps.\nGood-night!'\n\nSusan was too much softened to express her private opinion on the\nprobability of Mrs Dombey's being in attendance on her husband, and\nsilently withdrew. Florence left alone, soon hid her head upon her hands\nas she had often done in other days, and did not restrain the tears\nfrom coursing down her face. The misery of this domestic discord and\nunhappiness; the withered hope she cherished now, if hope it could be\ncalled, of ever being taken to her father's heart; her doubts and fears\nbetween the two; the yearning of her innocent breast to both; the heavy\ndisappointment and regret of such an end as this, to what had been a\nvision of bright hope and promise to her; all crowded on her mind and\nmade her tears flow fast. Her mother and her brother dead, her father\nunmoved towards her, Edith opposed to him and casting him away, but\nloving her, and loved by her, it seemed as if her affection could never\nprosper, rest where it would. That weak thought was soon hushed, but the\nthoughts in which it had arisen were too true and strong to be dismissed\nwith it; and they made the night desolate.\n\nAmong such reflections there rose up, as there had risen up all day,\nthe image of her father, wounded and in pain, alone in his own room,\nuntended by those who should be nearest to him, and passing the tardy\nhours in lonely suffering. A frightened thought which made her start and\nclasp her hands--though it was not a new one in her mind--that he might\ndie, and never see her or pronounce her name, thrilled her whole frame.\nIn her agitation she thought, and trembled while she thought, of once\nmore stealing downstairs, and venturing to his door.\n\nShe listened at her own. The house was quiet, and all the lights were\nout. It was a long, long time, she thought, since she used to make her\nnightly pilgrimages to his door! It was a long, long time, she tried to\nthink, since she had entered his room at midnight, and he had led her\nback to the stair-foot!\n\nWith the same child's heart within her, as of old: even with the child's\nsweet timid eyes and clustering hair: Florence, as strange to her\nfather in her early maiden bloom, as in her nursery time, crept down the\nstaircase listening as she went, and drew near to his room. No one was\nstirring in the house. The door was partly open to admit air; and all\nwas so still within, that she could hear the burning of the fire, and\ncount the ticking of the clock that stood upon the chimney-piece.\n\nShe looked in. In that room, the housekeeper wrapped in a blanket was\nfast asleep in an easy chair before the fire. The doors between it and\nthe next were partly closed, and a screen was drawn before them; but\nthere was a light there, and it shone upon the cornice of his bed. All\nwas so very still that she could hear from his breathing that he was\nasleep. This gave her courage to pass round the screen, and look into\nhis chamber.\n\nIt was as great a start to come upon his sleeping face as if she had not\nexpected to see it. Florence stood arrested on the spot, and if he had\nawakened then, must have remained there.\n\nThere was a cut upon his forehead, and they had been wetting his hair,\nwhich lay bedabbled and entangled on the pillow. One of his arms,\nresting outside the bed, was bandaged up, and he was very white. But it\nwas not this, that after the first quick glance, and first assurance\nof his sleeping quietly, held Florence rooted to the ground. It was\nsomething very different from this, and more than this, that made him\nlook so solemn in her eye.\n\nShe had never seen his face in all her life, but there had been upon\nit--or she fancied so--some disturbing consciousness of her. She had\nnever seen his face in all her life, but hope had sunk within her, and\nher timid glance had dropped before its stern, unloving, and repelling\nharshness. As she looked upon it now, she saw it, for the first time,\nfree from the cloud that had darkened her childhood. Calm, tranquil\nnight was reigning in its stead. He might have gone to sleep, for\nanything she saw there, blessing her.\n\nAwake, unkind father! Awake, now, sullen man! The time is flitting by;\nthe hour is coming with an angry tread. Awake!\n\nThere was no change upon his face; and as she watched it, awfully, its\nmotionless response recalled the faces that were gone. So they looked,\nso would he; so she, his weeping child, who should say when! so all the\nworld of love and hatred and indifference around them! When that time\nshould come, it would not be the heavier to him, for this that she was\ngoing to do; and it might fall something lighter upon her.\n\nShe stole close to the bed, and drawing in her breath, bent down, and\nsoftly kissed him on the face, and laid her own for one brief moment\nby its side, and put the arm, with which she dared not touch him, round\nabout him on the pillow.\n\nAwake, doomed man, while she is near! The time is flitting by; the hour\nis coming with an angry tread; its foot is in the house. Awake!\n\nIn her mind, she prayed to God to bless her father, and to soften him\ntowards her, if it might be so; and if not, to forgive him if he was\nwrong, and pardon her the prayer which almost seemed impiety. And doing\nso, and looking back at him with blinded eyes, and stealing timidly\naway, passed out of his room, and crossed the other, and was gone.\n\nHe may sleep on now. He may sleep on while he may. But let him look for\nthat slight figure when he wakes, and find it near him when the hour is\ncome!\n\nSad and grieving was the heart of Florence, as she crept upstairs. The\nquiet house had grown more dismal since she came down. The sleep she had\nbeen looking on, in the dead of night, had the solemnity to her of death\nand life in one. The secrecy and silence of her own proceeding made the\nnight secret, silent, and oppressive. She felt unwilling, almost unable,\nto go on to her own chamber; and turning into the drawing-rooms, where\nthe clouded moon was shining through the blinds, looked out into the\nempty streets.\n\nThe wind was blowing drearily. The lamps looked pale, and shook as if\nthey were cold. There was a distant glimmer of something that was not\nquite darkness, rather than of light, in the sky; and foreboding night\nwas shivering and restless, as the dying are who make a troubled end.\nFlorence remembered how, as a watcher, by a sick-bed, she had noted\nthis bleak time, and felt its influence, as if in some hidden natural\nantipathy to it; and now it was very, very gloomy.\n\nHer Mama had not come to her room that night, which was one cause of her\nhaving sat late out of her bed. In her general uneasiness, no less than\nin her ardent longing to have somebody to speak to, and to break the\nspell of gloom and silence, Florence directed her steps towards the\nchamber where she slept.\n\nThe door was not fastened within, and yielded smoothly to her hesitating\nhand. She was surprised to find a bright light burning; still more\nsurprised, on looking in, to see that her Mama, but partially undressed,\nwas sitting near the ashes of the fire, which had crumbled and dropped\naway. Her eyes were intently bent upon the air; and in their light, and\nin her face, and in her form, and in the grasp with which she held the\nelbows of her chair as if about to start up, Florence saw such fierce\nemotion that it terrified her.\n\n'Mama!' she cried, 'what is the matter?'\n\nEdith started; looking at her with such a strange dread in her face,\nthat Florence was more frightened than before.\n\n'Mama!' said Florence, hurriedly advancing. 'Dear Mama! what is the\nmatter?'\n\n'I have not been well,' said Edith, shaking, and still looking at her in\nthe same strange way. 'I have had bad dreams, my love.'\n\n'And not yet been to bed, Mama?'\n\n'No,' she returned. 'Half-waking dreams.'\n\nHer features gradually softened; and suffering Florence to come closer\nto her, within her embrace, she said in a tender manner, 'But what does\nmy bird do here? What does my bird do here?'\n\n'I have been uneasy, Mama, in not seeing you to-night, and in not\nknowing how Papa was; and I--'\n\nFlorence stopped there, and said no more.\n\n'Is it late?' asked Edith, fondly putting back the curls that mingled\nwith her own dark hair, and strayed upon her face.\n\n'Very late. Near day.'\n\n'Near day!' she repeated in surprise.\n\n'Dear Mama, what have you done to your hand?' said Florence.\n\nEdith drew it suddenly away, and, for a moment, looked at her with the\nsame strange dread (there was a sort of wild avoidance in it) as before;\nbut she presently said, 'Nothing, nothing. A blow.' And then she\nsaid, 'My Florence!' and then her bosom heaved, and she was weeping\npassionately.\n\n'Mama!' said Florence. 'Oh Mama, what can I do, what should I do, to\nmake us happier? Is there anything?'\n\n'Nothing,' she replied.\n\n'Are you sure of that? Can it never be? If I speak now of what is in my\nthoughts, in spite of what we have agreed,' said Florence, 'you will not\nblame me, will you?'\n\n'It is useless,' she replied, 'useless. I have told you, dear, that I\nhave had bad dreams. Nothing can change them, or prevent them coming\nback.'\n\n'I do not understand,' said Florence, gazing on her agitated face which\nseemed to darken as she looked.\n\n'I have dreamed,' said Edith in a low voice, 'of a pride that is all\npowerless for good, all powerful for evil; of a pride that has been\ngalled and goaded, through many shameful years, and has never recoiled\nexcept upon itself; a pride that has debased its owner with the\nconsciousness of deep humiliation, and never helped its owner boldly\nto resent it or avoid it, or to say, \"This shall not be!\" a pride that,\nrightly guided, might have led perhaps to better things, but which,\nmisdirected and perverted, like all else belonging to the same\npossessor, has been self-contempt, mere hardihood and ruin.'\n\nShe neither looked nor spoke to Florence now, but went on as if she were\nalone.\n\n'I have dreamed,' she said, 'of such indifference and callousness,\narising from this self-contempt; this wretched, inefficient, miserable\npride; that it has gone on with listless steps even to the altar,\nyielding to the old, familiar, beckoning finger,--oh mother, oh\nmother!--while it spurned it; and willing to be hateful to itself for\nonce and for all, rather than to be stung daily in some new form. Mean,\npoor thing!'\n\nAnd now with gathering and darkening emotion, she looked as she had\nlooked when Florence entered.\n\n'And I have dreamed,' she said, 'that in a first late effort to achieve\na purpose, it has been trodden on, and trodden down by a base foot, but\nturns and looks upon him. I have dreamed that it is wounded, hunted, set\nupon by dogs, but that it stands at bay, and will not yield; no, that it\ncannot if it would; but that it is urged on to hate.'\n\nHer clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had in hers, and as\nshe looked down on the alarmed and wondering face, frown subsided. 'Oh\nFlorence!' she said, 'I think I have been nearly mad to-night!' and\nhumbled her proud head upon her neck and wept again.\n\n'Don't leave me! be near me! I have no hope but in you!' These words she\nsaid a score of times.\n\nSoon she grew calmer, and was full of pity for the tears of Florence,\nand for her waking at such untimely hours. And the day now dawning, with\nfolded her in her arms and laid her down upon her bed, and, not lying\ndown herself, sat by her, and bade her try to sleep.\n\n'For you are weary, dearest, and unhappy, and should rest.'\n\n'I am indeed unhappy, dear Mama, tonight,' said Florence. 'But you are\nweary and unhappy, too.'\n\n'Not when you lie asleep so near me, sweet.'\n\nThey kissed each other, and Florence, worn out, gradually fell into a\ngentle slumber; but as her eyes closed on the face beside her, it was\nso sad to think upon the face downstairs, that her hand drew closer\nto Edith for some comfort; yet, even in the act, it faltered, lest it\nshould be deserting him. So, in her sleep, she tried to reconcile the\ntwo together, and to show them that she loved them both, but could not\ndo it, and her waking grief was part of her dreams.\n\nEdith, sitting by, looked down at the dark eyelashes lying wet on the\nflushed cheeks, and looked with gentleness and pity, for she knew the\ntruth. But no sleep hung upon her own eyes. As the day came on she still\nsat watching and waking, with the placid hand in hers, and sometimes\nwhispered, as she looked at the hushed face, 'Be near me, Florence. I\nhave no hope but in you!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 44. A Separation\n\n\nWith the day, though not so early as the sun, uprose Miss Susan Nipper.\nThere was a heaviness in this young maiden's exceedingly sharp black\neyes, that abated somewhat of their sparkling, and suggested--which\nwas not their usual character--the possibility of their being sometimes\nshut. There was likewise a swollen look about them, as if they had been\ncrying over-night. But the Nipper, so far from being cast down, was\nsingularly brisk and bold, and all her energies appeared to be braced\nup for some great feat. This was noticeable even in her dress, which was\nmuch more tight and trim than usual; and in occasional twitches of her\nhead as she went about the house, which were mightily expressive of\ndetermination.\n\nIn a word, she had formed a determination, and an aspiring one: it being\nnothing less than this--to penetrate to Mr Dombey's presence, and\nhave speech of that gentleman alone. 'I have often said I would,' she\nremarked, in a threatening manner, to herself, that morning, with many\ntwitches of her head, 'and now I will!'\n\nSpurring herself on to the accomplishment of this desperate design, with\na sharpness that was peculiar to herself, Susan Nipper haunted the hall\nand staircase during the whole forenoon, without finding a favourable\nopportunity for the assault. Not at all baffled by this discomfiture,\nwhich indeed had a stimulating effect, and put her on her mettle, she\ndiminished nothing of her vigilance; and at last discovered, towards\nevening, that her sworn foe Mrs Pipchin, under pretence of having sat up\nall night, was dozing in her own room, and that Mr Dombey was lying on\nhis sofa, unattended.\n\nWith a twitch--not of her head merely, this time, but of her whole\nself--the Nipper went on tiptoe to Mr Dombey's door, and knocked. 'Come\nin!' said Mr Dombey. Susan encouraged herself with a final twitch, and\nwent in.\n\nMr Dombey, who was eyeing the fire, gave an amazed look at his visitor,\nand raised himself a little on his arm. The Nipper dropped a curtsey.\n\n'What do you want?' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'If you please, Sir, I wish to speak to you,' said Susan.\n\nMr Dombey moved his lips as if he were repeating the words, but he\nseemed so lost in astonishment at the presumption of the young woman as\nto be incapable of giving them utterance.\n\n'I have been in your service, Sir,' said Susan Nipper, with her usual\nrapidity, 'now twelve 'year a waiting on Miss Floy my own young lady who\ncouldn't speak plain when I first come here and I was old in this house\nwhen Mrs Richards was new, I may not be Meethosalem, but I am not a\nchild in arms.'\n\nMr Dombey, raised upon his arm and looking at her, offered no comment on\nthis preparatory statement of fact.\n\n'There never was a dearer or a blesseder young lady than is my young\nlady, Sir,' said Susan, 'and I ought to know a great deal better than\nsome for I have seen her in her grief and I have seen her in her joy\n(there's not been much of it) and I have seen her with her brother and I\nhave seen her in her loneliness and some have never seen her, and I\nsay to some and all--I do!' and here the black-eyed shook her head, and\nslightly stamped her foot; 'that she's the blessedest and dearest angel\nis Miss Floy that ever drew the breath of life, the more that I was torn\nto pieces Sir the more I'd say it though I may not be a Fox's Martyr.'\n\nMr Dombey turned yet paler than his fall had made him, with indignation\nand astonishment; and kept his eyes upon the speaker as if he accused\nthem, and his ears too, of playing him false.\n\n'No one could be anything but true and faithful to Miss Floy, Sir,'\npursued Susan, 'and I take no merit for my service of twelve year, for\nI love her--yes, I say to some and all I do!'--and here the black-eyed\nshook her head again, and slightly stamped her foot again, and checked a\nsob; 'but true and faithful service gives me right to speak I hope, and\nspeak I must and will now, right or wrong.'\n\n'What do you mean, woman?' said Mr Dombey, glaring at her. 'How do you\ndare?'\n\n'What I mean, Sir, is to speak respectful and without offence, but out,\nand how I dare I know not but I do!' said Susan. 'Oh! you don't know my\nyoung lady Sir you don't indeed, you'd never know so little of her, if\nyou did.'\n\nMr Dombey, in a fury, put his hand out for the bell-rope; but there was\nno bell-rope on that side of the fire, and he could not rise and cross\nto the other without assistance. The quick eye of the Nipper detected\nhis helplessness immediately, and now, as she afterwards observed, she\nfelt she had got him.\n\n'Miss Floy,' said Susan Nipper, 'is the most devoted and most patient\nand most dutiful and beautiful of daughters, there ain't no gentleman,\nno Sir, though as great and rich as all the greatest and richest of\nEngland put together, but might be proud of her and would and ought. If\nhe knew her value right, he'd rather lose his greatness and his fortune\npiece by piece and beg his way in rags from door to door, I say to some\nand all, he would!' cried Susan Nipper, bursting into tears, 'than\nbring the sorrow on her tender heart that I have seen it suffer in this\nhouse!'\n\n'Woman,' cried Mr Dombey, 'leave the room.'\n\n'Begging your pardon, not even if I am to leave the situation, Sir,'\nreplied the steadfast Nipper, 'in which I have been so many years and\nseen so much--although I hope you'd never have the heart to send me from\nMiss Floy for such a cause--will I go now till I have said the rest, I\nmay not be a Indian widow Sir and I am not and I would not so become but\nif I once made up my mind to burn myself alive, I'd do it! And I've made\nmy mind up to go on.'\n\nWhich was rendered no less clear by the expression of Susan Nipper's\ncountenance, than by her words.\n\n'There ain't a person in your service, Sir,' pursued the black-eyed,\n'that has always stood more in awe of you than me and you may think how\ntrue it is when I make so bold as say that I have hundreds and hundreds\nof times thought of speaking to you and never been able to make my mind\nup to it till last night, but last night decided of me.'\n\nMr Dombey, in a paroxysm of rage, made another grasp at the bell-rope\nthat was not there, and, in its absence, pulled his hair rather than\nnothing.\n\n'I have seen,' said Susan Nipper, 'Miss Floy strive and strive when\nnothing but a child so sweet and patient that the best of women might\nhave copied from her, I've seen her sitting nights together half the\nnight through to help her delicate brother with his learning, I've\nseen her helping him and watching him at other times--some well know\nwhen--I've seen her, with no encouragement and no help, grow up to be a\nlady, thank God! that is the grace and pride of every company she goes\nin, and I've always seen her cruelly neglected and keenly feeling\nof it--I say to some and all, I have!--and never said one word, but\nordering one's self lowly and reverently towards one's betters, is not\nto be a worshipper of graven images, and I will and must speak!'\n\n'Is there anybody there?' cried Mr Dombey, calling out. 'Where are the\nmen? where are the women? Is there no one there?'\n\n'I left my dear young lady out of bed late last night,' said Susan,\nnothing checked, 'and I knew why, for you was ill Sir and she didn't\nknow how ill and that was enough to make her wretched as I saw it did.\nI may not be a Peacock; but I have my eyes--and I sat up a little in my\nown room thinking she might be lonesome and might want me, and I saw her\nsteal downstairs and come to this door as if it was a guilty thing to\nlook at her own Pa, and then steal back again and go into them lonely\ndrawing-rooms, a-crying so, that I could hardly bear to hear it. I can\nnot bear to hear it,' said Susan Nipper, wiping her black eyes, and\nfixing them undauntingly on Mr Dombey's infuriated face. 'It's not the\nfirst time I have heard it, not by many and many a time you don't know\nyour own daughter, Sir, you don't know what you're doing, Sir, I say to\nsome and all,' cried Susan Nipper, in a final burst, 'that it's a sinful\nshame!'\n\n'Why, hoity toity!' cried the voice of Mrs Pipchin, as the black\nbombazeen garments of that fair Peruvian Miner swept into the room.\n'What's this, indeed?'\n\nSusan favoured Mrs Pipchin with a look she had invented expressly for\nher when they first became acquainted, and resigned the reply to Mr\nDombey.\n\n'What's this?' repeated Mr Dombey, almost foaming. 'What's this, Madam?\nYou who are at the head of this household, and bound to keep it in\norder, have reason to inquire. Do you know this woman?'\n\n'I know very little good of her, Sir,' croaked Mrs Pipchin. 'How dare\nyou come here, you hussy? Go along with you!'\n\nBut the inflexible Nipper, merely honouring Mrs Pipchin with another\nlook, remained.\n\n'Do you call it managing this establishment, Madam,' said Mr Dombey,\n'to leave a person like this at liberty to come and talk to me!\nA gentleman--in his own house--in his own room--assailed with the\nimpertinences of women-servants!'\n\n'Well, Sir,' returned Mrs Pipchin, with vengeance in her hard grey eye,\n'I exceedingly deplore it; nothing can be more irregular; nothing can be\nmore out of all bounds and reason; but I regret to say, Sir, that\nthis young woman is quite beyond control. She has been spoiled by\nMiss Dombey, and is amenable to nobody. You know you're not,' said Mrs\nPipchin, sharply, and shaking her head at Susan Nipper. 'For shame, you\nhussy! Go along with you!'\n\n'If you find people in my service who are not to be controlled, Mrs\nPipchin,' said Mr Dombey, turning back towards the fire, 'you know what\nto do with them, I presume. You know what you are here for? Take her\naway!'\n\n'Sir, I know what to do,' retorted Mrs Pipchin, 'and of course shall\ndo it. Susan Nipper,' snapping her up particularly short, 'a month's\nwarning from this hour.'\n\n'Oh indeed!' cried Susan, loftily.\n\n'Yes,' returned Mrs Pipchin, 'and don't smile at me, you minx, or I'll\nknow the reason why! Go along with you this minute!'\n\n'I intend to go this minute, you may rely upon it,' said the voluble\nNipper. 'I have been in this house waiting on my young lady a dozen year\nand I won't stop in it one hour under notice from a person owning to the\nname of Pipchin trust me, Mrs P.'\n\n'A good riddance of bad rubbish!' said that wrathful old lady. 'Get\nalong with you, or I'll have you carried out!'\n\n'My comfort is,' said Susan, looking back at Mr Dombey, 'that I have\ntold a piece of truth this day which ought to have been told long\nbefore and can't be told too often or too plain and that no amount of\nPipchinses--I hope the number of 'em mayn't be great' (here Mrs Pipchin\nuttered a very sharp 'Go along with you!' and Miss Nipper repeated the\nlook) 'can unsay what I have said, though they gave a whole year full of\nwarnings beginning at ten o'clock in the forenoon and never leaving\noff till twelve at night and died of the exhaustion which would be a\nJubilee!'\n\nWith these words, Miss Nipper preceded her foe out of the room; and\nwalking upstairs to her own apartments in great state, to the choking\nexasperation of the ireful Pipchin, sat down among her boxes and began\nto cry.\n\nFrom this soft mood she was soon aroused, with a very wholesome and\nrefreshing effect, by the voice of Mrs Pipchin outside the door.\n\n'Does that bold-faced slut,' said the fell Pipchin, 'intend to take her\nwarning, or does she not?'\n\nMiss Nipper replied from within that the person described did not\ninhabit that part of the house, but that her name was Pipchin, and she\nwas to be found in the housekeeper's room.\n\n'You saucy baggage!' retorted Mrs Pipchin, rattling at the handle of the\ndoor. 'Go along with you this minute. Pack up your things directly! How\ndare you talk in this way to a gentle-woman who has seen better days?'\n\nTo which Miss Nipper rejoined from her castle, that she pitied the\nbetter days that had seen Mrs Pipchin; and that for her part she\nconsidered the worst days in the year to be about that lady's mark,\nexcept that they were much too good for her.\n\n'But you needn't trouble yourself to make a noise at my door,' said\nSusan Nipper, 'nor to contaminate the key-hole with your eye, I'm\npacking up and going you may take your affidavit.'\n\nThe Dowager expressed her lively satisfaction at this intelligence, and\nwith some general opinions upon young hussies as a race, and especially\nupon their demerits after being spoiled by Miss Dombey, withdrew to\nprepare the Nipper's wages. Susan then bestirred herself to get\nher trunks in order, that she might take an immediate and dignified\ndeparture; sobbing heartily all the time, as she thought of Florence.\n\nThe object of her regret was not long in coming to her, for the news\nsoon spread over the house that Susan Nipper had had a disturbance with\nMrs Pipchin, and that they had both appealed to Mr Dombey, and that\nthere had been an unprecedented piece of work in Mr Dombey's room, and\nthat Susan was going. The latter part of this confused rumour, Florence\nfound to be so correct, that Susan had locked the last trunk and was\nsitting upon it with her bonnet on, when she came into her room.\n\n'Susan!' cried Florence. 'Going to leave me! You!'\n\n'Oh for goodness gracious sake, Miss Floy,' said Susan, sobbing, 'don't\nspeak a word to me or I shall demean myself before them Pi-i-pchinses,\nand I wouldn't have 'em see me cry Miss Floy for worlds!'\n\n'Susan!' said Florence. 'My dear girl, my old friend! What shall I do\nwithout you! Can you bear to go away so?'\n\n'No-n-o-o, my darling dear Miss Floy, I can't indeed,' sobbed Susan.\n'But it can't be helped, I've done my duty, Miss, I have indeed. It's no\nfault of mine. I am quite resigned. I couldn't stay my month or I could\nnever leave you then my darling and I must at last as well as at first,\ndon't speak to me Miss Floy, for though I'm pretty firm I'm not a marble\ndoorpost, my own dear.'\n\n'What is it? Why is it?' said Florence, 'Won't you tell me?' For Susan\nwas shaking her head.\n\n'No-n-no, my darling,' returned Susan. 'Don't ask me, for I mustn't, and\nwhatever you do don't put in a word for me to stop, for it couldn't be\nand you'd only wrong yourself, and so God bless you my own precious\nand forgive me any harm I have done, or any temper I have showed in all\nthese many years!'\n\nWith which entreaty, very heartily delivered, Susan hugged her mistress\nin her arms.\n\n'My darling there's a many that may come to serve you and be glad to\nserve you and who'll serve you well and true,' said Susan, 'but there\ncan't be one who'll serve you so affectionate as me or love you half as\ndearly, that's my comfort. Go-ood-bye, sweet Miss Floy!'\n\n'Where will you go, Susan?' asked her weeping mistress.\n\n'I've got a brother down in the country Miss--a farmer in Essex,' said\nthe heart-broken Nipper, 'that keeps ever so many co-o-ows and pigs and\nI shall go down there by the coach and sto-op with him, and don't mind\nme, for I've got money in the Savings Banks my dear, and needn't take\nanother service just yet, which I couldn't, couldn't, couldn't do, my\nheart's own mistress!' Susan finished with a burst of sorrow, which was\nopportunely broken by the voice of Mrs Pipchin talking downstairs; on\nhearing which, she dried her red and swollen eyes, and made a melancholy\nfeint of calling jauntily to Mr Towlinson to fetch a cab and carry down\nher boxes.\n\nFlorence, pale and hurried and distressed, but withheld from useless\ninterference even here, by her dread of causing any new division between\nher father and his wife (whose stern, indignant face had been a warning\nto her a few moments since), and by her apprehension of being in some\nway unconsciously connected already with the dismissal of her\nold servant and friend, followed, weeping, downstairs to Edith's\ndressing-room, whither Susan betook herself to make her parting curtsey.\n\n'Now, here's the cab, and here's the boxes, get along with you, do!'\nsaid Mrs Pipchin, presenting herself at the same moment. 'I beg your\npardon, Ma'am, but Mr Dombey's orders are imperative.'\n\nEdith, sitting under the hands of her maid--she was going out to\ndinner--preserved her haughty face, and took not the least notice.\n\n'There's your money,' said Mrs Pipchin, who in pursuance of her system,\nand in recollection of the Mines, was accustomed to rout the servants\nabout, as she had routed her young Brighton boarders; to the everlasting\nacidulation of Master Bitherstone, 'and the sooner this house sees your\nback the better.'\n\nSusan had no spirits even for the look that belonged to Ma Pipchin by\nright; so she dropped her curtsey to Mrs Dombey (who inclined her head\nwithout one word, and whose eye avoided everyone but Florence), and gave\none last parting hug to her young mistress, and received her parting\nembrace in return. Poor Susan's face at this crisis, in the intensity of\nher feelings and the determined suffocation of her sobs, lest one should\nbecome audible and be a triumph to Mrs Pipchin, presented a series of\nthe most extraordinary physiognomical phenomena ever witnessed.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Miss, I'm sure,' said Towlinson, outside the\ndoor with the boxes, addressing Florence, 'but Mr Toots is in the\ndrawing-room, and sends his compliments, and begs to know how Diogenes\nand Master is.'\n\nQuick as thought, Florence glided out and hastened downstairs, where\nMr Toots, in the most splendid vestments, was breathing very hard with\ndoubt and agitation on the subject of her coming.\n\n'Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, 'God bless my soul!'\n\nThis last ejaculation was occasioned by Mr Toots's deep concern at the\ndistress he saw in Florence's face; which caused him to stop short in a\nfit of chuckles, and become an image of despair.\n\n'Dear Mr Toots,' said Florence, 'you are so friendly to me, and so\nhonest, that I am sure I may ask a favour of you.'\n\n'Miss Dombey,' returned Mr Toots, 'if you'll only name one,\nyou'll--you'll give me an appetite. To which,' said Mr Toots, with some\nsentiment, 'I have long been a stranger.'\n\n'Susan, who is an old friend of mine, the oldest friend I have,' said\nFlorence, 'is about to leave here suddenly, and quite alone, poor girl.\nShe is going home, a little way into the country. Might I ask you to\ntake care of her until she is in the coach?'\n\n'Miss Dombey,' returned Mr Toots, 'you really do me an honour and a\nkindness. This proof of your confidence, after the manner in which I was\nBeast enough to conduct myself at Brighton--'\n\n'Yes,' said Florence, hurriedly--'no--don't think of that. Then would\nyou have the kindness to--to go? and to be ready to meet her when she\ncomes out? Thank you a thousand times! You ease my mind so much. She\ndoesn't seem so desolate. You cannot think how grateful I feel to\nyou, or what a good friend I am sure you are!' and Florence in\nher earnestness thanked him again and again; and Mr Toots, in his\nearnestness, hurried away--but backwards, that he might lose no glimpse\nof her.\n\nFlorence had not the courage to go out, when she saw poor Susan in the\nhall, with Mrs Pipchin driving her forth, and Diogenes jumping about\nher, and terrifying Mrs Pipchin to the last degree by making snaps\nat her bombazeen skirts, and howling with anguish at the sound of her\nvoice--for the good duenna was the dearest and most cherished aversion\nof his breast. But she saw Susan shake hands with the servants all\nround, and turn once to look at her old home; and she saw Diogenes bound\nout after the cab, and want to follow it, and testify an impossibility\nof conviction that he had no longer any property in the fare; and the\ndoor was shut, and the hurry over, and her tears flowed fast for the\nloss of an old friend, whom no one could replace. No one. No one.\n\nMr Toots, like the leal and trusty soul he was, stopped the cabriolet in\na twinkling, and told Susan Nipper of his commission, at which she cried\nmore than before.\n\n'Upon my soul and body!' said Mr Toots, taking his seat beside her. 'I\nfeel for you. Upon my word and honour I think you can hardly know your\nown feelings better than I imagine them. I can conceive nothing more\ndreadful than to have to leave Miss Dombey.'\n\nSusan abandoned herself to her grief now, and it really was touching to\nsee her.\n\n'I say,' said Mr Toots, 'now, don't! at least I mean now do, you know!'\n\n'Do what, Mr Toots!' cried Susan.\n\n'Why, come home to my place, and have some dinner before you start,'\nsaid Mr Toots. 'My cook's a most respectable woman--one of the most\nmotherly people I ever saw--and she'll be delighted to make you\ncomfortable. Her son,' said Mr Toots, as an additional recommendation,\n'was educated in the Bluecoat School, and blown up in a powder-mill.'\n\nSusan accepting this kind offer, Mr Toots conducted her to his dwelling,\nwhere they were received by the Matron in question who fully justified\nhis character of her, and by the Chicken who at first supposed, on\nseeing a lady in the vehicle, that Mr Dombey had been doubled up, ably\nto his old recommendation, and Miss Dombey abducted. This gentleman\nawakened in Miss Nipper some considerable astonishment; for, having\nbeen defeated by the Larkey Boy, his visage was in a state of such great\ndilapidation, as to be hardly presentable in society with comfort to the\nbeholders. The Chicken himself attributed this punishment to his having\nhad the misfortune to get into Chancery early in the proceedings, when\nhe was severely fibbed by the Larkey one, and heavily grassed. But\nit appeared from the published records of that great contest that the\nLarkey Boy had had it all his own way from the beginning, and that the\nChicken had been tapped, and bunged, and had received pepper, and had\nbeen made groggy, and had come up piping, and had endured a complication\nof similar strange inconveniences, until he had been gone into and\nfinished.\n\nAfter a good repast, and much hospitality, Susan set out for the\ncoach-office in another cabriolet, with Mr Toots inside, as before, and\nthe Chicken on the box, who, whatever distinction he conferred on the\nlittle party by the moral weight and heroism of his character, was\nscarcely ornamental to it, physically speaking, on account of his\nplasters; which were numerous. But the Chicken had registered a vow, in\nsecret, that he would never leave Mr Toots (who was secretly pining\nto get rid of him), for any less consideration than the good-will and\nfixtures of a public-house; and being ambitious to go into that line,\nand drink himself to death as soon as possible, he felt it his cue to\nmake his company unacceptable.\n\nThe night-coach by which Susan was to go, was on the point of departure.\nMr Toots having put her inside, lingered by the window, irresolutely,\nuntil the driver was about to mount; when, standing on the step,\nand putting in a face that by the light of the lamp was anxious and\nconfused, he said abruptly:\n\n'I say, Susan! Miss Dombey, you know--'\n\n'Yes, Sir.'\n\n'Do you think she could--you know--eh?'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Mr Toots,' said Susan, 'but I don't hear you.'\n\n'Do you think she could be brought, you know--not exactly at once, but\nin time--in a long time--to--to love me, you know? There!' said poor Mr\nToots.\n\n'Oh dear no!' returned Susan, shaking her head. 'I should say, never.\nNever!'\n\n'Thank'ee!' said Mr Toots. 'It's of no consequence. Good-night. It's of\nno consequence, thank'ee!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 45. The Trusty Agent\n\n\nEdith went out alone that day, and returned home early. It was but a few\nminutes after ten o'clock, when her carriage rolled along the street in\nwhich she lived.\n\nThere was the same enforced composure on her face, that there had been\nwhen she was dressing; and the wreath upon her head encircled the same\ncold and steady brow. But it would have been better to have seen its\nleaves and flowers reft into fragments by her passionate hand, or\nrendered shapeless by the fitful searches of a throbbing and bewildered\nbrain for any resting-place, than adorning such tranquillity. So\nobdurate, so unapproachable, so unrelenting, one would have thought that\nnothing could soften such a woman's nature, and that everything in life\nhad hardened it.\n\nArrived at her own door, she was alighting, when some one coming quietly\nfrom the hall, and standing bareheaded, offered her his arm. The servant\nbeing thrust aside, she had no choice but to touch it; and she then knew\nwhose arm it was.\n\n'How is your patient, Sir?' she asked, with a curled lip.\n\n'He is better,' returned Carker. 'He is doing very well. I have left him\nfor the night.'\n\nShe bent her head, and was passing up the staircase, when he followed\nand said, speaking at the bottom:\n\n'Madam! May I beg the favour of a minute's audience?'\n\nShe stopped and turned her eyes back 'It is an unseasonable time, Sir,\nand I am fatigued. Is your business urgent?'\n\n'It is very urgent, returned Carker. 'As I am so fortunate as to have\nmet you, let me press my petition.'\n\nShe looked down for a moment at his glistening mouth; and he looked up\nat her, standing above him in her stately dress, and thought, again, how\nbeautiful she was.\n\n'Where is Miss Dombey?' she asked the servant, aloud.\n\n'In the morning room, Ma'am.'\n\n'Show the way there!' Turning her eyes again on the attentive gentleman\nat the bottom of the stairs, and informing him with a slight motion of\nher head, that he was at liberty to follow, she passed on.\n\n'I beg your pardon! Madam! Mrs Dombey!' cried the soft and nimble\nCarker, at her side in a moment. 'May I be permitted to entreat that\nMiss Dombey is not present?'\n\nShe confronted him, with a quick look, but with the same self-possession\nand steadiness.\n\n'I would spare Miss Dombey,' said Carker, in a low voice, 'the knowledge\nof what I have to say. At least, Madam, I would leave it to you to\ndecide whether she shall know of it or not. I owe that to you. It is my\nbounden duty to you. After our former interview, it would be monstrous\nin me if I did otherwise.'\n\nShe slowly withdrew her eyes from his face, and turning to the servant,\nsaid, 'Some other room.' He led the way to a drawing-room, which he\nspeedily lighted up and then left them. While he remained, not a word\nwas spoken. Edith enthroned herself upon a couch by the fire; and Mr\nCarker, with his hat in his hand and his eyes bent upon the carpet,\nstood before her, at some little distance.\n\n'Before I hear you, Sir,' said Edith, when the door was closed, 'I wish\nyou to hear me.'\n\n'To be addressed by Mrs Dombey,' he returned, 'even in accents of\nunmerited reproach, is an honour I so greatly esteem, that although I\nwere not her servant in all things, I should defer to such a wish, most\nreadily.'\n\n'If you are charged by the man whom you have just now left, Sir;' Mr\nCarker raised his eyes, as if he were going to counterfeit surprise,\nbut she met them, and stopped him, if such were his intention; 'with any\nmessage to me, do not attempt to deliver it, for I will not receive\nit. I need scarcely ask you if you are come on such an errand. I have\nexpected you some time.'\n\n'It is my misfortune,' he replied, 'to be here, wholly against my will,\nfor such a purpose. Allow me to say that I am here for two purposes.\nThat is one.'\n\n'That one, Sir,' she returned, 'is ended. Or, if you return to it--'\n\n'Can Mrs Dombey believe,' said Carker, coming nearer, 'that I would\nreturn to it in the face of her prohibition? Is it possible that Mrs\nDombey, having no regard to my unfortunate position, is so determined to\nconsider me inseparable from my instructor as to do me great and wilful\ninjustice?'\n\n'Sir,' returned Edith, bending her dark gaze full upon him, and speaking\nwith a rising passion that inflated her proud nostril and her swelling\nneck, and stirred the delicate white down upon a robe she wore, thrown\nloosely over shoulders that could hear its snowy neighbourhood. 'Why do\nyou present yourself to me, as you have done, and speak to me of love\nand duty to my husband, and pretend to think that I am happily married,\nand that I honour him? How dare you venture so to affront me, when you\nknow--I do not know better, Sir: I have seen it in your every glance,\nand heard it in your every word--that in place of affection between us\nthere is aversion and contempt, and that I despise him hardly less than\nI despise myself for being his! Injustice! If I had done justice to the\ntorment you have made me feel, and to my sense of the insult you have\nput upon me, I should have slain you!'\n\nShe had asked him why he did this. Had she not been blinded by her pride\nand wrath, and self-humiliation,--which she was, fiercely as she bent\nher gaze upon him,--she would have seen the answer in his face. To bring\nher to this declaration.\n\nShe saw it not, and cared not whether it was there or no. She saw only\nthe indignities and struggles she had undergone and had to undergo, and\nwas writhing under them. As she sat looking fixedly at them, rather\nthan at him, she plucked the feathers from a pinion of some rare and\nbeautiful bird, which hung from her wrist by a golden thread, to serve\nher as a fan, and rained them on the ground.\n\nHe did not shrink beneath her gaze, but stood, until such outward signs\nof her anger as had escaped her control subsided, with the air of a man\nwho had his sufficient reply in reserve and would presently deliver it.\nAnd he then spoke, looking straight into her kindling eyes.\n\n'Madam,' he said, 'I know, and knew before to-day, that I have found\nno favour with you; and I knew why. Yes. I knew why. You have spoken so\nopenly to me; I am so relieved by the possession of your confidence--'\n\n'Confidence!' she repeated, with disdain.\n\nHe passed it over.\n\n'--that I will make no pretence of concealment. I did see from the\nfirst, that there was no affection on your part for Mr Dombey--how could\nit possibly exist between such different subjects? And I have seen,\nsince, that stronger feelings than indifference have been engendered in\nyour breast--how could that possibly be otherwise, either, circumstanced\nas you have been? But was it for me to presume to avow this knowledge to\nyou in so many words?'\n\n'Was it for you, Sir,' she replied, 'to feign that other belief, and\naudaciously to thrust it on me day by day?'\n\n'Madam, it was,' he eagerly retorted. 'If I had done less, if I had\ndone anything but that, I should not be speaking to you thus; and I\nforesaw--who could better foresee, for who has had greater experience of\nMr Dombey than myself?--that unless your character should prove to be as\nyielding and obedient as that of his first submissive lady, which I did\nnot believe--'\n\nA haughty smile gave him reason to observe that he might repeat this.\n\n'I say, which I did not believe,--the time was likely to come, when such\nan understanding as we have now arrived at, would be serviceable.'\n\n'Serviceable to whom, Sir?' she demanded scornfully.\n\n'To you. I will not add to myself, as warning me to refrain even from\nthat limited commendation of Mr Dombey, in which I can honestly\nindulge, in order that I may not have the misfortune of saying anything\ndistasteful to one whose aversion and contempt,' with great expression,\n'are so keen.'\n\n'Is it honest in you, Sir,' said Edith, 'to confess to your \"limited\ncommendation,\" and to speak in that tone of disparagement, even of him:\nbeing his chief counsellor and flatterer!'\n\n'Counsellor,--yes,' said Carker. 'Flatterer,--no. A little reservation I\nfear I must confess to. But our interest and convenience commonly oblige\nmany of us to make professions that we cannot feel. We have partnerships\nof interest and convenience, friendships of interest and convenience,\ndealings of interest and convenience, marriages of interest and\nconvenience, every day.'\n\nShe bit her blood-red lip; but without wavering in the dark, stern watch\nshe kept upon him.\n\n'Madam,' said Mr Carker, sitting down in a chair that was near her, with\nan air of the most profound and most considerate respect, 'why should\nI hesitate now, being altogether devoted to your service, to speak\nplainly? It was natural that a lady, endowed as you are, should think it\nfeasible to change her husband's character in some respects, and mould\nhim to a better form.'\n\n'It was not natural to me, Sir,' she rejoined. 'I had never any\nexpectation or intention of that kind.'\n\nThe proud undaunted face showed him it was resolute to wear no mask he\noffered, but was set upon a reckless disclosure of itself, indifferent\nto any aspect in which it might present itself to such as he.\n\n'At least it was natural,' he resumed, 'that you should deem it quite\npossible to live with Mr Dombey as his wife, at once without submitting\nto him, and without coming into such violent collision with him. But,\nMadam, you did not know Mr Dombey (as you have since ascertained), when\nyou thought that. You did not know how exacting and how proud he is,\nor how he is, if I may say so, the slave of his own greatness, and goes\nyoked to his own triumphal car like a beast of burden, with no idea on\nearth but that it is behind him and is to be drawn on, over everything\nand through everything.'\n\nHis teeth gleamed through his malicious relish of this conceit, as he\nwent on talking:\n\n'Mr Dombey is really capable of no more true consideration for you,\nMadam, than for me. The comparison is an extreme one; I intend it to\nbe so; but quite just. Mr Dombey, in the plenitude of his power, asked\nme--I had it from his own lips yesterday morning--to be his go-between\nto you, because he knows I am not agreeable to you, and because he\nintends that I shall be a punishment for your contumacy; and besides\nthat, because he really does consider, that I, his paid servant, am an\nambassador whom it is derogatory to the dignity--not of the lady to whom\nI have the happiness of speaking; she has no existence in his mind--but\nof his wife, a part of himself, to receive. You may imagine how\nregardless of me, how obtuse to the possibility of my having any\nindividual sentiment or opinion he is, when he tells me, openly, that I\nam so employed. You know how perfectly indifferent to your feelings he\nis, when he threatens you with such a messenger. As you, of course, have\nnot forgotten that he did.'\n\nShe watched him still attentively. But he watched her too; and he saw\nthat this indication of a knowledge on his part, of something that\nhad passed between herself and her husband, rankled and smarted in her\nhaughty breast, like a poisoned arrow.\n\n'I do not recall all this to widen the breach between yourself and\nMr Dombey, Madam--Heaven forbid! what would it profit me?--but as an\nexample of the hopelessness of impressing Mr Dombey with a sense that\nanybody is to be considered when he is in question. We who are about\nhim, have, in our various positions, done our part, I daresay, to\nconfirm him in his way of thinking; but if we had not done so, others\nwould--or they would not have been about him; and it has always been,\nfrom the beginning, the very staple of his life. Mr Dombey has had to\ndeal, in short, with none but submissive and dependent persons, who have\nbowed the knee, and bent the neck, before him. He has never known what\nit is to have angry pride and strong resentment opposed to him.'\n\n'But he will know it now!' she seemed to say; though her lips did not\npart, nor her eyes falter. He saw the soft down tremble once again, and\nhe saw her lay the plumage of the beautiful bird against her bosom for\na moment; and he unfolded one more ring of the coil into which he had\ngathered himself.\n\n'Mr Dombey, though a most honourable gentleman,' he said, 'is so prone\nto pervert even facts to his own view, when he is at all opposed,\nin consequence of the warp in his mind, that he--can I give a better\ninstance than this!--he sincerely believes (you will excuse the folly of\nwhat I am about to say; it not being mine) that his severe expression\nof opinion to his present wife, on a certain special occasion she may\nremember, before the lamented death of Mrs Skewton, produced a withering\neffect, and for the moment quite subdued her!'\n\nEdith laughed. How harshly and unmusically need not be described. It is\nenough that he was glad to hear her.\n\n'Madam,' he resumed, 'I have done with this. Your own opinions are so\nstrong, and, I am persuaded, so unalterable,' he repeated those words\nslowly and with great emphasis, 'that I am almost afraid to incur your\ndispleasure anew, when I say that in spite of these defects and my full\nknowledge of them, I have become habituated to Mr Dombey, and esteem\nhim. But when I say so, it is not, believe me, for the mere sake of\nvaunting a feeling that is so utterly at variance with your own, and\nfor which you can have no sympathy'--oh how distinct and plain and\nemphasized this was!--'but to give you an assurance of the zeal with\nwhich, in this unhappy matter, I am yours, and the indignation with\nwhich I regard the part I am to fill!'\n\nShe sat as if she were afraid to take her eyes from his face.\n\nAnd now to unwind the last ring of the coil!\n\n'It is growing late,' said Carker, after a pause, 'and you are, as you\nsaid, fatigued. But the second object of this interview, I must not\nforget. I must recommend you, I must entreat you in the most earnest\nmanner, for sufficient reasons that I have, to be cautious in your\ndemonstrations of regard for Miss Dombey.'\n\n'Cautious! What do you mean?'\n\n'To be careful how you exhibit too much affection for that young lady.'\n\n'Too much affection, Sir!' said Edith, knitting her broad brow and\nrising. 'Who judges my affection, or measures it out? You?'\n\n'It is not I who do so.' He was, or feigned to be, perplexed.\n\n'Who then?'\n\n'Can you not guess who then?'\n\n'I do not choose to guess,' she answered.\n\n'Madam,' he said after a little hesitation; meantime they had been, and\nstill were, regarding each other as before; 'I am in a difficulty here.\nYou have told me you will receive no message, and you have forbidden me\nto return to that subject; but the two subjects are so closely entwined,\nI find, that unless you will accept this vague caution from one who has\nnow the honour to possess your confidence, though the way to it has been\nthrough your displeasure, I must violate the injunction you have laid\nupon me.'\n\n'You know that you are free to do so, Sir,' said Edith. 'Do it.'\n\nSo pale, so trembling, so impassioned! He had not miscalculated the\neffect then!\n\n'His instructions were,' he said, in a low voice, 'that I should inform\nyou that your demeanour towards Miss Dombey is not agreeable to him.\nThat it suggests comparisons to him which are not favourable to himself.\nThat he desires it may be wholly changed; and that if you are in\nearnest, he is confident it will be; for your continued show of\naffection will not benefit its object.'\n\n'That is a threat,' she said.\n\n'That is a threat,' he answered, in his voiceless manner of assent:\nadding aloud, 'but not directed against you.'\n\nProud, erect, and dignified, as she stood confronting him; and looking\nthrough him as she did, with her full bright flashing eye; and smiling,\nas she was, with scorn and bitterness; she sunk as if the ground had\ndropped beneath her, and in an instant would have fallen on the floor,\nbut that he caught her in his arms. As instantaneously she threw him\noff, the moment that he touched her, and, drawing back, confronted him\nagain, immoveable, with her hand stretched out.\n\n'Please to leave me. Say no more to-night.'\n\n'I feel the urgency of this,' said Mr Carker, 'because it is impossible\nto say what unforeseen consequences might arise, or how soon, from your\nbeing unacquainted with his state of mind. I understand Miss Dombey is\nconcerned, now, at the dismissal of her old servant, which is likely\nto have been a minor consequence in itself. You don't blame me for\nrequesting that Miss Dombey might not be present. May I hope so?'\n\n'I do not. Please to leave me, Sir.'\n\n'I knew that your regard for the young lady, which is very sincere and\nstrong, I am well persuaded, would render it a great unhappiness to you,\never to be a prey to the reflection that you had injured her position\nand ruined her future hopes,' said Carker hurriedly, but eagerly.\n\n'No more to-night. Leave me, if you please.'\n\n'I shall be here constantly in my attendance upon him, and in the\ntransaction of business matters. You will allow me to see you again, and\nto consult what should be done, and learn your wishes?'\n\nShe motioned him towards the door.\n\n'I cannot even decide whether to tell him I have spoken to you yet;\nor to lead him to suppose that I have deferred doing so, for want of\nopportunity, or for any other reason. It will be necessary that you\nshould enable me to consult with you very soon.'\n\n'At any time but now,' she answered.\n\n'You will understand, when I wish to see you, that Miss Dombey is not to\nbe present; and that I seek an interview as one who has the happiness to\npossess your confidence, and who comes to render you every assistance in\nhis power, and, perhaps, on many occasions, to ward off evil from her?'\n\nLooking at him still with the same apparent dread of releasing him for\na moment from the influence of her steady gaze, whatever that might be,\nshe answered, 'Yes!' and once more bade him go.\n\nHe bowed, as if in compliance; but turning back, when he had nearly\nreached the door, said:\n\n'I am forgiven, and have explained my fault. May I--for Miss Dombey's\nsake, and for my own--take your hand before I go?'\n\nShe gave him the gloved hand she had maimed last night. He took it in\none of his, and kissed it, and withdrew. And when he had closed the\ndoor, he waved the hand with which he had taken hers, and thrust it in\nhis breast.\n\nEdith saw no one that night, but locked her door, and kept herself\nalone.\n\nShe did not weep; she showed no greater agitation, outwardly, than when\nshe was riding home. She laid as proud a head upon her pillow as she had\nborne in her carriage; and her prayer ran thus:\n\n'May this man be a liar! For if he has spoken truth, she is lost to me,\nand I have no hope left!'\n\nThis man, meanwhile, went home musing to bed, thinking, with a dainty\npleasure, how imperious her passion was, how she had sat before him in\nher beauty, with the dark eyes that had never turned away but once; how\nthe white down had fluttered; how the bird's feathers had been strewn\nupon the ground.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 46. Recognizant and Reflective\n\n\nAmong sundry minor alterations in Mr Carker's life and habits that\nbegan to take place at this time, none was more remarkable than the\nextraordinary diligence with which he applied himself to business, and\nthe closeness with which he investigated every detail that the affairs\nof the House laid open to him. Always active and penetrating in such\nmatters, his lynx-eyed vigilance now increased twenty-fold. Not only\ndid his weary watch keep pace with every present point that every day\npresented to him in some new form, but in the midst of these engrossing\noccupations he found leisure--that is, he made it--to review the past\ntransactions of the Firm, and his share in them, during a long series\nof years. Frequently when the clerks were all gone, the offices dark and\nempty, and all similar places of business shut up, Mr Carker, with the\nwhole anatomy of the iron room laid bare before him, would explore the\nmysteries of books and papers, with the patient progress of a man who\nwas dissecting the minutest nerves and fibres of his subject. Perch, the\nmessenger, who usually remained on these occasions, to entertain himself\nwith the perusal of the Price Current by the light of one candle, or\nto doze over the fire in the outer office, at the imminent risk every\nmoment of diving head foremost into the coal-box, could not withhold the\ntribute of his admiration from this zealous conduct, although it much\ncontracted his domestic enjoyments; and again, and again, expatiated\nto Mrs Perch (now nursing twins) on the industry and acuteness of their\nmanaging gentleman in the City.\n\nThe same increased and sharp attention that Mr Carker bestowed on the\nbusiness of the House, he applied to his own personal affairs. Though\nnot a partner in the concern--a distinction hitherto reserved solely to\ninheritors of the great name of Dombey--he was in the receipt of some\npercentage on its dealings; and, participating in all its facilities\nfor the employment of money to advantage, was considered, by the minnows\namong the tritons of the East, a rich man. It began to be said, among\nthese shrewd observers, that Jem Carker, of Dombey's, was looking about\nhim to see what he was worth; and that he was calling in his money at\na good time, like the long-headed fellow he was; and bets were even\noffered on the Stock Exchange that Jem was going to marry a rich widow.\n\nYet these cares did not in the least interfere with Mr Carker's watching\nof his chief, or with his cleanness, neatness, sleekness, or any\ncat-like quality he possessed. It was not so much that there was a\nchange in him, in reference to any of his habits, as that the whole man\nwas intensified. Everything that had been observable in him before, was\nobservable now, but with a greater amount of concentration. He did each\nsingle thing, as if he did nothing else--a pretty certain indication in\na man of that range of ability and purpose, that he is doing something\nwhich sharpens and keeps alive his keenest powers.\n\nThe only decided alteration in him was, that as he rode to and fro along\nthe streets, he would fall into deep fits of musing, like that in\nwhich he had come away from Mr Dombey's house, on the morning of\nthat gentleman's disaster. At such times, he would keep clear of the\nobstacles in his way, mechanically; and would appear to see and hear\nnothing until arrival at his destination, or some sudden chance or\neffort roused him.\n\nWalking his white-legged horse thus, to the counting-house of Dombey and\nSon one day, he was as unconscious of the observation of two pairs of\nwomen's eyes, as of the fascinated orbs of Rob the Grinder, who, in\nwaiting a street's length from the appointed place, as a demonstration\nof punctuality, vainly touched and retouched his hat to attract\nattention, and trotted along on foot, by his master's side, prepared to\nhold his stirrup when he should alight.\n\n'See where he goes!' cried one of these two women, an old creature, who\nstretched out her shrivelled arm to point him out to her companion, a\nyoung woman, who stood close beside her, withdrawn like herself into a\ngateway.\n\nMrs Brown's daughter looked out, at this bidding on the part of Mrs\nBrown; and there were wrath and vengeance in her face.\n\n'I never thought to look at him again,' she said, in a low voice; 'but\nit's well I should, perhaps. I see. I see!'\n\n'Not changed!' said the old woman, with a look of eager malice.\n\n'He changed!' returned the other. 'What for? What has he suffered? There\nis change enough for twenty in me. Isn't that enough?'\n\n'See where he goes!' muttered the old woman, watching her daughter with\nher red eyes; 'so easy and so trim a-horseback, while we are in the\nmud.'\n\n'And of it,' said her daughter impatiently. 'We are mud, underneath his\nhorse's feet. What should we be?'\n\nIn the intentness with which she looked after him again, she made a\nhasty gesture with her hand when the old woman began to reply, as if her\nview could be obstructed by mere sound. Her mother watching her, and not\nhim, remained silent; until her kindling glance subsided, and she drew a\nlong breath, as if in the relief of his being gone.\n\n'Deary!' said the old woman then. 'Alice! Handsome gall Ally!' She\ngently shook her sleeve to arouse her attention. 'Will you let him go\nlike that, when you can wring money from him? Why, it's a wickedness, my\ndaughter.'\n\n'Haven't I told you, that I will not have money from him?' she returned.\n'And don't you yet believe me? Did I take his sister's money? Would\nI touch a penny, if I knew it, that had gone through his white\nhands--unless it was, indeed, that I could poison it, and send it back\nto him? Peace, mother, and come away.'\n\n'And him so rich?' murmured the old woman. 'And us so poor!'\n\n'Poor in not being able to pay him any of the harm we owe him,' returned\nher daughter. 'Let him give me that sort of riches, and I'll take them\nfrom him, and use them. Come away. Its no good looking at his horse.\nCome away, mother!'\n\nBut the old woman, for whom the spectacle of Rob the Grinder returning\ndown the street, leading the riderless horse, appeared to have some\nextraneous interest that it did not possess in itself, surveyed that\nyoung man with the utmost earnestness; and seeming to have whatever\ndoubts she entertained, resolved as he drew nearer, glanced at her\ndaughter with brightened eyes and with her finger on her lip, and\nemerging from the gateway at the moment of his passing, touched him on\nthe shoulder.\n\n'Why, where's my sprightly Rob been, all this time!' she said, as he\nturned round.\n\nThe sprightly Rob, whose sprightliness was very much diminished by the\nsalutation, looked exceedingly dismayed, and said, with the water rising\nin his eyes:\n\n'Oh! why can't you leave a poor cove alone, Misses Brown, when he's\ngetting an honest livelihood and conducting himself respectable? What do\nyou come and deprive a cove of his character for, by talking to him in\nthe streets, when he's taking his master's horse to a honest stable--a\nhorse you'd go and sell for cats' and dogs' meat if you had your way!\nWhy, I thought,' said the Grinder, producing his concluding remark as if\nit were the climax of all his injuries, 'that you was dead long ago!'\n\n'This is the way,' cried the old woman, appealing to her daughter, 'that\nhe talks to me, who knew him weeks and months together, my deary, and\nhave stood his friend many and many a time among the pigeon-fancying\ntramps and bird-catchers.'\n\n'Let the birds be, will you, Misses Brown?' retorted Rob, in a tone of\nthe acutest anguish. 'I think a cove had better have to do with lions\nthan them little creeturs, for they're always flying back in your face\nwhen you least expect it. Well, how d'ye do and what do you want?' These\npolite inquiries the Grinder uttered, as it were under protest, and with\ngreat exasperation and vindictiveness.\n\n'Hark how he speaks to an old friend, my deary!' said Mrs Brown, again\nappealing to her daughter. 'But there's some of his old friends not so\npatient as me. If I was to tell some that he knows, and has spotted and\ncheated with, where to find him--'\n\n'Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown?' interrupted the miserable\nGrinder, glancing quickly round, as though he expected to see his\nmaster's teeth shining at his elbow. 'What do you take a pleasure in\nruining a cove for? At your time of life too! when you ought to be\nthinking of a variety of things!'\n\n'What a gallant horse!' said the old woman, patting the animal's neck.\n\n'Let him alone, will you, Misses Brown?' cried Rob, pushing away her\nhand. 'You're enough to drive a penitent cove mad!'\n\n'Why, what hurt do I do him, child?' returned the old woman.\n\n'Hurt?' said Rob. 'He's got a master that would find it out if he was\ntouched with a straw.' And he blew upon the place where the old woman's\nhand had rested for a moment, and smoothed it gently with his finger, as\nif he seriously believed what he said.\n\nThe old woman looking back to mumble and mouth at her daughter, who\nfollowed, kept close to Rob's heels as he walked on with the bridle in\nhis hand; and pursued the conversation.\n\n'A good place, Rob, eh?' said she. 'You're in luck, my child.'\n\n'Oh don't talk about luck, Misses Brown,' returned the wretched Grinder,\nfacing round and stopping. 'If you'd never come, or if you'd go away,\nthen indeed a cove might be considered tolerable lucky. Can't you go\nalong, Misses Brown, and not foller me!' blubbered Rob, with sudden\ndefiance. 'If the young woman's a friend of yours, why don't she take\nyou away, instead of letting you make yourself so disgraceful!'\n\n'What!' croaked the old woman, putting her face close to his, with a\nmalevolent grin upon it that puckered up the loose skin down in her very\nthroat. 'Do you deny your old chum! Have you lurked to my house fifty\ntimes, and slept sound in a corner when you had no other bed but the\npaving-stones, and do you talk to me like this! Have I bought and sold\nwith you, and helped you in my way of business, schoolboy, sneak, and\nwhat not, and do you tell me to go along? Could I raise a crowd of old\ncompany about you to-morrow morning, that would follow you to ruin like\ncopies of your own shadow, and do you turn on me with your bold looks!\nI'll go. Come, Alice.'\n\n'Stop, Misses Brown!' cried the distracted Grinder. 'What are you doing\nof? Don't put yourself in a passion! Don't let her go, if you please. I\nhaven't meant any offence. I said \"how d'ye do,\" at first, didn't I?\nBut you wouldn't answer. How you do? Besides,' said Rob piteously, 'look\nhere! How can a cove stand talking in the street with his master's\nprad a-wanting to be took to be rubbed down, and his master up to every\nindividgle thing that happens!'\n\nThe old woman made a show of being partially appeased, but shook her\nhead, and mouthed and muttered still.\n\n'Come along to the stables, and have a glass of something that's good\nfor you, Misses Brown, can't you?' said Rob, 'instead of going on, like\nthat, which is no good to you, nor anybody else. Come along with her,\nwill you be so kind?' said Rob. 'I'm sure I'm delighted to see her, if\nit wasn't for the horse!'\n\nWith this apology, Rob turned away, a rueful picture of despair, and\nwalked his charge down a bye street' The old woman, mouthing at her\ndaughter, followed close upon him. The daughter followed.\n\nTurning into a silent little square or court-yard that had a great\nchurch tower rising above it, and a packer's warehouse, and a\nbottle-maker's warehouse, for its places of business, Rob the Grinder\ndelivered the white-legged horse to the hostler of a quaint stable at\nthe corner; and inviting Mrs Brown and her daughter to seat themselves\nupon a stone bench at the gate of that establishment, soon reappeared\nfrom a neighbouring public-house with a pewter measure and a glass.\n\n'Here's master--Mr Carker, child!' said the old woman, slowly, as her\nsentiment before drinking. 'Lord bless him!'\n\n'Why, I didn't tell you who he was,' observed Rob, with staring eyes.\n\n'We know him by sight,' said Mrs Brown, whose working mouth and nodding\nhead stopped for the moment, in the fixedness of her attention. 'We saw\nhim pass this morning, afore he got off his horse; when you were ready\nto take it.'\n\n'Ay, ay,' returned Rob, appearing to wish that his readiness had carried\nhim to any other place.--'What's the matter with her? Won't she drink?'\n\nThis inquiry had reference to Alice, who, folded in her cloak, sat a\nlittle apart, profoundly inattentive to his offer of the replenished\nglass.\n\nThe old woman shook her head. 'Don't mind her,' she said; 'she's a\nstrange creetur, if you know'd her, Rob. But Mr Carker--'\n\n'Hush!' said Rob, glancing cautiously up at the packer's, and at the\nbottle-maker's, as if, from any one of the tiers of warehouses, Mr\nCarker might be looking down. 'Softly.'\n\n'Why, he ain't here!' cried Mrs Brown.\n\n'I don't know that,' muttered Rob, whose glance even wandered to the\nchurch tower, as if he might be there, with a supernatural power of\nhearing.\n\n'Good master?' inquired Mrs Brown.\n\nRob nodded; and added, in a low voice, 'precious sharp.'\n\n'Lives out of town, don't he, lovey?' said the old woman.\n\n'When he's at home,' returned Rob; 'but we don't live at home just now.'\n\n'Where then?' asked the old woman.\n\n'Lodgings; up near Mr Dombey's,' returned Rob.\n\nThe younger woman fixed her eyes so searchingly upon him, and so\nsuddenly, that Rob was quite confounded, and offered the glass again,\nbut with no more effect upon her than before.\n\n'Mr Dombey--you and I used to talk about him, sometimes, you know,' said\nRob to Mrs Brown. 'You used to get me to talk about him.'\n\nThe old woman nodded.\n\n'Well, Mr Dombey, he's had a fall from his horse,' said Rob,\nunwillingly; 'and my master has to be up there, more than usual, either\nwith him, or Mrs Dombey, or some of 'em; and so we've come to town.'\n\n'Are they good friends, lovey?'asked the old woman.\n\n'Who?' retorted Rob.\n\n'He and she?'\n\n'What, Mr and Mrs Dombey?' said Rob. 'How should I know!'\n\n'Not them--Master and Mrs Dombey, chick,' replied the old woman,\ncoaxingly.\n\n'I don't know,' said Rob, looking round him again. 'I suppose so. How\ncurious you are, Misses Brown! Least said, soonest mended.'\n\n'Why there's no harm in it!' exclaimed the old woman, with a laugh, and\na clap of her hands. 'Sprightly Rob, has grown tame since he has been\nwell off! There's no harm in it.'\n\n'No, there's no harm in it, I know,' returned Rob, with the same\ndistrustful glance at the packer's and the bottle-maker's, and the\nchurch; 'but blabbing, if it's only about the number of buttons on my\nmaster's coat, won't do. I tell you it won't do with him. A cove had\nbetter drown himself. He says so. I shouldn't have so much as told you\nwhat his name was, if you hadn't known it. Talk about somebody else.'\n\nAs Rob took another cautious survey of the yard, the old woman made a\nsecret motion to her daughter. It was momentary, but the daughter, with\na slight look of intelligence, withdrew her eyes from the boy's face,\nand sat folded in her cloak as before.\n\n'Rob, lovey!' said the old woman, beckoning him to the other end of the\nbench. 'You were always a pet and favourite of mine. Now, weren't you?\nDon't you know you were?'\n\n'Yes, Misses Brown,' replied the Grinder, with a very bad grace.\n\n'And you could leave me!' said the old woman, flinging her arms about\nhis neck. 'You could go away, and grow almost out of knowledge, and\nnever come to tell your poor old friend how fortunate you were, proud\nlad! Oho, Oho!'\n\n'Oh here's a dreadful go for a cove that's got a master wide awake in\nthe neighbourhood!' exclaimed the wretched Grinder. 'To be howled over\nlike this here!'\n\n'Won't you come and see me, Robby?' cried Mrs Brown. 'Oho, won't you\never come and see me?'\n\n'Yes, I tell you! Yes, I will!' returned the Grinder.\n\n'That's my own Rob! That's my lovey!' said Mrs Brown, drying the tears\nupon her shrivelled face, and giving him a tender squeeze. 'At the old\nplace, Rob?'\n\n'Yes,' replied the Grinder.\n\n'Soon, Robby dear?' cried Mrs Brown; 'and often?'\n\n'Yes. Yes. Yes,' replied Rob. 'I will indeed, upon my soul and body.'\n\n'And then,' said Mrs Brown, with her arms uplifted towards the sky, and\nher head thrown back and shaking, 'if he's true to his word, I'll never\ncome a-near him though I know where he is, and never breathe a syllable\nabout him! Never!'\n\nThis ejaculation seemed a drop of comfort to the miserable Grinder, who\nshook Mrs Brown by the hand upon it, and implored her with tears in his\neyes, to leave a cove and not destroy his prospects. Mrs Brown,\nwith another fond embrace, assented; but in the act of following her\ndaughter, turned back, with her finger stealthily raised, and asked in a\nhoarse whisper for some money.\n\n'A shilling, dear!' she said, with her eager avaricious face, 'or\nsixpence! For old acquaintance sake. I'm so poor. And my handsome\ngal'--looking over her shoulder--'she's my gal, Rob--half starves me.'\n\nBut as the reluctant Grinder put it in her hand, her daughter, coming\nquietly back, caught the hand in hers, and twisted out the coin.\n\n'What,' she said, 'mother! always money! money from the first, and to\nthe last. Do you mind so little what I said but now? Here. Take it!'\n\nThe old woman uttered a moan as the money was restored, but without in\nany other way opposing its restoration, hobbled at her daughter's side\nout of the yard, and along the by-street upon which it opened. The\nastonished and dismayed Rob staring after them, saw that they stopped,\nand fell to earnest conversation very soon; and more than once observed\na darkly threatening action of the younger woman's hand (obviously\nhaving reference to someone of whom they spoke), and a crooning feeble\nimitation of it on the part of Mrs Brown, that made him earnestly hope\nhe might not be the subject of their discourse.\n\nWith the present consolation that they were gone, and with the\nprospective comfort that Mrs Brown could not live for ever, and was\nnot likely to live long to trouble him, the Grinder, not otherwise\nregretting his misdeeds than as they were attended with such\ndisagreeable incidental consequences, composed his ruffled features to\na more serene expression by thinking of the admirable manner in which he\nhad disposed of Captain Cuttle (a reflection that seldom failed to put\nhim in a flow of spirits), and went to the Dombey Counting House to\nreceive his master's orders.\n\nThere his master, so subtle and vigilant of eye, that Rob quaked before\nhim, more than half expecting to be taxed with Mrs Brown, gave him the\nusual morning's box of papers for Mr Dombey, and a note for Mrs Dombey:\nmerely nodding his head as an enjoinder to be careful, and to use\ndispatch--a mysterious admonition, fraught in the Grinder's imagination\nwith dismal warnings and threats; and more powerful with him than any\nwords.\n\nAlone again, in his own room, Mr Carker applied himself to work, and\nworked all day. He saw many visitors; overlooked a number of documents;\nwent in and out, to and from, sundry places of mercantile resort; and\nindulged in no more abstraction until the day's business was done. But,\nwhen the usual clearance of papers from his table was made at last, he\nfell into his thoughtful mood once more.\n\nHe was standing in his accustomed place and attitude, with his eyes\nintently fixed upon the ground, when his brother entered to bring back\nsome letters that had been taken out in the course of the day. He put\nthem quietly on the table, and was going immediately, when Mr Carker the\nManager, whose eyes had rested on him, on his entrance, as if they had\nall this time had him for the subject of their contemplation, instead of\nthe office-floor, said:\n\n'Well, John Carker, and what brings you here?'\n\nHis brother pointed to the letters, and was again withdrawing.\n\n'I wonder,' said the Manager, 'that you can come and go, without\ninquiring how our master is'.\n\n'We had word this morning in the Counting House, that Mr Dombey was\ndoing well,' replied his brother.\n\n'You are such a meek fellow,' said the Manager, with a smile,--'but you\nhave grown so, in the course of years--that if any harm came to him,\nyou'd be miserable, I dare swear now.'\n\n'I should be truly sorry, James,' returned the other.\n\n'He would be sorry!' said the Manager, pointing at him, as if there were\nsome other person present to whom he was appealing. 'He would be truly\nsorry! This brother of mine! This junior of the place, this slighted\npiece of lumber, pushed aside with his face to the wall, like a rotten\npicture, and left so, for Heaven knows how many years he's all gratitude\nand respect, and devotion too, he would have me believe!'\n\n'I would have you believe nothing, James,' returned the other. 'Be as\njust to me as you would to any other man below you. You ask a question,\nand I answer it.'\n\n'And have you nothing, Spaniel,' said the Manager, with unusual\nirascibility, 'to complain of in him? No proud treatment to resent, no\ninsolence, no foolery of state, no exaction of any sort! What the devil!\nare you man or mouse?'\n\n'It would be strange if any two persons could be together for so\nmany years, especially as superior and inferior, without each having\nsomething to complain of in the other--as he thought, at all events,'\nreplied John Carker. 'But apart from my history here--'\n\n'His history here!' exclaimed the Manager. 'Why, there it is. The very\nfact that makes him an extreme case, puts him out of the whole chapter!\nWell?'\n\n'Apart from that, which, as you hint, gives me a reason to be thankful\nthat I alone (happily for all the rest) possess, surely there is no one\nin the House who would not say and feel at least as much. You do\nnot think that anybody here would be indifferent to a mischance or\nmisfortune happening to the head of the House, or anything than truly\nsorry for it?'\n\n'You have good reason to be bound to him too!' said the Manager,\ncontemptuously. 'Why, don't you believe that you are kept here, as a\ncheap example, and a famous instance of the clemency of Dombey and Son,\nredounding to the credit of the illustrious House?'\n\n'No,' replied his brother, mildly, 'I have long believed that I am kept\nhere for more kind and disinterested reasons.'\n\n'But you were going,' said the Manager, with the snarl of a tiger-cat,\n'to recite some Christian precept, I observed.'\n\n'Nay, James,' returned the other, 'though the tie of brotherhood between\nus has been long broken and thrown away--'\n\n'Who broke it, good Sir?' said the Manager.\n\n'I, by my misconduct. I do not charge it upon you.'\n\nThe Manager replied, with that mute action of his bristling mouth, 'Oh,\nyou don't charge it upon me!' and bade him go on.\n\n'I say, though there is not that tie between us, do not, I entreat,\nassail me with unnecessary taunts, or misinterpret what I say, or would\nsay. I was only going to suggest to you that it would be a mistake to\nsuppose that it is only you, who have been selected here, above all\nothers, for advancement, confidence and distinction (selected, in the\nbeginning, I know, for your great ability and trustfulness), and who\ncommunicate more freely with Mr Dombey than anyone, and stand, it may\nbe said, on equal terms with him, and have been favoured and enriched by\nhim--that it would be a mistake to suppose that it is only you who are\ntender of his welfare and reputation. There is no one in the House,\nfrom yourself down to the lowest, I sincerely believe, who does not\nparticipate in that feeling.'\n\n'You lie!' said the Manager, red with sudden anger. 'You're a hypocrite,\nJohn Carker, and you lie.'\n\n'James!' cried the other, flushing in his turn. 'What do you mean by\nthese insulting words? Why do you so basely use them to me, unprovoked?'\n\n'I tell you,' said the Manager, 'that your hypocrisy and meekness--that\nall the hypocrisy and meekness of this place--is not worth that to me,'\nsnapping his thumb and finger, 'and that I see through it as if it were\nair! There is not a man employed here, standing between myself and the\nlowest in place (of whom you are very considerate, and with reason,\nfor he is not far off), who wouldn't be glad at heart to see his master\nhumbled: who does not hate him, secretly: who does not wish him evil\nrather than good: and who would not turn upon him, if he had the power\nand boldness. The nearer to his favour, the nearer to his insolence; the\ncloser to him, the farther from him. That's the creed here!'\n\n'I don't know,' said his brother, whose roused feelings had soon yielded\nto surprise, 'who may have abused your ear with such representations;\nor why you have chosen to try me, rather than another. But that you\nhave been trying me, and tampering with me, I am now sure. You have a\ndifferent manner and a different aspect from any that I ever saw in you.\nI will only say to you, once more, you are deceived.'\n\n'I know I am,' said the Manager. 'I have told you so.'\n\n'Not by me,' returned his brother. 'By your informant, if you have one.\nIf not, by your own thoughts and suspicions.'\n\n'I have no suspicions,' said the Manager. 'Mine are certainties. You\npusillanimous, abject, cringing dogs! All making the same show, all\ncanting the same story, all whining the same professions, all harbouring\nthe same transparent secret.'\n\nHis brother withdrew, without saying more, and shut the door as he\nconcluded. Mr Carker the Manager drew a chair close before the fire, and\nfell to beating the coals softly with the poker.\n\n'The faint-hearted, fawning knaves,' he muttered, with his two shining\nrows of teeth laid bare. 'There's not one among them, who wouldn't feign\nto be so shocked and outraged--! Bah! There's not one among them, but\nif he had at once the power, and the wit and daring to use it, would\nscatter Dombey's pride and lay it low, as ruthlessly as I rake out these\nashes.'\n\nAs he broke them up and strewed them in the grate, he looked on with a\nthoughtful smile at what he was doing. 'Without the same queen\nbeckoner too!' he added presently; 'and there is pride there, not to\nbe forgotten--witness our own acquaintance!' With that he fell into a\ndeeper reverie, and sat pondering over the blackening grate, until he\nrose up like a man who had been absorbed in a book, and looking round\nhim took his hat and gloves, went to where his horse was waiting,\nmounted, and rode away through the lighted streets, for it was evening.\n\nHe rode near Mr Dombey's house; and falling into a walk as he approached\nit, looked up at the windows The window where he had once seen Florence\nsitting with her dog attracted his attention first, though there was no\nlight in it; but he smiled as he carried his eyes up the tall front of\nthe house, and seemed to leave that object superciliously behind.\n\n'Time was,' he said, 'when it was well to watch even your rising little\nstar, and know in what quarter there were clouds, to shadow you if\nneedful. But a planet has arisen, and you are lost in its light.'\n\nHe turned the white-legged horse round the street corner, and sought\none shining window from among those at the back of the house. Associated\nwith it was a certain stately presence, a gloved hand, the remembrance\nhow the feathers of a beautiful bird's wing had been showered down upon\nthe floor, and how the light white down upon a robe had stirred and\nrustled, as in the rising of a distant storm. These were the things he\ncarried with him as he turned away again, and rode through the darkening\nand deserted Parks at a quick rate.\n\nIn fatal truth, these were associated with a woman, a proud woman,\nwho hated him, but who by slow and sure degrees had been led on by his\ncraft, and her pride and resentment, to endure his company, and little\nby little to receive him as one who had the privilege to talk to her\nof her own defiant disregard of her own husband, and her abandonment of\nhigh consideration for herself. They were associated with a woman who\nhated him deeply, and who knew him, and who mistrusted him because she\nknew him, and because he knew her; but who fed her fierce resentment by\nsuffering him to draw nearer and yet nearer to her every day, in spite\nof the hate she cherished for him. In spite of it! For that very reason;\nsince in its depths, too far down for her threatening eye to pierce,\nthough she could see into them dimly, lay the dark retaliation, whose\nfaintest shadow seen once and shuddered at, and never seen again, would\nhave been sufficient stain upon her soul.\n\nDid the phantom of such a woman flit about him on his ride; true to the\nreality, and obvious to him?\n\nYes. He saw her in his mind, exactly as she was. She bore him company\nwith her pride, resentment, hatred, all as plain to him as her beauty;\nwith nothing plainer to him than her hatred of him. He saw her sometimes\nhaughty and repellent at his side, and some times down among his horse's\nfeet, fallen and in the dust. But he always saw her as she was, without\ndisguise, and watched her on the dangerous way that she was going.\n\nAnd when his ride was over, and he was newly dressed, and came into the\nlight of her bright room with his bent head, soft voice, and soothing\nsmile, he saw her yet as plainly. He even suspected the mystery of the\ngloved hand, and held it all the longer in his own for that suspicion.\nUpon the dangerous way that she was going, he was, still; and not a\nfootprint did she mark upon it, but he set his own there, straight.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 47. The Thunderbolt\n\n\nThe barrier between Mr Dombey and his wife was not weakened by time.\nIll-assorted couple, unhappy in themselves and in each other, bound\ntogether by no tie but the manacle that joined their fettered hands, and\nstraining that so harshly, in their shrinking asunder, that it wore and\nchafed to the bone, Time, consoler of affliction and softener of anger,\ncould do nothing to help them. Their pride, however different in kind\nand object, was equal in degree; and, in their flinty opposition,\nstruck out fire between them which might smoulder or might blaze, as\ncircumstances were, but burned up everything within their mutual reach,\nand made their marriage way a road of ashes.\n\nLet us be just to him. In the monstrous delusion of his life, swelling\nwith every grain of sand that shifted in its glass, he urged her on, he\nlittle thought to what, or considered how; but still his feeling towards\nher, such as it was, remained as at first. She had the grand demerit of\nunaccountably putting herself in opposition to the recognition of his\nvast importance, and to the acknowledgment of her complete submission to\nit, and so far it was necessary to correct and reduce her; but otherwise\nhe still considered her, in his cold way, a lady capable of doing\nhonour, if she would, to his choice and name, and of reflecting credit\non his proprietorship.\n\nNow, she, with all her might of passionate and proud resentment, bent\nher dark glance from day to day, and hour to hour--from that night in\nher own chamber, when she had sat gazing at the shadows on the wall,\nto the deeper night fast coming--upon one figure directing a crowd of\nhumiliations and exasperations against her; and that figure, still her\nhusband's.\n\nWas Mr Dombey's master-vice, that ruled him so inexorably, an unnatural\ncharacteristic? It might be worthwhile, sometimes, to inquire what\nNature is, and how men work to change her, and whether, in the enforced\ndistortions so produced, it is not natural to be unnatural. Coop any\nson or daughter of our mighty mother within narrow range, and bind the\nprisoner to one idea, and foster it by servile worship of it on the part\nof the few timid or designing people standing round, and what is Nature\nto the willing captive who has never risen up upon the wings of a free\nmind--drooping and useless soon--to see her in her comprehensive truth!\n\nAlas! are there so few things in the world, about us, most unnatural,\nand yet most natural in being so? Hear the magistrate or judge admonish\nthe unnatural outcasts of society; unnatural in brutal habits, unnatural\nin want of decency, unnatural in losing and confounding all distinctions\nbetween good and evil; unnatural in ignorance, in vice, in recklessness,\nin contumacy, in mind, in looks, in everything. But follow the good\nclergyman or doctor, who, with his life imperilled at every breath\nhe draws, goes down into their dens, lying within the echoes of our\ncarriage wheels and daily tread upon the pavement stones. Look round\nupon the world of odious sights--millions of immortal creatures have no\nother world on earth--at the lightest mention of which humanity revolts,\nand dainty delicacy living in the next street, stops her ears, and lisps\n'I don't believe it!' Breathe the polluted air, foul with every impurity\nthat is poisonous to health and life; and have every sense, conferred\nupon our race for its delight and happiness, offended, sickened and\ndisgusted, and made a channel by which misery and death alone can enter.\nVainly attempt to think of any simple plant, or flower, or wholesome\nweed, that, set in this foetid bed, could have its natural growth,\nor put its little leaves off to the sun as GOD designed it. And then,\ncalling up some ghastly child, with stunted form and wicked face, hold\nforth on its unnatural sinfulness, and lament its being, so early, far\naway from Heaven--but think a little of its having been conceived, and\nborn and bred, in Hell!\n\nThose who study the physical sciences, and bring them to bear upon the\nhealth of Man, tell us that if the noxious particles that rise from\nvitiated air were palpable to the sight, we should see them lowering in\na dense black cloud above such haunts, and rolling slowly on to corrupt\nthe better portions of a town. But if the moral pestilence that rises\nwith them, and in the eternal laws of our Nature, is inseparable from\nthem, could be made discernible too, how terrible the revelation! Then\nshould we see depravity, impiety, drunkenness, theft, murder, and a long\ntrain of nameless sins against the natural affections and repulsions of\nmankind, overhanging the devoted spots, and creeping on, to blight the\ninnocent and spread contagion among the pure. Then should we see how the\nsame poisoned fountains that flow into our hospitals and lazar-houses,\ninundate the jails, and make the convict-ships swim deep, and roll\nacross the seas, and over-run vast continents with crime. Then should\nwe stand appalled to know, that where we generate disease to strike our\nchildren down and entail itself on unborn generations, there also we\nbreed, by the same certain process, infancy that knows no innocence,\nyouth without modesty or shame, maturity that is mature in nothing but\nin suffering and guilt, blasted old age that is a scandal on the form we\nbear, unnatural humanity! When we shall gather grapes from thorns, and\nfigs from thistles; when fields of grain shall spring up from the\noffal in the bye-ways of our wicked cities, and roses bloom in the fat\nchurchyards that they cherish; then we may look for natural humanity,\nand find it growing from such seed.\n\nOh for a good spirit who would take the house-tops off, with a more\npotent and benignant hand than the lame demon in the tale, and show\na Christian people what dark shapes issue from amidst their homes, to\nswell the retinue of the Destroying Angel as he moves forth among them!\nFor only one night's view of the pale phantoms rising from the scenes of\nour too-long neglect; and from the thick and sullen air where Vice and\nFever propagate together, raining the tremendous social retributions\nwhich are ever pouring down, and ever coming thicker! Bright and blest\nthe morning that should rise on such a night: for men, delayed no more\nby stumbling-blocks of their own making, which are but specks of dust\nupon the path between them and eternity, would then apply themselves,\nlike creatures of one common origin, owing one duty to the Father of one\nfamily, and tending to one common end, to make the world a better place!\n\nNot the less bright and blest would that day be for rousing some who\nnever have looked out upon the world of human life around them, to a\nknowledge of their own relation to it, and for making them acquainted\nwith a perversion of nature in their own contracted sympathies and\nestimates; as great, and yet as natural in its development when once\nbegun, as the lowest degradation known.\n\nBut no such day had ever dawned on Mr Dombey, or his wife; and the\ncourse of each was taken.\n\nThrough six months that ensued upon his accident, they held the same\nrelations one towards the other. A marble rock could not have stood more\nobdurately in his way than she; and no chilled spring, lying uncheered\nby any ray of light in the depths of a deep cave, could be more sullen\nor more cold than he.\n\nThe hope that had fluttered within her when the promise of her new home\ndawned, was quite gone from the heart of Florence now. That home was\nnearly two years old; and even the patient trust that was in her,\ncould not survive the daily blight of such experience. If she had any\nlingering fancy in the nature of hope left, that Edith and her father\nmight be happier together, in some distant time, she had none, now, that\nher father would ever love her. The little interval in which she had\nimagined that she saw some small relenting in him, was forgotten in the\nlong remembrance of his coldness since and before, or only remembered as\na sorrowful delusion.\n\nFlorence loved him still, but, by degrees, had come to love him rather\nas some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as the hard\nreality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness with which\nshe loved the memory of little Paul, or of her mother, seemed to enter\nnow into her thoughts of him, and to make them, as it were, a dear\nremembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and that partly for\nthis reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her affection,\nand partly for the long association of him with hopes that were withered\nand tendernesses he had frozen, she could not have told; but the father\nwhom she loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her: hardly more\nsubstantially connected with her real life, than the image she would\nsometimes conjure up, of her dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a\nman, who would protect and cherish her.\n\nThe change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the change\nfrom childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence was almost\nseventeen, when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of these\nthoughts.\n\nShe was often alone now, for the old association between her and her\nMama was greatly changed. At the time of her father's accident, and when\nhe was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first observed that\nEdith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable to reconcile this\nwith her affection when they did meet, she sought her in her own room at\nnight, once more.\n\n'Mama,' said Florence, stealing softly to her side, 'have I offended\nyou?'\n\nEdith answered 'No.'\n\n'I must have done something,' said Florence. 'Tell me what it is. You\nhave changed your manner to me, dear Mama. I cannot say how instantly I\nfeel the least change; for I love you with my whole heart.'\n\n'As I do you,' said Edith. 'Ah, Florence, believe me never more than\nnow!'\n\n'Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?' asked Florence.\n'And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear Mama? You do so,\ndo you not?'\n\nEdith signified assent with her dark eyes.\n\n'Why?' returned Florence imploringly. 'Tell me why, that I may know how\nto please you better; and tell me this shall not be so any more.'\n\n'My Florence,' answered Edith, taking the hand that embraced her neck,\nand looking into the eyes that looked into hers so lovingly, as Florence\nknelt upon the ground before her; 'why it is, I cannot tell you. It is\nneither for me to say, nor you to hear; but that it is, and that it must\nbe, I know. Should I do it if I did not?'\n\n'Are we to be estranged, Mama?' asked Florence, gazing at her like one\nfrightened.\n\nEdith's silent lips formed 'Yes.'\n\nFlorence looked at her with increasing fear and wonder, until she could\nsee her no more through the blinding tears that ran down her face.\n\n'Florence! my life!' said Edith, hurriedly, 'listen to me. I cannot\nbear to see this grief. Be calmer. You see that I am composed, and is it\nnothing to me?'\n\nShe resumed her steady voice and manner as she said the latter words,\nand added presently:\n\n'Not wholly estranged. Partially: and only that, in appearance,\nFlorence, for in my own breast I am still the same to you, and ever will\nbe. But what I do is not done for myself.'\n\n'Is it for me, Mama?' asked Florence.\n\n'It is enough,' said Edith, after a pause, 'to know what it is; why,\nmatters little. Dear Florence, it is better--it is necessary--it must\nbe--that our association should be less frequent. The confidence there\nhas been between us must be broken off.'\n\n'When?' cried Florence. 'Oh, Mama, when?'\n\n'Now,' said Edith.\n\n'For all time to come?' asked Florence.\n\n'I do not say that,' answered Edith. 'I do not know that. Nor will I\nsay that companionship between us is, at the best, an ill-assorted and\nunholy union, of which I might have known no good could come. My way\nhere has been through paths that you will never tread, and my way\nhenceforth may lie--God knows--I do not see it--'\n\nHer voice died away into silence; and she sat, looking at Florence,\nand almost shrinking from her, with the same strange dread and wild\navoidance that Florence had noticed once before. The same dark pride and\nrage succeeded, sweeping over her form and features like an angry chord\nacross the strings of a wild harp. But no softness or humility ensued on\nthat. She did not lay her head down now, and weep, and say that she\nhad no hope but in Florence. She held it up as if she were a beautiful\nMedusa, looking on him, face to face, to strike him dead. Yes, and she\nwould have done it, if she had had the charm.\n\n'Mama,' said Florence, anxiously, 'there is a change in you, in more\nthan what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you a\nlittle.'\n\n'No,' said Edith, 'no, dearest. I am best left alone now, and I do best\nto keep apart from you, of all else. Ask me no questions, but believe\nthat what I am when I seem fickle or capricious to you, I am not of my\nown will, or for myself. Believe, though we are stranger to each other\nthan we have been, that I am unchanged to you within. Forgive me\nfor having ever darkened your dark home--I am a shadow on it, I know\nwell--and let us never speak of this again.'\n\n'Mama,' sobbed Florence, 'we are not to part?'\n\n'We do this that we may not part,' said Edith. 'Ask no more. Go,\nFlorence! My love and my remorse go with you!'\n\nShe embraced her, and dismissed her; and as Florence passed out of her\nroom, Edith looked on the retiring figure, as if her good angel went out\nin that form, and left her to the haughty and indignant passions that\nnow claimed her for their own, and set their seal upon her brow.\n\nFrom that hour, Florence and she were, as they had been, no more. For\ndays together, they would seldom meet, except at table, and when Mr\nDombey was present. Then Edith, imperious, inflexible, and silent, never\nlooked at her. Whenever Mr Carker was of the party, as he often was,\nduring the progress of Mr Dombey's recovery, and afterwards, Edith held\nherself more removed from her, and was more distant towards her, than at\nother times. Yet she and Florence never encountered, when there was no\none by, but she would embrace her as affectionately as of old, though\nnot with the same relenting of her proud aspect; and often, when she had\nbeen out late, she would steal up to Florence's room, as she had been\nused to do, in the dark, and whisper 'Good-night,' on her pillow. When\nunconscious, in her slumber, of such visits, Florence would sometimes\nawake, as from a dream of those words, softly spoken, and would seem\nto feel the touch of lips upon her face. But less and less often as the\nmonths went on.\n\nAnd now the void in Florence's own heart began again, indeed, to make\na solitude around her. As the image of the father whom she loved had\ninsensibly become a mere abstraction, so Edith, following the fate of\nall the rest about whom her affections had entwined themselves, was\nfleeting, fading, growing paler in the distance, every day. Little by\nlittle, she receded from Florence, like the retiring ghost of what she\nhad been; little by little, the chasm between them widened and seemed\ndeeper; little by little, all the power of earnestness and tenderness\nshe had shown, was frozen up in the bold, angry hardihood with which she\nstood, upon the brink of a deep precipice unseen by Florence, daring to\nlook down.\n\nThere was but one consideration to set against the heavy loss of Edith,\nand though it was slight comfort to her burdened heart, she tried to\nthink it some relief. No longer divided between her affection and duty\nto the two, Florence could love both and do no injustice to either. As\nshadows of her fond imagination, she could give them equal place in her\nown bosom, and wrong them with no doubts.\n\nSo she tried to do. At times, and often too, wondering speculations on\nthe cause of this change in Edith, would obtrude themselves upon her\nmind and frighten her; but in the calm of its abandonment once more to\nsilent grief and loneliness, it was not a curious mind. Florence had\nonly to remember that her star of promise was clouded in the general\ngloom that hung upon the house, and to weep and be resigned.\n\nThus living, in a dream wherein the overflowing love of her young\nheart expended itself on airy forms, and in a real world where she had\nexperienced little but the rolling back of that strong tide upon itself,\nFlorence grew to be seventeen. Timid and retiring as her solitary life\nhad made her, it had not embittered her sweet temper, or her\nearnest nature. A child in innocent simplicity; a woman in her modest\nself-reliance, and her deep intensity of feeling; both child and woman\nseemed at once expressed in her face and fragile delicacy of shape, and\ngracefully to mingle there;--as if the spring should be unwilling to\ndepart when summer came, and sought to blend the earlier beauties of the\nflowers with their bloom. But in her thrilling voice, in her calm eyes,\nsometimes in a sage ethereal light that seemed to rest upon her head,\nand always in a certain pensive air upon her beauty, there was an\nexpression, such as had been seen in the dead boy; and the council in\nthe Servants' Hall whispered so among themselves, and shook their heads,\nand ate and drank the more, in a closer bond of good-fellowship.\n\nThis observant body had plenty to say of Mr and Mrs Dombey, and of Mr\nCarker, who appeared to be a mediator between them, and who came and\nwent as if he were trying to make peace, but never could. They all\ndeplored the uncomfortable state of affairs, and all agreed that Mrs\nPipchin (whose unpopularity was not to be surpassed) had some hand in\nit; but, upon the whole, it was agreeable to have so good a subject\nfor a rallying point, and they made a great deal of it, and enjoyed\nthemselves very much.\n\nThe general visitors who came to the house, and those among whom Mr and\nMrs Dombey visited, thought it a pretty equal match, as to haughtiness,\nat all events, and thought nothing more about it. The young lady\nwith the back did not appear for some time after Mrs Skewton's death;\nobserving to some particular friends, with her usual engaging little\nscream, that she couldn't separate the family from a notion of\ntombstones, and horrors of that sort; but when she did come, she saw\nnothing wrong, except Mr Dombey's wearing a bunch of gold seals to his\nwatch, which shocked her very much, as an exploded superstition. This\nyouthful fascinator considered a daughter-in-law objectionable in\nprinciple; otherwise, she had nothing to say against Florence, but that\nshe sadly wanted 'style'--which might mean back, perhaps. Many, who only\ncame to the house on state occasions, hardly knew who Florence was, and\nsaid, going home, 'Indeed, was that Miss Dombey, in the corner? Very\npretty, but a little delicate and thoughtful in appearance!'\n\nNone the less so, certainly, for her life of the last six months.\nFlorence took her seat at the dinner-table, on the day before the second\nanniversary of her father's marriage to Edith (Mrs Skewton had been\nlying stricken with paralysis when the first came round), with an\nuneasiness, amounting to dread. She had no other warrant for it, than\nthe occasion, the expression of her father's face, in the hasty\nglance she caught of it, and the presence of Mr Carker, which, always\nunpleasant to her, was more so on this day, than she had ever felt it\nbefore.\n\nEdith was richly dressed, for she and Mr Dombey were engaged in the\nevening to some large assembly, and the dinner-hour that day was late.\nShe did not appear until they were seated at table, when Mr Carker rose\nand led her to her chair. Beautiful and lustrous as she was, there was\nthat in her face and air which seemed to separate her hopelessly from\nFlorence, and from everyone, for ever more. And yet, for an instant,\nFlorence saw a beam of kindness in her eyes, when they were turned\non her, that made the distance to which she had withdrawn herself, a\ngreater cause of sorrow and regret than ever.\n\nThere was very little said at dinner. Florence heard her father speak to\nMr Carker sometimes on business matters, and heard him softly reply, but\nshe paid little attention to what they said, and only wished the dinner\nat an end. When the dessert was placed upon the table, and they were\nleft alone, with no servant in attendance, Mr Dombey, who had been\nseveral times clearing his throat in a manner that augured no good,\nsaid:\n\n'Mrs Dombey, you know, I suppose, that I have instructed the housekeeper\nthat there will be some company to dinner here to-morrow.'\n\n'I do not dine at home,' she answered.\n\n'Not a large party,' pursued Mr Dombey, with an indifferent assumption\nof not having heard her; 'merely some twelve or fourteen. My sister,\nMajor Bagstock, and some others whom you know but slightly.'\n\n'I do not dine at home,' she repeated.\n\n'However doubtful reason I may have, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, still\ngoing majestically on, as if she had not spoken, 'to hold the occasion\nin very pleasant remembrance just now, there are appearances in these\nthings which must be maintained before the world. If you have no respect\nfor yourself, Mrs Dombey--'\n\n'I have none,' she said.\n\n'Madam,' cried Mr Dombey, striking his hand upon the table, 'hear me if\nyou please. I say, if you have no respect for yourself--'\n\n'And I say I have none,' she answered.\n\nHe looked at her; but the face she showed him in return would not have\nchanged, if death itself had looked.\n\n'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, turning more quietly to that gentleman, 'as\nyou have been my medium of communication with Mrs Dombey on former\noccasions, and as I choose to preserve the decencies of life, so far as\nI am individually concerned, I will trouble you to have the goodness to\ninform Mrs Dombey that if she has no respect for herself, I have\nsome respect for myself, and therefore insist on my arrangements for\nto-morrow.'\n\n'Tell your sovereign master, Sir,' said Edith, 'that I will take leave\nto speak to him on this subject by-and-bye, and that I will speak to him\nalone.'\n\n'Mr Carker, Madam,' said her husband, 'being in possession of the reason\nwhich obliges me to refuse you that privilege, shall be absolved from\nthe delivery of any such message.' He saw her eyes move, while he spoke,\nand followed them with his own.\n\n'Your daughter is present, Sir,' said Edith.\n\n'My daughter will remain present,' said Mr Dombey.\n\nFlorence, who had risen, sat down again, hiding her face in her hands,\nand trembling.\n\n'My daughter, Madam'--began Mr Dombey.\n\nBut Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not raised in the\nleast, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct, that it might have been\nheard in a whirlwind.\n\n'I tell you I will speak to you alone,' she said. 'If you are not mad,\nheed what I say.'\n\n'I have authority to speak to you, Madam,' returned her husband, 'when\nand where I please; and it is my pleasure to speak here and now.'\n\nShe rose up as if to leave the room; but sat down again, and looking at\nhim with all outward composure, said, in the same voice:\n\n'You shall!'\n\n'I must tell you first, that there is a threatening appearance in your\nmanner, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'which does not become you.'\n\nShe laughed. The shaken diamonds in her hair started and trembled. There\nare fables of precious stones that would turn pale, their wearer being\nin danger. Had these been such, their imprisoned rays of light would\nhave taken flight that moment, and they would have been as dull as lead.\n\nCarker listened, with his eyes cast down.\n\n'As to my daughter, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, resuming the thread of his\ndiscourse, 'it is by no means inconsistent with her duty to me, that\nshe should know what conduct to avoid. At present you are a very strong\nexample to her of this kind, and I hope she may profit by it.'\n\n'I would not stop you now,' returned his wife, immoveable in eye, and\nvoice, and attitude; 'I would not rise and go away, and save you the\nutterance of one word, if the room were burning.'\n\nMr Dombey moved his head, as if in a sarcastic acknowledgment of the\nattention, and resumed. But not with so much self-possession as before;\nfor Edith's quick uneasiness in reference to Florence, and Edith's\nindifference to him and his censure, chafed and galled him like a\nstiffening wound.\n\n'Mrs Dombey,' said he, 'it may not be inconsistent with my daughter's\nimprovement to know how very much to be lamented, and how necessary to\nbe corrected, a stubborn disposition is, especially when it is indulged\nin--unthankfully indulged in, I will add--after the gratification of\nambition and interest. Both of which, I believe, had some share in\ninducing you to occupy your present station at this board.'\n\n'No! I would not rise, and go away, and save you the utterance of one\nword,' she repeated, exactly as before, 'if the room were burning.'\n\n'It may be natural enough, Mrs Dombey,' he pursued, 'that you should\nbe uneasy in the presence of any auditors of these disagreeable truths;\nthough why'--he could not hide his real feeling here, or keep his eyes\nfrom glancing gloomily at Florence--'why anyone can give them greater\nforce and point than myself, whom they so nearly concern, I do not\npretend to understand. It may be natural enough that you should object\nto hear, in anybody's presence, that there is a rebellious principle\nwithin you which you cannot curb too soon; which you must curb,\nMrs Dombey; and which, I regret to say, I remember to have seen\nmanifested--with some doubt and displeasure, on more than one occasion\nbefore our marriage--towards your deceased mother. But you have the\nremedy in your own hands. I by no means forgot, when I began, that my\ndaughter was present, Mrs Dombey. I beg you will not forget, to-morrow,\nthat there are several persons present; and that, with some regard to\nappearances, you will receive your company in a becoming manner.'\n\n'So it is not enough,' said Edith, 'that you know what has passed\nbetween yourself and me; it is not enough that you can look here,'\npointing at Carker, who still listened, with his eyes cast down, 'and be\nreminded of the affronts you have put upon me; it is not enough that you\ncan look here,' pointing to Florence with a hand that slightly trembled\nfor the first and only time, 'and think of what you have done, and of\nthe ingenious agony, daily, hourly, constant, you have made me feel in\ndoing it; it is not enough that this day, of all others in the year, is\nmemorable to me for a struggle (well-deserved, but not conceivable by\nsuch as you) in which I wish I had died! You add to all this, do you,\nthe last crowning meanness of making her a witness of the depth to which\nI have fallen; when you know that you have made me sacrifice to her\npeace, the only gentle feeling and interest of my life, when you know\nthat for her sake, I would now if I could--but I can not, my soul\nrecoils from you too much--submit myself wholly to your will, and be the\nmeekest vassal that you have!'\n\nThis was not the way to minister to Mr Dombey's greatness. The old\nfeeling was roused by what she said, into a stronger and fiercer\nexistence than it had ever had. Again, his neglected child, at this\nrough passage of his life, put forth by even this rebellious woman, as\npowerful where he was powerless, and everything where he was nothing!\n\nHe turned on Florence, as if it were she who had spoken, and bade her\nleave the room. Florence with her covered face obeyed, trembling and\nweeping as she went.\n\n'I understand, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with an angry flush of triumph,\n'the spirit of opposition that turned your affections in that channel,\nbut they have been met, Mrs Dombey; they have been met, and turned\nback!'\n\n'The worse for you!' she answered, with her voice and manner still\nunchanged. 'Ay!' for he turned sharply when she said so, 'what is the\nworse for me, is twenty million times the worse for you. Heed that, if\nyou heed nothing else.'\n\nThe arch of diamonds spanning her dark hair, flashed and glittered like\na starry bridge. There was no warning in them, or they would have turned\nas dull and dim as tarnished honour. Carker still sat and listened, with\nhis eyes cast down.\n\n'Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, resuming as much as he could of his\narrogant composure, 'you will not conciliate me, or turn me from any\npurpose, by this course of conduct.'\n\n'It is the only true although it is a faint expression of what is within\nme,' she replied. 'But if I thought it would conciliate you, I would\nrepress it, if it were repressible by any human effort. I will do\nnothing that you ask.'\n\n'I am not accustomed to ask, Mrs Dombey,' he observed; 'I direct.'\n\n'I will hold no place in your house to-morrow, or on any recurrence of\nto-morrow. I will be exhibited to no one, as the refractory slave you\npurchased, such a time. If I kept my marriage day, I would keep it as a\nday of shame. Self-respect! appearances before the world! what are these\nto me? You have done all you can to make them nothing to me, and they\nare nothing.'\n\n'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, speaking with knitted brows, and after a\nmoment's consideration, 'Mrs Dombey is so forgetful of herself and me in\nall this, and places me in a position so unsuited to my character, that\nI must bring this state of matters to a close.'\n\n'Release me, then,' said Edith, immoveable in voice, in look, and\nbearing, as she had been throughout, 'from the chain by which I am\nbound. Let me go.'\n\n'Madam?' exclaimed Mr Dombey.\n\n'Loose me. Set me free!'\n\n'Madam?' he repeated, 'Mrs Dombey?'\n\n'Tell him,' said Edith, addressing her proud face to Carker, 'that I\nwish for a separation between us, That there had better be one. That I\nrecommend it to him, Tell him it may take place on his own terms--his\nwealth is nothing to me--but that it cannot be too soon.'\n\n'Good Heaven, Mrs Dombey!' said her husband, with supreme amazement, 'do\nyou imagine it possible that I could ever listen to such a proposition?\nDo you know who I am, Madam? Do you know what I represent? Did you ever\nhear of Dombey and Son? People to say that Mr Dombey--Mr Dombey!--was\nseparated from his wife! Common people to talk of Mr Dombey and his\ndomestic affairs! Do you seriously think, Mrs Dombey, that I would\npermit my name to be banded about in such connexion? Pooh, pooh, Madam!\nFie for shame! You're absurd.' Mr Dombey absolutely laughed.\n\nBut not as she did. She had better have been dead than laugh as she did,\nin reply, with her intent look fixed upon him. He had better have been\ndead, than sitting there, in his magnificence, to hear her.\n\n'No, Mrs Dombey,' he resumed. 'No, Madam. There is no possibility of\nseparation between you and me, and therefore I the more advise you to be\nawakened to a sense of duty. And, Carker, as I was about to say to you--'\n\nMr Carker, who had sat and listened all this time, now raised his eyes,\nin which there was a bright unusual light.\n\n'--As I was about to say to you,' resumed Mr Dombey, 'I must beg you, now\nthat matters have come to this, to inform Mrs Dombey, that it is not\nthe rule of my life to allow myself to be thwarted by anybody--anybody,\nCarker--or to suffer anybody to be paraded as a stronger motive for\nobedience in those who owe obedience to me than I am my self. The\nmention that has been made of my daughter, and the use that is made of\nmy daughter, in opposition to me, are unnatural. Whether my daughter is\nin actual concert with Mrs Dombey, I do not know, and do not care; but\nafter what Mrs Dombey has said today, and my daughter has heard to-day,\nI beg you to make known to Mrs Dombey, that if she continues to make\nthis house the scene of contention it has become, I shall consider my\ndaughter responsible in some degree, on that lady's own avowal, and\nshall visit her with my severe displeasure. Mrs Dombey has asked\n\"whether it is not enough,\" that she had done this and that. You will\nplease to answer no, it is not enough.'\n\n'A moment!' cried Carker, interposing, 'permit me! painful as my\nposition is, at the best, and unusually painful in seeming to entertain\na different opinion from you,' addressing Mr Dombey, 'I must ask, had\nyou not better reconsider the question of a separation. I know how\nincompatible it appears with your high public position, and I know how\ndetermined you are when you give Mrs Dombey to understand'--the light\nin his eyes fell upon her as he separated his words each from each, with\nthe distinctness of so many bells--'that nothing but death can ever part\nyou. Nothing else. But when you consider that Mrs Dombey, by living in\nthis house, and making it as you have said, a scene of contention, not\nonly has her part in that contention, but compromises Miss Dombey every\nday (for I know how determined you are), will you not relieve her from a\ncontinual irritation of spirit, and a continual sense of being unjust\nto another, almost intolerable? Does this not seem like--I do not say\nit is--sacrificing Mrs Dombey to the preservation of your preeminent and\nunassailable position?'\n\nAgain the light in his eyes fell upon her, as she stood looking at her\nhusband: now with an extraordinary and awful smile upon her face.\n\n'Carker,' returned Mr Dombey, with a supercilious frown, and in a tone\nthat was intended to be final, 'you mistake your position in offering\nadvice to me on such a point, and you mistake me (I am surprised to\nfind) in the character of your advice. I have no more to say.'\n\n'Perhaps,' said Carker, with an unusual and indefinable taunt in\nhis air, 'you mistook my position, when you honoured me with the\nnegotiations in which I have been engaged here'--with a motion of his\nhand towards Mrs Dombey.\n\n'Not at all, Sir, not at all,' returned the other haughtily. 'You were\nemployed--'\n\n'Being an inferior person, for the humiliation of Mrs Dombey. I forgot.\nOh, yes, it was expressly understood!' said Carker. 'I beg your pardon!'\n\nAs he bent his head to Mr Dombey, with an air of deference that accorded\nill with his words, though they were humbly spoken, he moved it round\ntowards her, and kept his watching eyes that way.\n\nShe had better have turned hideous and dropped dead, than have stood up\nwith such a smile upon her face, in such a fallen spirit's majesty of\nscorn and beauty. She lifted her hand to the tiara of bright jewels\nradiant on her head, and, plucking it off with a force that dragged\nand strained her rich black hair with heedless cruelty, and brought it\ntumbling wildly on her shoulders, cast the gems upon the ground. From\neach arm, she unclasped a diamond bracelet, flung it down, and trod upon\nthe glittering heap. Without a word, without a shadow on the fire of\nher bright eye, without abatement of her awful smile, she looked on Mr\nDombey to the last, in moving to the door; and left him.\n\nFlorence had heard enough before quitting the room, to know that Edith\nloved her yet; that she had suffered for her sake; and that she had kept\nher sacrifices quiet, lest they should trouble her peace. She did not\nwant to speak to her of this--she could not, remembering to whom she\nwas opposed--but she wished, in one silent and affectionate embrace, to\nassure her that she felt it all, and thanked her.\n\nHer father went out alone, that evening, and Florence issuing from her\nown chamber soon afterwards, went about the house in search of Edith,\nbut unavailingly. She was in her own rooms, where Florence had\nlong ceased to go, and did not dare to venture now, lest she should\nunconsciously engender new trouble. Still Florence hoping to meet her\nbefore going to bed, changed from room to room, and wandered through the\nhouse so splendid and so dreary, without remaining anywhere.\n\nShe was crossing a gallery of communication that opened at some little\ndistance on the staircase, and was only lighted on great occasions, when\nshe saw, through the opening, which was an arch, the figure of a man\ncoming down some few stairs opposite. Instinctively apprehensive of\nher father, whom she supposed it was, she stopped, in the dark, gazing\nthrough the arch into the light. But it was Mr Carker coming down alone,\nand looking over the railing into the hall. No bell was rung to announce\nhis departure, and no servant was in attendance. He went down quietly,\nopened the door for himself, glided out, and shut it softly after him.\n\nHer invincible repugnance to this man, and perhaps the stealthy act of\nwatching anyone, which, even under such innocent circumstances, is in a\nmanner guilty and oppressive, made Florence shake from head to foot. Her\nblood seemed to run cold. As soon as she could--for at first she felt\nan insurmountable dread of moving--she went quickly to her own room and\nlocked her door; but even then, shut in with her dog beside her, felt\na chill sensation of horror, as if there were danger brooding somewhere\nnear her.\n\nIt invaded her dreams and disturbed the whole night. Rising in the\nmorning, unrefreshed, and with a heavy recollection of the domestic\nunhappiness of the preceding day, she sought Edith again in all the\nrooms, and did so, from time to time, all the morning. But she remained\nin her own chamber, and Florence saw nothing of her. Learning, however,\nthat the projected dinner at home was put off, Florence thought it\nlikely that she would go out in the evening to fulfil the engagement\nshe had spoken of; and resolved to try and meet her, then, upon the\nstaircase.\n\nWhen the evening had set in, she heard, from the room in which she sat\non purpose, a footstep on the stairs that she thought to be Edith's.\nHurrying out, and up towards her room, Florence met her immediately,\ncoming down alone.\n\nWhat was Florence's affright and wonder when, at sight of her, with her\ntearful face, and outstretched arms, Edith recoiled and shrieked!\n\n'Don't come near me!' she cried. 'Keep away! Let me go by!'\n\n'Mama!' said Florence.\n\n'Don't call me by that name! Don't speak to me! Don't look at\nme!--Florence!' shrinking back, as Florence moved a step towards her,\n'don't touch me!'\n\nAs Florence stood transfixed before the haggard face and staring eyes,\nshe noted, as in a dream, that Edith spread her hands over them, and\nshuddering through all her form, and crouching down against the wall,\ncrawled by her like some lower animal, sprang up, and fled away.\n\nFlorence dropped upon the stairs in a swoon; and was found there by Mrs\nPipchin, she supposed. She knew nothing more, until she found herself\nlying on her own bed, with Mrs Pipchin and some servants standing round\nher.\n\n'Where is Mama?' was her first question.\n\n'Gone out to dinner,' said Mrs Pipchin.\n\n'And Papa?'\n\n'Mr Dombey is in his own room, Miss Dombey,' said Mrs Pipchin, 'and the\nbest thing you can do, is to take off your things and go to bed this\nminute.' This was the sagacious woman's remedy for all complaints,\nparticularly lowness of spirits, and inability to sleep; for which\noffences, many young victims in the days of the Brighton Castle had been\ncommitted to bed at ten o'clock in the morning.\n\nWithout promising obedience, but on the plea of desiring to be very\nquiet, Florence disengaged herself, as soon as she could, from the\nministration of Mrs Pipchin and her attendants. Left alone, she thought\nof what had happened on the staircase, at first in doubt of its reality;\nthen with tears; then with an indescribable and terrible alarm, like\nthat she had felt the night before.\n\nShe determined not to go to bed until Edith returned, and if she could\nnot speak to her, at least to be sure that she was safe at home. What\nindistinct and shadowy dread moved Florence to this resolution, she did\nnot know, and did not dare to think. She only knew that until Edith came\nback, there was no repose for her aching head or throbbing heart.\n\nThe evening deepened into night; midnight came; no Edith.\n\nFlorence could not read, or rest a moment. She paced her own room,\nopened the door and paced the staircase-gallery outside, looked out of\nwindow on the night, listened to the wind blowing and the rain falling,\nsat down and watched the faces in the fire, got up and watched the moon\nflying like a storm-driven ship through the sea of clouds.\n\nAll the house was gone to bed, except two servants who were waiting the\nreturn of their mistress, downstairs.\n\nOne o'clock. The carriages that rumbled in the distance, turned away,\nor stopped short, or went past; the silence gradually deepened, and was\nmore and more rarely broken, save by a rush of wind or sweep of rain.\nTwo o'clock. No Edith!\n\nFlorence, more agitated, paced her room; and paced the gallery outside;\nand looked out at the night, blurred and wavy with the raindrops on the\nglass, and the tears in her own eyes; and looked up at the hurry in\nthe sky, so different from the repose below, and yet so tranquil and\nsolitary. Three o'clock! There was a terror in every ash that dropped\nout of the fire. No Edith yet.\n\nMore and more agitated, Florence paced her room, and paced the gallery,\nand looked out at the moon with a new fancy of her likeness to a pale\nfugitive hurrying away and hiding her guilty face. Four struck! Five! No\nEdith yet.\n\nBut now there was some cautious stir in the house; and Florence found\nthat Mrs Pipchin had been awakened by one of those who sat up, had risen\nand had gone down to her father's door. Stealing lower down the stairs,\nand observing what passed, she saw her father come out in his morning\ngown, and start when he was told his wife had not come home. He\ndispatched a messenger to the stables to inquire whether the coachman\nwas there; and while the man was gone, dressed himself very hurriedly.\n\nThe man came back, in great haste, bringing the coachman with him, who\nsaid he had been at home and in bed, since ten o'clock. He had driven\nhis mistress to her old house in Brook Street, where she had been met by\nMr Carker--\n\nFlorence stood upon the very spot where she had seen him coming down.\nAgain she shivered with the nameless terror of that sight, and had\nhardly steadiness enough to hear and understand what followed.\n\n--Who had told him, the man went on to say, that his mistress would not\nwant the carriage to go home in; and had dismissed him.\n\nShe saw her father turn white in the face, and heard him ask in a quick,\ntrembling voice, for Mrs Dombey's maid. The whole house was roused; for\nshe was there, in a moment, very pale too, and speaking incoherently.\n\nShe said she had dressed her mistress early--full two hours before she\nwent out--and had been told, as she often was, that she would not be\nwanted at night. She had just come from her mistress's rooms, but--\n\n'But what! what was it?' Florence heard her father demand like a madman.\n\n'But the inner dressing-room was locked and the key gone.'\n\nHer father seized a candle that was flaming on the ground--someone had\nput it down there, and forgotten it--and came running upstairs with such\nfury, that Florence, in her fear, had hardly time to fly before him.\nShe heard him striking in the door, as she ran on, with her hands widely\nspread, and her hair streaming, and her face like a distracted person's,\nback to her own room.\n\nWhen the door yielded, and he rushed in, what did he see there? No\none knew. But thrown down in a costly mass upon the ground, was every\nornament she had had, since she had been his wife; every dress she had\nworn; and everything she had possessed. This was the room in which he\nhad seen, in yonder mirror, the proud face discard him. This was the\nroom in which he had wondered, idly, how these things would look when he\nshould see them next!\n\nHeaping them back into the drawers, and locking them up in a rage of\nhaste, he saw some papers on the table. The deed of settlement he had\nexecuted on their marriage, and a letter. He read that she was gone.\nHe read that he was dishonoured. He read that she had fled, upon\nher shameful wedding-day, with the man whom he had chosen for her\nhumiliation; and he tore out of the room, and out of the house, with\na frantic idea of finding her yet, at the place to which she had been\ntaken, and beating all trace of beauty out of the triumphant face with\nhis bare hand.\n\nFlorence, not knowing what she did, put on a shawl and bonnet, in a\ndream of running through the streets until she found Edith, and then\nclasping her in her arms, to save and bring her back. But when she\nhurried out upon the staircase, and saw the frightened servants going up\nand down with lights, and whispering together, and falling away from her\nfather as he passed down, she awoke to a sense of her own powerlessness;\nand hiding in one of the great rooms that had been made gorgeous for\nthis, felt as if her heart would burst with grief.\n\nCompassion for her father was the first distinct emotion that made head\nagainst the flood of sorrow which overwhelmed her. Her constant nature\nturned to him in his distress, as fervently and faithfully, as if,\nin his prosperity, he had been the embodiment of that idea which had\ngradually become so faint and dim. Although she did not know, otherwise\nthan through the suggestions of a shapeless fear, the full extent of\nhis calamity, he stood before her, wronged and deserted; and again her\nyearning love impelled her to his side.\n\nHe was not long away; for Florence was yet weeping in the great room and\nnourishing these thoughts, when she heard him come back. He ordered the\nservants to set about their ordinary occupations, and went into his own\napartment, where he trod so heavily that she could hear him walking up\nand down from end to end.\n\nYielding at once to the impulse of her affection, timid at all other\ntimes, but bold in its truth to him in his adversity, and undaunted by\npast repulse, Florence, dressed as she was, hurried downstairs. As she\nset her light foot in the hall, he came out of his room. She hastened\ntowards him unchecked, with her arms stretched out, and crying 'Oh dear,\ndear Papa!' as if she would have clasped him round the neck.\n\nAnd so she would have done. But in his frenzy, he lifted up his cruel\narm, and struck her, crosswise, with that heaviness, that she tottered\non the marble floor; and as he dealt the blow, he told her what Edith\nwas, and bade her follow her, since they had always been in league.\n\nShe did not sink down at his feet; she did not shut out the sight of him\nwith her trembling hands; she did not weep; she did not utter one word\nof reproach. But she looked at him, and a cry of desolation issued from\nher heart. For as she looked, she saw him murdering that fond idea to\nwhich she had held in spite of him. She saw his cruelty, neglect, and\nhatred dominant above it, and stamping it down. She saw she had no\nfather upon earth, and ran out, orphaned, from his house.\n\nRan out of his house. A moment, and her hand was on the lock, the cry\nwas on her lips, his face was there, made paler by the yellow candles\nhastily put down and guttering away, and by the daylight coming in above\nthe door. Another moment, and the close darkness of the shut-up house\n(forgotten to be opened, though it was long since day) yielded to the\nunexpected glare and freedom of the morning; and Florence, with her head\nbent down to hide her agony of tears, was in the streets.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 48. The Flight of Florence\n\n\nIn the wildness of her sorrow, shame, and terror, the forlorn girl\nhurried through the sunshine of a bright morning, as if it were the\ndarkness of a winter night. Wringing her hands and weeping bitterly,\ninsensible to everything but the deep wound in her breast, stunned by\nthe loss of all she loved, left like the sole survivor on a lonely shore\nfrom the wreck of a great vessel, she fled without a thought, without a\nhope, without a purpose, but to fly somewhere anywhere.\n\nThe cheerful vista of the long street, burnished by the morning light,\nthe sight of the blue sky and airy clouds, the vigorous freshness of\nthe day, so flushed and rosy in its conquest of the night, awakened no\nresponsive feelings in her so hurt bosom. Somewhere, anywhere, to hide\nher head! somewhere, anywhere, for refuge, never more to look upon the\nplace from which she fled!\n\nBut there were people going to and fro; there were opening shops, and\nservants at the doors of houses; there was the rising clash and roar\nof the day's struggle. Florence saw surprise and curiosity in the faces\nflitting past her; saw long shadows coming back upon the pavement; and\nheard voices that were strange to her asking her where she went, and\nwhat the matter was; and though these frightened her the more at first,\nand made her hurry on the faster, they did her the good service of\nrecalling her in some degree to herself, and reminding her of the\nnecessity of greater composure.\n\nWhere to go? Still somewhere, anywhere! still going on; but where! She\nthought of the only other time she had been lost in the wild wilderness\nof London--though not lost as now--and went that way. To the home of\nWalter's Uncle.\n\nChecking her sobs, and drying her swollen eyes, and endeavouring to calm\nthe agitation of her manner, so as to avoid attracting notice, Florence,\nresolving to keep to the more quiet streets as long as she could, was\ngoing on more quietly herself, when a familiar little shadow darted past\nupon the sunny pavement, stopped short, wheeled about, came close to\nher, made off again, bounded round and round her, and Diogenes, panting\nfor breath, and yet making the street ring with his glad bark, was at\nher feet.\n\n'Oh, Di! oh, dear, true, faithful Di, how did you come here? How could I\never leave you, Di, who would never leave me?'\n\nFlorence bent down on the pavement, and laid his rough, old, loving,\nfoolish head against her breast, and they got up together, and went on\ntogether; Di more off the ground than on it, endeavouring to kiss his\nmistress flying, tumbling over and getting up again without the least\nconcern, dashing at big dogs in a jocose defiance of his species,\nterrifying with touches of his nose young housemaids who were cleaning\ndoorsteps, and continually stopping, in the midst of a thousand\nextravagances, to look back at Florence, and bark until all the dogs\nwithin hearing answered, and all the dogs who could come out, came out\nto stare at him.\n\nWith this last adherent, Florence hurried away in the advancing morning,\nand the strengthening sunshine, to the City. The roar soon grew more\nloud, the passengers more numerous, the shops more busy, until she\nwas carried onward in a stream of life setting that way, and\nflowing, indifferently, past marts and mansions, prisons, churches,\nmarket-places, wealth, poverty, good, and evil, like the broad river\nside by side with it, awakened from its dreams of rushes, willows, and\ngreen moss, and rolling on, turbid and troubled, among the works and\ncares of men, to the deep sea.\n\nAt length the quarters of the little Midshipman arose in view. Nearer\nyet, and the little Midshipman himself was seen upon his post, intent as\never on his observations. Nearer yet, and the door stood open, inviting\nher to enter. Florence, who had again quickened her pace, as she\napproached the end of her journey, ran across the road (closely followed\nby Diogenes, whom the bustle had somewhat confused), ran in, and sank\nupon the threshold of the well-remembered little parlour.\n\nThe Captain, in his glazed hat, was standing over the fire, making\nhis morning's cocoa, with that elegant trifle, his watch, upon the\nchimney-piece, for easy reference during the progress of the cookery.\nHearing a footstep and the rustle of a dress, the Captain turned with a\npalpitating remembrance of the dreadful Mrs MacStinger, at the instant\nwhen Florence made a motion with her hand towards him, reeled, and fell\nupon the floor.\n\nThe Captain, pale as Florence, pale in the very knobs upon his face\nraised her like a baby, and laid her on the same old sofa upon which she\nhad slumbered long ago.\n\n'It's Heart's Delight!' said the Captain, looking intently in her face.\n'It's the sweet creetur grow'd a woman!'\n\nCaptain Cuttle was so respectful of her, and had such a reverence for\nher, in this new character, that he would not have held her in his arms,\nwhile she was unconscious, for a thousand pounds.\n\n'My Heart's Delight!' said the Captain, withdrawing to a little\ndistance, with the greatest alarm and sympathy depicted on his\ncountenance. 'If you can hail Ned Cuttle with a finger, do it!'\n\nBut Florence did not stir.\n\n'My Heart's Delight!' said the trembling Captain. 'For the sake of Wal'r\ndrownded in the briny deep, turn to, and histe up something or another,\nif able!'\n\nFinding her insensible to this impressive adjuration also, Captain\nCuttle snatched from his breakfast-table a basin of cold water, and\nsprinkled some upon her face. Yielding to the urgency of the case, the\nCaptain then, using his immense hand with extraordinary gentleness,\nrelieved her of her bonnet, moistened her lips and forehead, put back\nher hair, covered her feet with his own coat which he pulled off for\nthe purpose, patted her hand--so small in his, that he was struck with\nwonder when he touched it--and seeing that her eyelids quivered, and\nthat her lips began to move, continued these restorative applications\nwith a better heart.\n\n'Cheerily,' said the Captain. 'Cheerily! Stand by, my pretty one, stand\nby! There! You're better now. Steady's the word, and steady it is. Keep\nher so! Drink a little drop o' this here,' said the Captain. 'There you\nare! What cheer now, my pretty, what cheer now?'\n\nAt this stage of her recovery, Captain Cuttle, with an imperfect\nassociation of a Watch with a Physician's treatment of a patient, took\nhis own down from the mantel-shelf, and holding it out on his hook, and\ntaking Florence's hand in his, looked steadily from one to the other, as\nexpecting the dial to do something.\n\n'What cheer, my pretty?' said the Captain. 'What cheer now? You've done\nher some good, my lad, I believe,' said the Captain, under his\nbreath, and throwing an approving glance upon his watch. 'Put you\nback half-an-hour every morning, and about another quarter towards the\narternoon, and you're a watch as can be ekalled by few and excelled by\nnone. What cheer, my lady lass!'\n\n'Captain Cuttle! Is it you?' exclaimed Florence, raising herself a\nlittle.\n\n'Yes, yes, my lady lass,' said the Captain, hastily deciding in his own\nmind upon the superior elegance of that form of address, as the most\ncourtly he could think of.\n\n'Is Walter's Uncle here?' asked Florence.\n\n'Here, pretty?' returned the Captain. 'He ain't been here this many a\nlong day. He ain't been heerd on, since he sheered off arter poor Wal'r.\nBut,' said the Captain, as a quotation, 'Though lost to sight, to memory\ndear, and England, Home, and Beauty!'\n\n'Do you live here?' asked Florence.\n\n'Yes, my lady lass,' returned the Captain.\n\n'Oh, Captain Cuttle!' cried Florence, putting her hands together, and\nspeaking wildly. 'Save me! keep me here! Let no one know where I am!\nI'll tell you what has happened by-and-by, when I can. I have no one in\nthe world to go to. Do not send me away!'\n\n'Send you away, my lady lass!' exclaimed the Captain. 'You, my Heart's\nDelight! Stay a bit! We'll put up this here deadlight, and take a double\nturn on the key!'\n\nWith these words, the Captain, using his one hand and his hook with the\ngreatest dexterity, got out the shutter of the door, put it up, made it\nall fast, and locked the door itself.\n\nWhen he came back to the side of Florence, she took his hand, and kissed\nit. The helplessness of the action, the appeal it made to him, the\nconfidence it expressed, the unspeakable sorrow in her face, the pain of\nmind she had too plainly suffered, and was suffering then, his\nknowledge of her past history, her present lonely, worn, and unprotected\nappearance, all so rushed upon the good Captain together, that he fairly\noverflowed with compassion and gentleness.\n\n'My lady lass,' said the Captain, polishing the bridge of his nose with\nhis arm until it shone like burnished copper, 'don't you say a word to\nEd'ard Cuttle, until such times as you finds yourself a riding smooth\nand easy; which won't be to-day, nor yet to-morrow. And as to giving of\nyou up, or reporting where you are, yes verily, and by God's help, so I\nwon't, Church catechism, make a note on!'\n\nThis the Captain said, reference and all, in one breath, and with much\nsolemnity; taking off his hat at 'yes verily,' and putting it on again,\nwhen he had quite concluded.\n\nFlorence could do but one thing more to thank him, and to show him how\nshe trusted in him; and she did it. Clinging to this rough creature as\nthe last asylum of her bleeding heart, she laid her head upon his honest\nshoulder, and clasped him round his neck, and would have kneeled down to\nbless him, but that he divined her purpose, and held her up like a true\nman.\n\n'Steady!' said the Captain. 'Steady! You're too weak to stand, you\nsee, my pretty, and must lie down here again. There, there!' To see the\nCaptain lift her on the sofa, and cover her with his coat, would have\nbeen worth a hundred state sights. 'And now,' said the Captain, 'you\nmust take some breakfast, lady lass, and the dog shall have some too.\nAnd arter that you shall go aloft to old Sol Gills's room, and fall\nasleep there, like a angel.'\n\nCaptain Cuttle patted Diogenes when he made allusion to him,\nand Diogenes met that overture graciously, half-way. During the\nadministration of the restoratives he had clearly been in two minds\nwhether to fly at the Captain or to offer him his friendship; and he had\nexpressed that conflict of feeling by alternate waggings of his tail,\nand displays of his teeth, with now and then a growl or so. But by this\ntime, his doubts were all removed. It was plain that he considered the\nCaptain one of the most amiable of men, and a man whom it was an honour\nto a dog to know.\n\nIn evidence of these convictions, Diogenes attended on the Captain\nwhile he made some tea and toast, and showed a lively interest in his\nhousekeeping. But it was in vain for the kind Captain to make such\npreparations for Florence, who sorely tried to do some honour to them,\nbut could touch nothing, and could only weep and weep again.\n\n'Well, well!' said the compassionate Captain, 'arter turning in, my\nHeart's Delight, you'll get more way upon you. Now, I'll serve out\nyour allowance, my lad.' To Diogenes. 'And you shall keep guard on your\nmistress aloft.'\n\nDiogenes, however, although he had been eyeing his intended breakfast\nwith a watering mouth and glistening eyes, instead of falling to,\nravenously, when it was put before him, pricked up his ears, darted to\nthe shop-door, and barked there furiously: burrowing with his head at\nthe bottom, as if he were bent on mining his way out.\n\n'Can there be anybody there!' asked Florence, in alarm.\n\n'No, my lady lass,' returned the Captain. 'Who'd stay there, without\nmaking any noise! Keep up a good heart, pretty. It's only people going\nby.'\n\nBut for all that, Diogenes barked and barked, and burrowed and burrowed,\nwith pertinacious fury; and whenever he stopped to listen, appeared to\nreceive some new conviction into his mind, for he set to, barking and\nburrowing again, a dozen times. Even when he was persuaded to return to\nhis breakfast, he came jogging back to it, with a very doubtful air; and\nwas off again, in another paroxysm, before touching a morsel.\n\n'If there should be someone listening and watching,' whispered Florence.\n'Someone who saw me come--who followed me, perhaps.'\n\n'It ain't the young woman, lady lass, is it?' said the Captain, taken\nwith a bright idea.\n\n'Susan?' said Florence, shaking her head. 'Ah no! Susan has been gone\nfrom me a long time.'\n\n'Not deserted, I hope?' said the Captain. 'Don't say that that there\nyoung woman's run, my pretty!'\n\n'Oh, no, no!' cried Florence. 'She is one of the truest hearts in the\nworld!'\n\nThe Captain was greatly relieved by this reply, and expressed his\nsatisfaction by taking off his hard glazed hat, and dabbing his head\nall over with his handkerchief, rolled up like a ball, observing several\ntimes, with infinite complacency, and with a beaming countenance, that\nhe know'd it.\n\n'So you're quiet now, are you, brother?' said the Captain to Diogenes.\n'There warn't nobody there, my lady lass, bless you!'\n\nDiogenes was not so sure of that. The door still had an attraction\nfor him at intervals; and he went snuffing about it, and growling to\nhimself, unable to forget the subject. This incident, coupled with the\nCaptain's observation of Florence's fatigue and faintness, decided\nhim to prepare Sol Gills's chamber as a place of retirement for her\nimmediately. He therefore hastily betook himself to the top of the\nhouse, and made the best arrangement of it that his imagination and his\nmeans suggested.\n\nIt was very clean already; and the Captain being an orderly man, and\naccustomed to make things ship-shape, converted the bed into a couch,\nby covering it all over with a clean white drapery. By a similar\ncontrivance, the Captain converted the little dressing-table into\na species of altar, on which he set forth two silver teaspoons, a\nflower-pot, a telescope, his celebrated watch, a pocket-comb, and\na song-book, as a small collection of rarities, that made a choice\nappearance. Having darkened the window, and straightened the pieces of\ncarpet on the floor, the Captain surveyed these preparations with great\ndelight, and descended to the little parlour again, to bring Florence to\nher bower.\n\nNothing would induce the Captain to believe that it was possible for\nFlorence to walk upstairs. If he could have got the idea into his head,\nhe would have considered it an outrageous breach of hospitality to\nallow her to do so. Florence was too weak to dispute the point, and the\nCaptain carried her up out of hand, laid her down, and covered her with\na great watch-coat.\n\n'My lady lass!' said the Captain, 'you're as safe here as if you was at\nthe top of St Paul's Cathedral, with the ladder cast off. Sleep is what\nyou want, afore all other things, and may you be able to show yourself\nsmart with that there balsam for the still small woice of a wounded\nmind! When there's anything you want, my Heart's Delight, as this here\nhumble house or town can offer, pass the word to Ed'ard Cuttle, as'll\nstand off and on outside that door, and that there man will wibrate with\njoy.' The Captain concluded by kissing the hand that Florence stretched\nout to him, with the chivalry of any old knight-errant, and walking on\ntiptoe out of the room.\n\nDescending to the little parlour, Captain Cuttle, after holding a hasty\ncouncil with himself, decided to open the shop-door for a few minutes,\nand satisfy himself that now, at all events, there was no one loitering\nabout it. Accordingly he set it open, and stood upon the threshold,\nkeeping a bright look-out, and sweeping the whole street with his\nspectacles.\n\n'How de do, Captain Gills?' said a voice beside him. The Captain,\nlooking down, found that he had been boarded by Mr Toots while sweeping\nthe horizon.\n\n'How are, you, my lad?' replied the Captain.\n\n'Well, I'm pretty well, thank'ee, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots. 'You\nknow I'm never quite what I could wish to be, now. I don't expect that I\never shall be any more.'\n\nMr Toots never approached any nearer than this to the great theme of\nhis life, when in conversation with Captain Cuttle, on account of the\nagreement between them.\n\n'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'if I could have the pleasure of a word\nwith you, it's--it's rather particular.'\n\n'Why, you see, my lad,' replied the Captain, leading the way into the\nparlour, 'I ain't what you may call exactly free this morning; and\ntherefore if you can clap on a bit, I should take it kindly.'\n\n'Certainly, Captain Gills,' replied Mr Toots, who seldom had any notion\nof the Captain's meaning. 'To clap on, is exactly what I could wish to\ndo. Naturally.'\n\n'If so be, my lad,' returned the Captain. 'Do it!'\n\nThe Captain was so impressed by the possession of his tremendous\nsecret--by the fact of Miss Dombey being at that moment under his roof,\nwhile the innocent and unconscious Toots sat opposite to him--that a\nperspiration broke out on his forehead, and he found it impossible,\nwhile slowly drying the same, glazed hat in hand, to keep his eyes off\nMr Toots's face. Mr Toots, who himself appeared to have some secret\nreasons for being in a nervous state, was so unspeakably disconcerted by\nthe Captain's stare, that after looking at him vacantly for some time in\nsilence, and shifting uneasily on his chair, he said:\n\n'I beg your pardon, Captain Gills, but you don't happen to see anything\nparticular in me, do you?'\n\n'No, my lad,' returned the Captain. 'No.'\n\n'Because you know,' said Mr Toots with a chuckle, 'I know I'm wasting\naway. You needn't at all mind alluding to that. I--I should like it.\nBurgess and Co. have altered my measure, I'm in that state of thinness.\nIt's a gratification to me. I--I'm glad of it. I--I'd a great deal\nrather go into a decline, if I could. I'm a mere brute you know, grazing\nupon the surface of the earth, Captain Gills.'\n\nThe more Mr Toots went on in this way, the more the Captain was\nweighed down by his secret, and stared at him. What with this cause of\nuneasiness, and his desire to get rid of Mr Toots, the Captain was in\nsuch a scared and strange condition, indeed, that if he had been\nin conversation with a ghost, he could hardly have evinced greater\ndiscomposure.\n\n'But I was going to say, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots. 'Happening to\nbe this way early this morning--to tell you the truth, I was coming to\nbreakfast with you. As to sleep, you know, I never sleep now. I might be\na Watchman, except that I don't get any pay, and he's got nothing on his\nmind.'\n\n'Carry on, my lad!' said the Captain, in an admonitory voice.\n\n'Certainly, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots. 'Perfectly true! Happening to\nbe this way early this morning (an hour or so ago), and finding the door\nshut--'\n\n'What! were you waiting there, brother?' demanded the Captain.\n\n'Not at all, Captain Gills,' returned Mr Toots. 'I didn't stop a moment.\nI thought you were out. But the person said--by the bye, you don't keep\na dog, you, Captain Gills?'\n\nThe Captain shook his head.\n\n'To be sure,' said Mr Toots, 'that's exactly what I said. I knew you\ndidn't. There is a dog, Captain Gills, connected with--but excuse me.\nThat's forbidden ground.'\n\nThe Captain stared at Mr Toots until he seemed to swell to twice his\nnatural size; and again the perspiration broke out on the Captain's\nforehead, when he thought of Diogenes taking it into his head to come\ndown and make a third in the parlour.\n\n'The person said,' continued Mr Toots, 'that he had heard a dog barking\nin the shop: which I knew couldn't be, and I told him so. But he was as\npositive as if he had seen the dog.'\n\n'What person, my lad?' inquired the Captain.\n\n'Why, you see there it is, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, with a\nperceptible increase in the nervousness of his manner. 'It's not for\nme to say what may have taken place, or what may not have taken place.\nIndeed, I don't know. I get mixed up with all sorts of things that I\ndon't quite understand, and I think there's something rather weak in\nmy--in my head, in short.'\n\nThe Captain nodded his own, as a mark of assent.\n\n'But the person said, as we were walking away,' continued Mr Toots,\n'that you knew what, under existing circumstances, might occur--he\nsaid \"might,\" very strongly--and that if you were requested to prepare\nyourself, you would, no doubt, come prepared.'\n\n'Person, my lad' the Captain repeated.\n\n'I don't know what person, I'm sure, Captain Gills,' replied Mr Toots,\n'I haven't the least idea. But coming to the door, I found him waiting\nthere; and he said was I coming back again, and I said yes; and he\nsaid did I know you, and I said, yes, I had the pleasure of your\nacquaintance--you had given me the pleasure of your acquaintance, after\nsome persuasion; and he said, if that was the case, would I say to you\nwhat I have said, about existing circumstances and coming prepared, and\nas soon as ever I saw you, would I ask you to step round the corner, if\nit was only for one minute, on most important business, to Mr Brogley's\nthe Broker's. Now, I tell you what, Captain Gills--whatever it is, I am\nconvinced it's very important; and if you like to step round, now, I'll\nwait here till you come back.'\n\nThe Captain, divided between his fear of compromising Florence in some\nway by not going, and his horror of leaving Mr Toots in possession of\nthe house with a chance of finding out the secret, was a spectacle of\nmental disturbance that even Mr Toots could not be blind to. But that\nyoung gentleman, considering his nautical friend as merely in a state of\npreparation for the interview he was going to have, was quite satisfied,\nand did not review his own discreet conduct without chuckle.\n\nAt length the Captain decided, as the lesser of two evils, to run round\nto Brogley's the Broker's: previously locking the door that communicated\nwith the upper part of the house, and putting the key in his pocket.\n'If so be,' said the Captain to Mr Toots, with not a little shame and\nhesitation, 'as you'll excuse my doing of it, brother.'\n\n'Captain Gills,' returned Mr Toots, 'whatever you do, is satisfactory to\nme.'\n\nThe Captain thanked him heartily, and promising to come back in less\nthan five minutes, went out in quest of the person who had entrusted Mr\nToots with this mysterious message. Poor Mr Toots, left to himself, lay\ndown upon the sofa, little thinking who had reclined there last, and,\ngazing up at the skylight and resigning himself to visions of Miss\nDombey, lost all heed of time and place.\n\nIt was as well that he did so; for although the Captain was not gone\nlong, he was gone much longer than he had proposed. When he came back,\nhe was very pale indeed, and greatly agitated, and even looked as if he\nhad been shedding tears. He seemed to have lost the faculty of speech,\nuntil he had been to the cupboard and taken a dram of rum from the\ncase-bottle, when he fetched a deep breath, and sat down in a chair with\nhis hand before his face.\n\n'Captain Gills,' said Toots, kindly, 'I hope and trust there's nothing\nwrong?'\n\n'Thank'ee, my lad, not a bit,' said the Captain. 'Quite contrairy.'\n\n'You have the appearance of being overcome, Captain Gills,' observed Mr\nToots.\n\n'Why, my lad, I am took aback,' the Captain admitted. 'I am.'\n\n'Is there anything I can do, Captain Gills?' inquired Mr Toots. 'If\nthere is, make use of me.'\n\nThe Captain removed his hand from his face, looked at him with a\nremarkable expression of pity and tenderness, and took him by the hand,\nand shook it hard.\n\n'No, thank'ee,' said the Captain. 'Nothing. Only I'll take it as a\nfavour if you'll part company for the present. I believe, brother,'\nwringing his hand again, 'that, after Wal'r, and on a different model,\nyou're as good a lad as ever stepped.'\n\n'Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills,' returned Mr Toots, giving\nthe Captain's hand a preliminary slap before shaking it again, 'it's\ndelightful to me to possess your good opinion. Thank'ee.'\n\n'And bear a hand and cheer up,' said the Captain, patting him on the\nback. 'What! There's more than one sweet creetur in the world!'\n\n'Not to me, Captain Gills,' replied Mr Toots gravely. 'Not to me, I\nassure you. The state of my feelings towards Miss Dombey is of that\nunspeakable description, that my heart is a desert island, and she lives\nin it alone. I'm getting more used up every day, and I'm proud to be so.\nIf you could see my legs when I take my boots off, you'd form some idea\nof what unrequited affection is. I have been prescribed bark, but I\ndon't take it, for I don't wish to have any tone whatever given to\nmy constitution. I'd rather not. This, however, is forbidden ground.\nCaptain Gills, goodbye!'\n\nCaptain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth of Mr Toots's\nfarewell, locked the door behind him, and shaking his head with the same\nremarkable expression of pity and tenderness as he had regarded him with\nbefore, went up to see if Florence wanted him.\n\nThere was an entire change in the Captain's face as he went upstairs. He\nwiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and he polished the bridge of his\nnose with his sleeve as he had done already that morning, but his face\nwas absolutely changed. Now, he might have been thought supremely happy;\nnow, he might have been thought sad; but the kind of gravity that sat\nupon his features was quite new to them, and was as great an improvement\nto them as if they had undergone some sublimating process.\n\nHe knocked softly, with his hook, at Florence's door, twice or thrice;\nbut, receiving no answer, ventured first to peep in, and then to enter:\nemboldened to take the latter step, perhaps, by the familiar recognition\nof Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side of her couch,\nwagged his tail, and winked his eyes at the Captain, without being at\nthe trouble of getting up.\n\nShe was sleeping heavily, and moaning in her sleep; and Captain Cuttle,\nwith a perfect awe of her youth, and beauty, and her sorrow, raised her\nhead, and adjusted the coat that covered her, where it had fallen off,\nand darkened the window a little more that she might sleep on, and crept\nout again, and took his post of watch upon the stairs. All this, with a\ntouch and tread as light as Florence's own.\n\nLong may it remain in this mixed world a point not easy of decision,\nwhich is the more beautiful evidence of the Almighty's goodness--the\ndelicate fingers that are formed for sensitiveness and sympathy of\ntouch, and made to minister to pain and grief, or the rough hard Captain\nCuttle hand, that the heart teaches, guides, and softens in a moment!\n\nFlorence slept upon her couch, forgetful of her homelessness and\norphanage, and Captain Cuttle watched upon the stairs. A louder sob or\nmoan than usual, brought him sometimes to her door; but by degrees she\nslept more peacefully, and the Captain's watch was undisturbed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 49. The Midshipman makes a Discovery\n\n\nIt was long before Florence awoke. The day was in its prime, the day\nwas in its wane, and still, uneasy in mind and body, she slept on;\nunconscious of her strange bed, of the noise and turmoil in the\nstreet, and of the light that shone outside the shaded window. Perfect\nunconsciousness of what had happened in the home that existed no more,\neven the deep slumber of exhaustion could not produce. Some undefined\nand mournful recollection of it, dozing uneasily but never sleeping,\npervaded all her rest. A dull sorrow, like a half-lulled sense of pain,\nwas always present to her; and her pale cheek was oftener wet with tears\nthan the honest Captain, softly putting in his head from time to time at\nthe half-closed door, could have desired to see it.\n\nThe sun was getting low in the west, and, glancing out of a red mist,\npierced with its rays opposite loopholes and pieces of fretwork in the\nspires of city churches, as if with golden arrows that struck through\nand through them--and far away athwart the river and its flat banks,\nit was gleaming like a path of fire--and out at sea it was irradiating\nsails of ships--and, looked towards, from quiet churchyards, upon\nhill-tops in the country, it was steeping distant prospects in a flush\nand glow that seemed to mingle earth and sky together in one glorious\nsuffusion--when Florence, opening her heavy eyes, lay at first, looking\nwithout interest or recognition at the unfamiliar walls around her, and\nlistening in the same regardless manner to the noises in the street. But\npresently she started up upon her couch, gazed round with a surprised\nand vacant look, and recollected all.\n\n'My pretty,' said the Captain, knocking at the door, 'what cheer?'\n\n'Dear friend,' cried Florence, hurrying to him, 'is it you?'\n\nThe Captain felt so much pride in the name, and was so pleased by the\ngleam of pleasure in her face, when she saw him, that he kissed his\nhook, by way of reply, in speechless gratification.\n\n'What cheer, bright di'mond?' said the Captain.\n\n'I have surely slept very long,' returned Florence. 'When did I come\nhere? Yesterday?'\n\n'This here blessed day, my lady lass,' replied the Captain.\n\n'Has there been no night? Is it still day?' asked Florence.\n\n'Getting on for evening now, my pretty,' said the Captain, drawing back\nthe curtain of the window. 'See!'\n\nFlorence, with her hand upon the Captain's arm, so sorrowful and\ntimid, and the Captain with his rough face and burly figure, so quietly\nprotective of her, stood in the rosy light of the bright evening sky,\nwithout saying a word. However strange the form of speech into which he\nmight have fashioned the feeling, if he had had to give it utterance,\nthe Captain felt, as sensibly as the most eloquent of men could have\ndone, that there was something in the tranquil time and in its softened\nbeauty that would make the wounded heart of Florence overflow; and that\nit was better that such tears should have their way. So not a word spake\nCaptain Cuttle. But when he felt his arm clasped closer, and when he\nfelt the lonely head come nearer to it, and lay itself against his\nhomely coarse blue sleeve, he pressed it gently with his rugged hand,\nand understood it, and was understood.\n\n'Better now, my pretty!' said the Captain. 'Cheerily, cheerily, I'll go\ndown below, and get some dinner ready. Will you come down of your own\nself, arterwards, pretty, or shall Ed'ard Cuttle come and fetch you?'\n\nAs Florence assured him that she was quite able to walk downstairs, the\nCaptain, though evidently doubtful of his own hospitality in permitting\nit, left her to do so, and immediately set about roasting a fowl at\nthe fire in the little parlour. To achieve his cookery with the greater\nskill, he pulled off his coat, tucked up his wristbands, and put on his\nglazed hat, without which assistant he never applied himself to any nice\nor difficult undertaking.\n\nAfter cooling her aching head and burning face in the fresh water which\nthe Captain's care had provided for her while she slept, Florence went\nto the little mirror to bind up her disordered hair. Then she knew--in\na moment, for she shunned it instantly, that on her breast there was the\ndarkening mark of an angry hand.\n\nHer tears burst forth afresh at the sight; she was ashamed and afraid of\nit; but it moved her to no anger against him. Homeless and fatherless,\nshe forgave him everything; hardly thought that she had need to forgive\nhim, or that she did; but she fled from the idea of him as she had fled\nfrom the reality, and he was utterly gone and lost. There was no such\nBeing in the world.\n\nWhat to do, or where to live, Florence--poor, inexperienced girl!--could\nnot yet consider. She had indistinct dreams of finding, a long way off,\nsome little sisters to instruct, who would be gentle with her, and to\nwhom, under some feigned name, she might attach herself, and who\nwould grow up in their happy home, and marry, and be good to their old\ngoverness, and perhaps entrust her, in time, with the education of their\nown daughters. And she thought how strange and sorrowful it would be,\nthus to become a grey-haired woman, carrying her secret to the grave,\nwhen Florence Dombey was forgotten. But it was all dim and clouded to\nher now. She only knew that she had no Father upon earth, and she said\nso, many times, with her suppliant head hidden from all, but her Father\nwho was in Heaven.\n\nHer little stock of money amounted to but a few guineas. With a part of\nthis, it would be necessary to buy some clothes, for she had none but\nthose she wore. She was too desolate to think how soon her money would\nbe gone--too much a child in worldly matters to be greatly troubled on\nthat score yet, even if her other trouble had been less. She tried\nto calm her thoughts and stay her tears; to quiet the hurry in her\nthrobbing head, and bring herself to believe that what had happened were\nbut the events of a few hours ago, instead of weeks or months, as they\nappeared; and went down to her kind protector.\n\nThe Captain had spread the cloth with great care, and was making some\negg-sauce in a little saucepan: basting the fowl from time to time\nduring the process with a strong interest, as it turned and browned on a\nstring before the fire. Having propped Florence up with cushions on\nthe sofa, which was already wheeled into a warm corner for her greater\ncomfort, the Captain pursued his cooking with extraordinary skill,\nmaking hot gravy in a second little saucepan, boiling a handful of\npotatoes in a third, never forgetting the egg-sauce in the first, and\nmaking an impartial round of basting and stirring with the most useful\nof spoons every minute. Besides these cares, the Captain had to keep his\neye on a diminutive frying-pan, in which some sausages were hissing and\nbubbling in a most musical manner; and there was never such a radiant\ncook as the Captain looked, in the height and heat of these functions:\nit being impossible to say whether his face or his glazed hat shone the\nbrighter.\n\nThe dinner being at length quite ready, Captain Cuttle dished and served\nit up, with no less dexterity than he had cooked it. He then dressed for\ndinner, by taking off his glazed hat and putting on his coat. That done,\nhe wheeled the table close against Florence on the sofa, said grace,\nunscrewed his hook, screwed his fork into its place, and did the honours\nof the table.\n\n'My lady lass,' said the Captain, 'cheer up, and try to eat a deal.\nStand by, my deary! Liver wing it is. Sarse it is. Sassage it is. And\npotato!' all which the Captain ranged symmetrically on a plate, and\npouring hot gravy on the whole with the useful spoon, set before his\ncherished guest.\n\n'The whole row o' dead lights is up, for'ard, lady lass,' observed the\nCaptain, encouragingly, 'and everythink is made snug. Try and pick a\nbit, my pretty. If Wal'r was here--'\n\n'Ah! If I had him for my brother now!' cried Florence.\n\n'Don't! don't take on, my pretty!' said the Captain, 'awast, to obleege\nme! He was your nat'ral born friend like, warn't he, Pet?'\n\nFlorence had no words to answer with. She only said, 'Oh, dear, dear\nPaul! oh, Walter!'\n\n'The wery planks she walked on,' murmured the Captain, looking at her\ndrooping face, 'was as high esteemed by Wal'r, as the water brooks is\nby the hart which never rejices! I see him now, the wery day as he was\nrated on them Dombey books, a speaking of her with his face a glistening\nwith doo--leastways with his modest sentiments--like a new blowed rose,\nat dinner. Well, well! If our poor Wal'r was here, my lady lass--or if\nhe could be--for he's drownded, ain't he?'\n\nFlorence shook her head.\n\n'Yes, yes; drownded,' said the Captain, soothingly; 'as I was saying, if\nhe could be here he'd beg and pray of you, my precious, to pick a leetle\nbit, with a look-out for your own sweet health. Whereby, hold your own,\nmy lady lass, as if it was for Wal'r's sake, and lay your pretty head to\nthe wind.'\n\nFlorence essayed to eat a morsel, for the Captain's pleasure. The\nCaptain, meanwhile, who seemed to have quite forgotten his own dinner,\nlaid down his knife and fork, and drew his chair to the sofa.\n\n'Wal'r was a trim lad, warn't he, precious?' said the Captain, after\nsitting for some time silently rubbing his chin, with his eyes fixed\nupon her, 'and a brave lad, and a good lad?'\n\nFlorence tearfully assented.\n\n'And he's drownded, Beauty, ain't he?' said the Captain, in a soothing\nvoice.\n\nFlorence could not but assent again.\n\n'He was older than you, my lady lass,' pursued the Captain, 'but you was\nlike two children together, at first; wam't you?'\n\nFlorence answered 'Yes.'\n\n'And Wal'r's drownded,' said the Captain. 'Ain't he?'\n\nThe repetition of this inquiry was a curious source of consolation, but\nit seemed to be one to Captain Cuttle, for he came back to it again and\nagain. Florence, fain to push from her her untasted dinner, and to lie\nback on her sofa, gave him her hand, feeling that she had disappointed\nhim, though truly wishing to have pleased him after all his trouble, but\nhe held it in his own (which shook as he held it), and appearing to have\nquite forgotten all about the dinner and her want of appetite, went on\ngrowling at intervals, in a ruminating tone of sympathy, 'Poor Wal'r.\nAy, ay! Drownded. Ain't he?' And always waited for her answer, in which\nthe great point of these singular reflections appeared to consist.\n\nThe fowl and sausages were cold, and the gravy and the egg-sauce\nstagnant, before the Captain remembered that they were on the board, and\nfell to with the assistance of Diogenes, whose united efforts quickly\ndispatched the banquet. The Captain's delight and wonder at the quiet\nhousewifery of Florence in assisting to clear the table, arrange the\nparlour, and sweep up the hearth--only to be equalled by the fervency of\nhis protest when she began to assist him--were gradually raised to that\ndegree, that at last he could not choose but do nothing himself, and\nstand looking at her as if she were some Fairy, daintily performing\nthese offices for him; the red rim on his forehead glowing again, in his\nunspeakable admiration.\n\nBut when Florence, taking down his pipe from the mantel-shelf gave it\ninto his hand, and entreated him to smoke it, the good Captain was so\nbewildered by her attention that he held it as if he had never held a\npipe, in all his life. Likewise, when Florence, looking into the little\ncupboard, took out the case-bottle and mixed a perfect glass of grog for\nhim, unasked, and set it at his elbow, his ruddy nose turned pale, he\nfelt himself so graced and honoured. When he had filled his pipe in\nan absolute reverie of satisfaction, Florence lighted it for him--the\nCaptain having no power to object, or to prevent her--and resuming\nher place on the old sofa, looked at him with a smile so loving and\nso grateful, a smile that showed him so plainly how her forlorn heart\nturned to him, as her face did, through grief, that the smoke of the\npipe got into the Captain's throat and made him cough, and got into the\nCaptain's eyes, and made them blink and water.\n\nThe manner in which the Captain tried to make believe that the cause\nof these effects lay hidden in the pipe itself, and the way in which he\nlooked into the bowl for it, and not finding it there, pretended to blow\nit out of the stem, was wonderfully pleasant. The pipe soon getting\ninto better condition, he fell into that state of repose becoming a good\nsmoker; but sat with his eyes fixed on Florence, and, with a beaming\nplacidity not to be described, and stopping every now and then to\ndischarge a little cloud from his lips, slowly puffed it forth, as if it\nwere a scroll coming out of his mouth, bearing the legend 'Poor Wal'r,\nay, ay. Drownded, ain't he?' after which he would resume his smoking\nwith infinite gentleness.\n\nUnlike as they were externally--and there could scarcely be a more\ndecided contrast than between Florence in her delicate youth and beauty,\nand Captain Cuttle with his knobby face, his great broad weather-beaten\nperson, and his gruff voice--in simple innocence of the world's ways and\nthe world's perplexities and dangers, they were nearly on a level. No\nchild could have surpassed Captain Cuttle in inexperience of\neverything but wind and weather; in simplicity, credulity, and generous\ntrustfulness. Faith, hope, and charity, shared his whole nature among\nthem. An odd sort of romance, perfectly unimaginative, yet perfectly\nunreal, and subject to no considerations of worldly prudence or\npracticability, was the only partner they had in his character. As\nthe Captain sat, and smoked, and looked at Florence, God knows what\nimpossible pictures, in which she was the principal figure, presented\nthemselves to his mind. Equally vague and uncertain, though not so\nsanguine, were her own thoughts of the life before her; and even as her\ntears made prismatic colours in the light she gazed at, so, through her\nnew and heavy grief, she already saw a rainbow faintly shining in the\nfar-off sky. A wandering princess and a good monster in a storybook\nmight have sat by the fireside, and talked as Captain Cuttle and poor\nFlorence talked--and not have looked very much unlike them.\n\nThe Captain was not troubled with the faintest idea of any difficulty\nin retaining Florence, or of any responsibility thereby incurred. Having\nput up the shutters and locked the door, he was quite satisfied on\nthis head. If she had been a Ward in Chancery, it would have made no\ndifference at all to Captain Cuttle. He was the last man in the world to\nbe troubled by any such considerations.\n\nSo the Captain smoked his pipe very comfortably, and Florence and he\nmeditated after their own manner. When the pipe was out, they had some\ntea; and then Florence entreated him to take her to some neighbouring\nshop, where she could buy the few necessaries she immediately wanted. It\nbeing quite dark, the Captain consented: peeping carefully out first,\nas he had been wont to do in his time of hiding from Mrs MacStinger; and\narming himself with his large stick, in case of an appeal to arms being\nrendered necessary by any unforeseen circumstance.\n\nThe pride Captain Cuttle had, in giving his arm to Florence, and\nescorting her some two or three hundred yards, keeping a bright look-out\nall the time, and attracting the attention of everyone who passed them,\nby his great vigilance and numerous precautions, was extreme. Arrived at\nthe shop, the Captain felt it a point of delicacy to retire during the\nmaking of the purchases, as they were to consist of wearing apparel; but\nhe previously deposited his tin canister on the counter, and informing\nthe young lady of the establishment that it contained fourteen pound\ntwo, requested her, in case that amount of property should not be\nsufficient to defray the expenses of his niece's little outfit--at\nthe word 'niece,' he bestowed a most significant look on Florence,\naccompanied with pantomime, expressive of sagacity and mystery--to have\nthe goodness to 'sing out,' and he would make up the difference from his\npocket. Casually consulting his big watch, as a deep means of dazzling\nthe establishment, and impressing it with a sense of property, the\nCaptain then kissed his hook to his niece, and retired outside the\nwindow, where it was a choice sight to see his great face looking\nin from time to time, among the silks and ribbons, with an obvious\nmisgiving that Florence had been spirited away by a back door.\n\n'Dear Captain Cuttle,' said Florence, when she came out with a parcel,\nthe size of which greatly disappointed the Captain, who had expected to\nsee a porter following with a bale of goods, 'I don't want this money,\nindeed. I have not spent any of it. I have money of my own.'\n\n'My lady lass,' returned the baffled Captain, looking straight down the\nstreet before them, 'take care on it for me, will you be so good, till\nsuch time as I ask ye for it?'\n\n'May I put it back in its usual place,' said Florence, 'and keep it\nthere?'\n\nThe Captain was not at all gratified by this proposal, but he answered,\n'Ay, ay, put it anywheres, my lady lass, so long as you know where to\nfind it again. It ain't o' no use to me,' said the Captain. 'I wonder I\nhaven't chucked it away afore now.\n\nThe Captain was quite disheartened for the moment, but he revived at\nthe first touch of Florence's arm, and they returned with the same\nprecautions as they had come; the Captain opening the door of the little\nMidshipman's berth, and diving in, with a suddenness which his great\npractice only could have taught him. During Florence's slumber in the\nmorning, he had engaged the daughter of an elderly lady who usually sat\nunder a blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, selling poultry, to come and\nput her room in order, and render her any little services she required;\nand this damsel now appearing, Florence found everything about her as\nconvenient and orderly, if not as handsome, as in the terrible dream she\nhad once called Home.\n\nWhen they were alone again, the Captain insisted on her eating a slice\nof dry toast, and drinking a glass of spiced negus (which he made\nto perfection); and, encouraging her with every kind word and\ninconsequential quotation he could possibly think of, led her upstairs\nto her bedroom. But he too had something on his mind, and was not easy\nin his manner.\n\n'Good-night, dear heart,' said Captain Cuttle to her at her\nchamber-door.\n\nFlorence raised her lips to his face, and kissed him.\n\nAt any other time the Captain would have been overbalanced by such a\ntoken of her affection and gratitude; but now, although he was very\nsensible of it, he looked in her face with even more uneasiness than he\nhad testified before, and seemed unwilling to leave her.\n\n'Poor Wal'r!' said the Captain.\n\n'Poor, poor Walter!' sighed Florence.\n\n'Drownded, ain't he?' said the Captain.\n\nFlorence shook her head, and sighed.\n\n'Good-night, my lady lass!' said Captain Cuttle, putting out his hand.\n\n'God bless you, dear, kind friend!'\n\nBut the Captain lingered still.\n\n'Is anything the matter, dear Captain Cuttle?' said Florence, easily\nalarmed in her then state of mind. 'Have you anything to tell me?'\n\n'To tell you, lady lass!' replied the Captain, meeting her eyes in\nconfusion. 'No, no; what should I have to tell you, pretty! You don't\nexpect as I've got anything good to tell you, sure?'\n\n'No!' said Florence, shaking her head.\n\nThe Captain looked at her wistfully, and repeated 'No,'-- still\nlingering, and still showing embarrassment.\n\n'Poor Wal'r!' said the Captain. 'My Wal'r, as I used to call you! Old\nSol Gills's nevy! Welcome to all as knowed you, as the flowers in May!\nWhere are you got to, brave boy? Drownded, ain't he?'\n\nConcluding his apostrophe with this abrupt appeal to Florence, the\nCaptain bade her good-night, and descended the stairs, while Florence\nremained at the top, holding the candle out to light him down. He was\nlost in the obscurity, and, judging from the sound of his receding\nfootsteps, was in the act of turning into the little parlour, when\nhis head and shoulders unexpectedly emerged again, as from the deep,\napparently for no other purpose than to repeat, 'Drownded, ain't he,\npretty?' For when he had said that in a tone of tender condolence, he\ndisappeared.\n\nFlorence was very sorry that she should unwittingly, though naturally,\nhave awakened these associations in the mind of her protector, by taking\nrefuge there; and sitting down before the little table where the Captain\nhad arranged the telescope and song-book, and those other rarities,\nthought of Walter, and of all that was connected with him in the past,\nuntil she could have almost wished to lie down on her bed and fade away.\nBut in her lonely yearning to the dead whom she had loved, no thought\nof home--no possibility of going back--no presentation of it as yet\nexisting, or as sheltering her father--once entered her thoughts. She\nhad seen the murder done. In the last lingering natural aspect in which\nshe had cherished him through so much, he had been torn out of her\nheart, defaced, and slain. The thought of it was so appalling to\nher, that she covered her eyes, and shrunk trembling from the least\nremembrance of the deed, or of the cruel hand that did it. If her fond\nheart could have held his image after that, it must have broken; but it\ncould not; and the void was filled with a wild dread that fled from all\nconfronting with its shattered fragments--with such a dread as could\nhave risen out of nothing but the depths of such a love, so wronged.\n\nShe dared not look into the glass; for the sight of the darkening mark\nupon her bosom made her afraid of herself, as if she bore about her\nsomething wicked. She covered it up, with a hasty, faltering hand, and\nin the dark; and laid her weary head down, weeping.\n\nThe Captain did not go to bed for a long time. He walked to and fro in\nthe shop and in the little parlour, for a full hour, and, appearing\nto have composed himself by that exercise, sat down with a grave and\nthoughtful face, and read out of a Prayer-book the forms of prayer\nappointed to be used at sea. These were not easily disposed of; the good\nCaptain being a mighty slow, gruff reader, and frequently stopping at\na hard word to give himself such encouragement as 'Now, my lad! With a\nwill!' or, 'Steady, Ed'ard Cuttle, steady!' which had a great effect\nin helping him out of any difficulty. Moreover, his spectacles greatly\ninterfered with his powers of vision. But notwithstanding these\ndrawbacks, the Captain, being heartily in earnest, read the service to\nthe very last line, and with genuine feeling too; and approving of it\nvery much when he had done, turned in, under the counter (but not before\nhe had been upstairs, and listened at Florence's door), with a serene\nbreast, and a most benevolent visage.\n\nThe Captain turned out several times in the course of the night,\nto assure himself that his charge was resting quietly; and once, at\ndaybreak, found that she was awake: for she called to know if it were\nhe, on hearing footsteps near her door.\n\n'Yes, my lady lass,' replied the Captain, in a growling whisper. 'Are\nyou all right, di'mond?'\n\nFlorence thanked him, and said 'Yes.'\n\nThe Captain could not lose so favourable an opportunity of applying\nhis mouth to the keyhole, and calling through it, like a hoarse breeze,\n'Poor Wal'r! Drownded, ain't he?' after which he withdrew, and turning\nin again, slept till seven o'clock.\n\nNor was he free from his uneasy and embarrassed manner all that day;\nthough Florence, being busy with her needle in the little parlour, was\nmore calm and tranquil than she had been on the day preceding. Almost\nalways when she raised her eyes from her work, she observed the captain\nlooking at her, and thoughtfully stroking his chin; and he so often\nhitched his arm-chair close to her, as if he were going to say something\nvery confidential, and hitched it away again, as not being able to\nmake up his mind how to begin, that in the course of the day he cruised\ncompletely round the parlour in that frail bark, and more than once went\nashore against the wainscot or the closet door, in a very distressed\ncondition.\n\nIt was not until the twilight that Captain Cuttle, fairly dropping\nanchor, at last, by the side of Florence, began to talk at all\nconnectedly. But when the light of the fire was shining on the walls\nand ceiling of the little room, and on the tea-board and the cups and\nsaucers that were ranged upon the table, and on her calm face turned\ntowards the flame, and reflecting it in the tears that filled her eyes,\nthe Captain broke a long silence thus:\n\n'You never was at sea, my own?'\n\n'No,' replied Florence.\n\n'Ay,' said the Captain, reverentially; 'it's a almighty element. There's\nwonders in the deep, my pretty. Think on it when the winds is roaring\nand the waves is rowling. Think on it when the stormy nights is so pitch\ndark,' said the Captain, solemnly holding up his hook, 'as you can't\nsee your hand afore you, excepting when the wiwid lightning reweals the\nsame; and when you drive, drive, drive through the storm and dark, as\nif you was a driving, head on, to the world without end, evermore, amen,\nand when found making a note of. Them's the times, my beauty, when a man\nmay say to his messmate (previously a overhauling of the wollume), \"A\nstiff nor'wester's blowing, Bill; hark, don't you hear it roar now! Lord\nhelp 'em, how I pitys all unhappy folks ashore now!\"' Which quotation,\nas particularly applicable to the terrors of the ocean, the Captain\ndelivered in a most impressive manner, concluding with a sonorous 'Stand\nby!'\n\n'Were you ever in a dreadful storm?' asked Florence.\n\n'Why ay, my lady lass, I've seen my share of bad weather,' said the\nCaptain, tremulously wiping his head, 'and I've had my share of knocking\nabout; but--but it ain't of myself as I was a meaning to speak. Our dear\nboy,' drawing closer to her, 'Wal'r, darling, as was drownded.'\n\nThe Captain spoke in such a trembling voice, and looked at Florence with\na face so pale and agitated, that she clung to his hand in affright.\n\n'Your face is changed,' cried Florence. 'You are altered in a moment.\nWhat is it? Dear Captain Cuttle, it turns me cold to see you!'\n\n'What! Lady lass,' returned the Captain, supporting her with his hand,\n'don't be took aback. No, no! All's well, all's well, my dear. As I was\na saying--Wal'r--he's--he's drownded. Ain't he?'\n\nFlorence looked at him intently; her colour came and went; and she laid\nher hand upon her breast.\n\n'There's perils and dangers on the deep, my beauty,' said the Captain;\n'and over many a brave ship, and many and many a bould heart, the secret\nwaters has closed up, and never told no tales. But there's escapes upon\nthe deep, too, and sometimes one man out of a score,--ah! maybe out of\na hundred, pretty,--has been saved by the mercy of God, and come home\nafter being given over for dead, and told of all hands lost. I--I know\na story, Heart's Delight,' stammered the Captain, 'o' this natur, as\nwas told to me once; and being on this here tack, and you and me sitting\nalone by the fire, maybe you'd like to hear me tell it. Would you,\ndeary?'\n\nFlorence, trembling with an agitation which she could not control or\nunderstand, involuntarily followed his glance, which went behind her\ninto the shop, where a lamp was burning. The instant that she turned her\nhead, the Captain sprung out of his chair, and interposed his hand.\n\n'There's nothing there, my beauty,' said the Captain. 'Don't look\nthere.'\n\n'Why not?' asked Florence.\n\nThe Captain murmured something about its being dull that way, and about\nthe fire being cheerful. He drew the door ajar, which had been standing\nopen until now, and resumed his seat. Florence followed him with her\neyes, and looked intently in his face.\n\n'The story was about a ship, my lady lass,' began the Captain, 'as\nsailed out of the Port of London, with a fair wind and in fair weather,\nbound for--don't be took aback, my lady lass, she was only out'ard\nbound, pretty, only out'ard bound!'\n\nThe expression on Florence's face alarmed the Captain, who was himself\nvery hot and flurried, and showed scarcely less agitation than she did.\n\n'Shall I go on, Beauty?' said the Captain.\n\n'Yes, yes, pray!' cried Florence.\n\nThe Captain made a gulp as if to get down something that was sticking in\nhis throat, and nervously proceeded:\n\n'That there unfort'nate ship met with such foul weather, out at sea, as\ndon't blow once in twenty year, my darling. There was hurricanes ashore\nas tore up forests and blowed down towns, and there was gales at sea in\nthem latitudes, as not the stoutest wessel ever launched could live in.\nDay arter day that there unfort'nate ship behaved noble, I'm told, and\ndid her duty brave, my pretty, but at one blow a'most her bulwarks\nwas stove in, her masts and rudder carved away, her best man swept\noverboard, and she left to the mercy of the storm as had no mercy but\nblowed harder and harder yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat\nher in, and every time they come a thundering at her, broke her like a\nshell. Every black spot in every mountain of water that rolled away was\na bit o' the ship's life or a living man, and so she went to pieces,\nBeauty, and no grass will never grow upon the graves of them as manned\nthat ship.'\n\n'They were not all lost!' cried Florence. 'Some were saved!--Was one?'\n\n'Aboard o' that there unfort'nate wessel,' said the Captain, rising from\nhis chair, and clenching his hand with prodigious energy and exultation,\n'was a lad, a gallant lad--as I've heerd tell--that had loved, when\nhe was a boy, to read and talk about brave actions in shipwrecks--I've\nheerd him! I've heerd him!--and he remembered of 'em in his hour of\nneed; for when the stoutest and oldest hands was hove down, he was firm\nand cheery. It warn't the want of objects to like and love ashore that\ngave him courage, it was his nat'ral mind. I've seen it in his face,\nwhen he was no more than a child--ay, many a time!--and when I thought\nit nothing but his good looks, bless him!'\n\n'And was he saved!' cried Florence. 'Was he saved!'\n\n'That brave lad,' said the Captain,--'look at me, pretty! Don't look\nround--'\n\nFlorence had hardly power to repeat, 'Why not?'\n\n'Because there's nothing there, my deary,' said the Captain. 'Don't be\ntook aback, pretty creetur! Don't, for the sake of Wal'r, as was dear\nto all on us! That there lad,' said the Captain, 'arter working with the\nbest, and standing by the faint-hearted, and never making no complaint\nnor sign of fear, and keeping up a spirit in all hands that made\n'em honour him as if he'd been a admiral--that lad, along with the\nsecond-mate and one seaman, was left, of all the beatin' hearts that\nwent aboard that ship, the only living creeturs--lashed to a fragment of\nthe wreck, and driftin' on the stormy sea.'\n\n'Were they saved?' cried Florence.\n\n'Days and nights they drifted on them endless waters,' said the Captain,\n'until at last--No! Don't look that way, pretty!--a sail bore down upon\n'em, and they was, by the Lord's mercy, took aboard: two living and one\ndead.'\n\n'Which of them was dead?' cried Florence.\n\n'Not the lad I speak on,' said the Captain.\n\n'Thank God! oh thank God!'\n\n'Amen!' returned the Captain hurriedly. 'Don't be took aback! A minute\nmore, my lady lass! with a good heart!--aboard that ship, they went a\nlong voyage, right away across the chart (for there warn't no touching\nnowhere), and on that voyage the seaman as was picked up with him died.\nBut he was spared, and--'\n\nThe Captain, without knowing what he did, had cut a slice of bread from\nthe loaf, and put it on his hook (which was his usual toasting-fork),\non which he now held it to the fire; looking behind Florence with great\nemotion in his face, and suffering the bread to blaze and burn like\nfuel.\n\n'Was spared,' repeated Florence, 'and--?'\n\n'And come home in that ship,' said the Captain, still looking in the\nsame direction, 'and--don't be frightened, pretty--and landed; and one\nmorning come cautiously to his own door to take a obserwation, knowing\nthat his friends would think him drownded, when he sheered off at the\nunexpected--'\n\n'At the unexpected barking of a dog?' cried Florence, quickly.\n\n'Yes,' roared the Captain. 'Steady, darling! courage! Don't look round\nyet. See there! upon the wall!'\n\nThere was the shadow of a man upon the wall close to her. She started\nup, looked round, and with a piercing cry, saw Walter Gay behind her!\n\nShe had no thought of him but as a brother, a brother rescued from the\ngrave; a shipwrecked brother saved and at her side; and rushed into his\narms. In all the world, he seemed to be her hope, her comfort, refuge,\nnatural protector. 'Take care of Walter, I was fond of Walter!' The dear\nremembrance of the plaintive voice that said so, rushed upon her soul,\nlike music in the night. 'Oh welcome home, dear Walter! Welcome to this\nstricken breast!' She felt the words, although she could not utter them,\nand held him in her pure embrace.\n\nCaptain Cuttle, in a fit of delirium, attempted to wipe his head\nwith the blackened toast upon his hook: and finding it an uncongenial\nsubstance for the purpose, put it into the crown of his glazed hat,\nput the glazed hat on with some difficulty, essayed to sing a verse of\nLovely Peg, broke down at the first word, and retired into the shop,\nwhence he presently came back express, with a face all flushed and\nbesmeared, and the starch completely taken out of his shirt-collar, to\nsay these words:\n\n'Wal'r, my lad, here is a little bit of property as I should wish to\nmake over, jintly!'\n\nThe Captain hastily produced the big watch, the teaspoons, the\nsugar-tongs, and the canister, and laying them on the table, swept them\nwith his great hand into Walter's hat; but in handing that singular\nstrong box to Walter, he was so overcome again, that he was fain to make\nanother retreat into the shop, and absent himself for a longer space of\ntime than on his first retirement.\n\nBut Walter sought him out, and brought him back; and then the Captain's\ngreat apprehension was, that Florence would suffer from this new shock.\nHe felt it so earnestly, that he turned quite rational, and positively\ninterdicted any further allusion to Walter's adventures for some days\nto come. Captain Cuttle then became sufficiently composed to relieve\nhimself of the toast in his hat, and to take his place at the tea-board;\nbut finding Walter's grasp upon his shoulder, on one side, and Florence\nwhispering her tearful congratulations on the other, the Captain\nsuddenly bolted again, and was missing for a good ten minutes.\n\nBut never in all his life had the Captain's face so shone and glistened,\nas when, at last, he sat stationary at the tea-board, looking from\nFlorence to Walter, and from Walter to Florence. Nor was this effect\nproduced or at all heightened by the immense quantity of polishing\nhe had administered to his face with his coat-sleeve during the last\nhalf-hour. It was solely the effect of his internal emotions. There was\na glory and delight within the Captain that spread itself over his whole\nvisage, and made a perfect illumination there.\n\nThe pride with which the Captain looked upon the bronzed cheek and the\ncourageous eyes of his recovered boy; with which he saw the generous\nfervour of his youth, and all its frank and hopeful qualities, shining\nonce more, in the fresh, wholesome manner, and the ardent face, would\nhave kindled something of this light in his countenance. The admiration\nand sympathy with which he turned his eyes on Florence, whose beauty,\ngrace, and innocence could have won no truer or more zealous champion\nthan himself, would have had an equal influence upon him. But the\nfulness of the glow he shed around him could only have been engendered\nin his contemplation of the two together, and in all the fancies\nspringing out of that association, that came sparkling and beaming into\nhis head, and danced about it.\n\nHow they talked of poor old Uncle Sol, and dwelt on every little\ncircumstance relating to his disappearance; how their joy was moderated\nby the old man's absence and by the misfortunes of Florence; how they\nreleased Diogenes, whom the Captain had decoyed upstairs some time\nbefore, lest he should bark again; the Captain, though he was in one\ncontinual flutter, and made many more short plunges into the shop, fully\ncomprehended. But he no more dreamed that Walter looked on Florence, as\nit were, from a new and far-off place; that while his eyes often sought\nthe lovely face, they seldom met its open glance of sisterly affection,\nbut withdrew themselves when hers were raised towards him; than he\nbelieved that it was Walter's ghost who sat beside him. He saw them\ntogether in their youth and beauty, and he knew the story of their\nyounger days, and he had no inch of room beneath his great blue\nwaistcoat for anything save admiration of such a pair, and gratitude for\ntheir being reunited.\n\nThey sat thus, until it grew late. The Captain would have been content\nto sit so for a week. But Walter rose, to take leave for the night.\n\n'Going, Walter!' said Florence. 'Where?'\n\n'He slings his hammock for the present, lady lass,' said Captain Cuttle,\n'round at Brogley's. Within hail, Heart's Delight.'\n\n'I am the cause of your going away, Walter,' said Florence. 'There is a\nhouseless sister in your place.'\n\n'Dear Miss Dombey,' replied Walter, hesitating--'if it is not too bold\nto call you so!--'\n\n'Walter!' she exclaimed, surprised.\n\n'--If anything could make me happier in being allowed to see and speak\nto you, would it not be the discovery that I had any means on earth of\ndoing you a moment's service! Where would I not go, what would I not do,\nfor your sake?'\n\nShe smiled, and called him brother.\n\n'You are so changed,' said Walter--\n\n'I changed!' she interrupted.\n\n'--To me,' said Walter, softly, as if he were thinking aloud, 'changed to\nme. I left you such a child, and find you--oh! something so different--'\n\n'But your sister, Walter. You have not forgotten what we promised to\neach other, when we parted?'\n\n'Forgotten!' But he said no more.\n\n'And if you had--if suffering and danger had driven it from your\nthoughts--which it has not--you would remember it now, Walter, when you\nfind me poor and abandoned, with no home but this, and no friends but\nthe two who hear me speak!'\n\n'I would! Heaven knows I would!' said Walter.\n\n'Oh, Walter,' exclaimed Florence, through her sobs and tears. 'Dear\nbrother! Show me some way through the world--some humble path that I may\ntake alone, and labour in, and sometimes think of you as one who will\nprotect and care for me as for a sister! Oh, help me, Walter, for I need\nhelp so much!'\n\n'Miss Dombey! Florence! I would die to help you. But your friends are\nproud and rich. Your father--'\n\n'No, no! Walter!' She shrieked, and put her hands up to her head, in an\nattitude of terror that transfixed him where he stood. 'Don't say that\nword!'\n\nHe never, from that hour, forgot the voice and look with which she\nstopped him at the name. He felt that if he were to live a hundred\nyears, he never could forget it.\n\nSomewhere--anywhere--but never home! All past, all gone, all lost, and\nbroken up! The whole history of her untold slight and suffering was in\nthe cry and look; and he felt he never could forget it, and he never\ndid.\n\nShe laid her gentle face upon the Captain's shoulder, and related how\nand why she had fled. If every sorrowing tear she shed in doing so, had\nbeen a curse upon the head of him she never named or blamed, it would\nhave been better for him, Walter thought, with awe, than to be renounced\nout of such a strength and might of love.\n\n'There, precious!' said the Captain, when she ceased; and deep attention\nthe Captain had paid to her while she spoke; listening, with his glazed\nhat all awry and his mouth wide open. 'Awast, awast, my eyes! Wal'r,\ndear lad, sheer off for to-night, and leave the pretty one to me!'\n\nWalter took her hand in both of his, and put it to his lips, and kissed\nit. He knew now that she was, indeed, a homeless wandering fugitive;\nbut, richer to him so, than in all the wealth and pride of her right\nstation, she seemed farther off than even on the height that had made\nhim giddy in his boyish dreams.\n\nCaptain Cuttle, perplexed by no such meditations, guarded Florence to\nher room, and watched at intervals upon the charmed ground outside her\ndoor--for such it truly was to him--until he felt sufficiently easy\nin his mind about her, to turn in under the counter. On abandoning his\nwatch for that purpose, he could not help calling once, rapturously,\nthrough the keyhole, 'Drownded. Ain't he, pretty?'--or, when he got\ndownstairs, making another trial at that verse of Lovely Peg. But it\nstuck in his throat somehow, and he could make nothing of it; so he went\nto bed, and dreamed that old Sol Gills was married to Mrs MacStinger,\nand kept prisoner by that lady in a secret chamber on a short allowance\nof victuals.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 50. Mr Toots's Complaint\n\n\nThere was an empty room above-stairs at the wooden Midshipman's, which,\nin days of yore, had been Walter's bedroom. Walter, rousing up the\nCaptain betimes in the morning, proposed that they should carry thither\nsuch furniture out of the little parlour as would grace it best, so that\nFlorence might take possession of it when she rose. As nothing could be\nmore agreeable to Captain Cuttle than making himself very red and short\nof breath in such a cause, he turned to (as he himself said) with a\nwill; and, in a couple of hours, this garret was transformed into a\nspecies of land-cabin, adorned with all the choicest moveables out of\nthe parlour, inclusive even of the Tartar frigate, which the Captain\nhung up over the chimney-piece with such extreme delight, that he could\ndo nothing for half-an-hour afterwards but walk backward from it, lost\nin admiration.\n\nThe Captain could be induced by no persuasion of Walter's to wind up the\nbig watch, or to take back the canister, or to touch the sugar-tongs and\nteaspoons. 'No, no, my lad;' was the Captain's invariable reply to any\nsolicitation of the kind, 'I've made that there little property over,\njintly.' These words he repeated with great unction and gravity,\nevidently believing that they had the virtue of an Act of Parliament,\nand that unless he committed himself by some new admission of ownership,\nno flaw could be found in such a form of conveyance.\n\nIt was an advantage of the new arrangement, that besides the greater\nseclusion it afforded Florence, it admitted of the Midshipman being\nrestored to his usual post of observation, and also of the shop shutters\nbeing taken down. The latter ceremony, however little importance the\nunconscious Captain attached to it, was not wholly superfluous; for,\non the previous day, so much excitement had been occasioned in\nthe neighbourhood, by the shutters remaining unopened, that the\nInstrument-maker's house had been honoured with an unusual share of\npublic observation, and had been intently stared at from the opposite\nside of the way, by groups of hungry gazers, at any time between sunrise\nand sunset. The idlers and vagabonds had been particularly interested in\nthe Captain's fate; constantly grovelling in the mud to apply their\neyes to the cellar-grating, under the shop-window, and delighting their\nimaginations with the fancy that they could see a piece of his coat as\nhe hung in a corner; though this settlement of him was stoutly disputed\nby an opposite faction, who were of opinion that he lay murdered with\na hammer, on the stairs. It was not without exciting some discontent,\ntherefore, that the subject of these rumours was seen early in the\nmorning standing at his shop-door as hale and hearty as if nothing\nhad happened; and the beadle of that quarter, a man of an ambitious\ncharacter, who had expected to have the distinction of being present at\nthe breaking open of the door, and of giving evidence in full uniform\nbefore the coroner, went so far as to say to an opposite neighbour, that\nthe chap in the glazed hat had better not try it on there--without more\nparticularly mentioning what--and further, that he, the beadle, would\nkeep his eye upon him.\n\n'Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, musing, when they stood resting from\ntheir labours at the shop-door, looking down the old familiar street; it\nbeing still early in the morning; 'nothing at all of Uncle Sol, in all\nthat time!'\n\n'Nothing at all, my lad,' replied the Captain, shaking his head.\n\n'Gone in search of me, dear, kind old man,' said Walter: 'yet never\nwrite to you! But why not? He says, in effect, in this packet that you\ngave me,' taking the paper from his pocket, which had been opened in\nthe presence of the enlightened Bunsby, 'that if you never hear from\nhim before opening it, you may believe him dead. Heaven forbid! But\nyou would have heard of him, even if he were dead! Someone would have\nwritten, surely, by his desire, if he could not; and have said, \"on such\na day, there died in my house,\" or \"under my care,\" or so forth, \"Mr\nSolomon Gills of London, who left this last remembrance and this last\nrequest to you\".'\n\nThe Captain, who had never climbed to such a clear height of probability\nbefore, was greatly impressed by the wide prospect it opened, and\nanswered, with a thoughtful shake of his head, 'Well said, my lad; wery\nwell said.'\n\n'I have been thinking of this, or, at least,' said Walter, colouring,\n'I have been thinking of one thing and another, all through a sleepless\nnight, and I cannot believe, Captain Cuttle, but that my Uncle Sol (Lord\nbless him!) is alive, and will return. I don't so much wonder at his\ngoing away, because, leaving out of consideration that spice of the\nmarvellous which was always in his character, and his great affection\nfor me, before which every other consideration of his life became\nnothing, as no one ought to know so well as I who had the best of\nfathers in him,'--Walter's voice was indistinct and husky here, and he\nlooked away, along the street,--'leaving that out of consideration, I\nsay, I have often read and heard of people who, having some near and\ndear relative, who was supposed to be shipwrecked at sea, have gone down\nto live on that part of the sea-shore where any tidings of the missing\nship might be expected to arrive, though only an hour or two sooner than\nelsewhere, or have even gone upon her track to the place whither she was\nbound, as if their going would create intelligence. I think I should do\nsuch a thing myself, as soon as another, or sooner than many, perhaps.\nBut why my Uncle shouldn't write to you, when he so clearly intended\nto do so, or how he should die abroad, and you not know it through some\nother hand, I cannot make out.'\n\nCaptain Cuttle observed, with a shake of his head, that Jack Bunsby\nhimself hadn't made it out, and that he was a man as could give a pretty\ntaut opinion too.\n\n'If my Uncle had been a heedless young man, likely to be entrapped by\njovial company to some drinking-place, where he was to be got rid of for\nthe sake of what money he might have about him,' said Walter; 'or if he\nhad been a reckless sailor, going ashore with two or three months' pay\nin his pocket, I could understand his disappearing, and leaving no trace\nbehind. But, being what he was--and is, I hope--I can't believe it.'\n\n'Wal'r, my lad,' inquired the Captain, wistfully eyeing him as he\npondered and pondered, 'what do you make of it, then?'\n\n'Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, 'I don't know what to make of it. I\nsuppose he never has written! There is no doubt about that?'\n\n'If so be as Sol Gills wrote, my lad,' replied the Captain,\nargumentatively, 'where's his dispatch?'\n\n'Say that he entrusted it to some private hand,' suggested Walter, 'and\nthat it has been forgotten, or carelessly thrown aside, or lost. Even\nthat is more probable to me, than the other event. In short, I not\nonly cannot bear to contemplate that other event, Captain Cuttle, but I\ncan't, and won't.'\n\n'Hope, you see, Wal'r,' said the Captain, sagely, 'Hope. It's that\nas animates you. Hope is a buoy, for which you overhaul your Little\nWarbler, sentimental diwision, but Lord, my lad, like any other buoy, it\nonly floats; it can't be steered nowhere. Along with the figure-head of\nHope,' said the Captain, 'there's a anchor; but what's the good of my\nhaving a anchor, if I can't find no bottom to let it go in?'\n\nCaptain Cuttle said this rather in his character of a sagacious citizen\nand householder, bound to impart a morsel from his stores of wisdom to\nan inexperienced youth, than in his own proper person. Indeed, his face\nwas quite luminous as he spoke, with new hope, caught from Walter; and\nhe appropriately concluded by slapping him on the back; and saying,\nwith enthusiasm, 'Hooroar, my lad! Indiwidually, I'm o' your opinion.'\n\nWalter, with his cheerful laugh, returned the salutation, and said:\n\n'Only one word more about my Uncle at present, Captain Cuttle. I suppose\nit is impossible that he can have written in the ordinary course--by\nmail packet, or ship letter, you understand--'\n\n'Ay, ay, my lad,' said the Captain approvingly.\n\n'--And that you have missed the letter, anyhow?'\n\n'Why, Wal'r,' said the Captain, turning his eyes upon him with a faint\napproach to a severe expression, 'ain't I been on the look-out for\nany tidings of that man o' science, old Sol Gills, your Uncle, day and\nnight, ever since I lost him? Ain't my heart been heavy and watchful\nalways, along of him and you? Sleeping and waking, ain't I been upon my\npost, and wouldn't I scorn to quit it while this here Midshipman held\ntogether!'\n\n'Yes, Captain Cuttle,' replied Walter, grasping his hand, 'I know you\nwould, and I know how faithful and earnest all you say and feel is. I am\nsure of it. You don't doubt that I am as sure of it as I am that my foot\nis again upon this door-step, or that I again have hold of this true\nhand. Do you?'\n\n'No, no, Wal'r,' returned the Captain, with his beaming\n\n'I'll hazard no more conjectures,' said Walter, fervently shaking the\nhard hand of the Captain, who shook his with no less goodwill. 'All I\nwill add is, Heaven forbid that I should touch my Uncle's possessions,\nCaptain Cuttle! Everything that he left here, shall remain in the care\nof the truest of stewards and kindest of men--and if his name is not\nCuttle, he has no name! Now, best of friends, about--Miss Dombey.'\n\nThere was a change in Walter's manner, as he came to these two words;\nand when he uttered them, all his confidence and cheerfulness appeared\nto have deserted him.\n\n'I thought, before Miss Dombey stopped me when I spoke of her father\nlast night,' said Walter, '--you remember how?'\n\nThe Captain well remembered, and shook his head.\n\n'I thought,' said Walter, 'before that, that we had but one hard duty\nto perform, and that it was, to prevail upon her to communicate with her\nfriends, and to return home.'\n\nThe Captain muttered a feeble 'Awast!' or a 'Stand by!' or something\nor other, equally pertinent to the occasion; but it was rendered so\nextremely feeble by the total discomfiture with which he received this\nannouncement, that what it was, is mere matter of conjecture.\n\n'But,' said Walter, 'that is over. I think so, no longer. I would sooner\nbe put back again upon that piece of wreck, on which I have so often\nfloated, since my preservation, in my dreams, and there left to drift,\nand drive, and die!'\n\n'Hooroar, my lad!' exclaimed the Captain, in a burst of uncontrollable\nsatisfaction. 'Hooroar! hooroar! hooroar!'\n\n'To think that she, so young, so good, and beautiful,' said Walter,\n'so delicately brought up, and born to such a different fortune, should\nstrive with the rough world! But we have seen the gulf that cuts off all\nbehind her, though no one but herself can know how deep it is; and there\nis no return.'\n\nCaptain Cuttle, without quite understanding this, greatly approved of\nit, and observed in a tone of strong corroboration, that the wind was\nquite abaft.\n\n'She ought not to be alone here; ought she, Captain Cuttle?' said\nWalter, anxiously.\n\n'Well, my lad,' replied the Captain, after a little sagacious\nconsideration. 'I don't know. You being here to keep her company, you\nsee, and you two being jintly--'\n\n'Dear Captain Cuttle!' remonstrated Walter. 'I being here! Miss Dombey,\nin her guileless innocent heart, regards me as her adopted brother; but\nwhat would the guile and guilt of my heart be, if I pretended to believe\nthat I had any right to approach her, familiarly, in that character--if\nI pretended to forget that I am bound, in honour, not to do it?'\n\n'Wal'r, my lad,' hinted the Captain, with some revival of his\ndiscomfiture, 'ain't there no other character as--'\n\n'Oh!' returned Walter, 'would you have me die in her esteem--in such\nesteem as hers--and put a veil between myself and her angel's face for\never, by taking advantage of her being here for refuge, so trusting and\nso unprotected, to endeavour to exalt myself into her lover? What do I\nsay? There is no one in the world who would be more opposed to me if I\ncould do so, than you.'\n\n'Wal'r, my lad,' said the Captain, drooping more and more, 'prowiding\nas there is any just cause or impediment why two persons should not be\njined together in the house of bondage, for which you'll overhaul the\nplace and make a note, I hope I should declare it as promised and wowed\nin the banns. So there ain't no other character; ain't there, my lad?'\n\nWalter briskly waved his hand in the negative.\n\n'Well, my lad,' growled the Captain slowly, 'I won't deny but what I\nfind myself wery much down by the head, along o' this here, or but\nwhat I've gone clean about. But as to Lady lass, Wal'r, mind you, wot's\nrespect and duty to her, is respect and duty in my articles, howsumever\ndisapinting; and therefore I follows in your wake, my lad, and feel\nas you are, no doubt, acting up to yourself. And there ain't no other\ncharacter, ain't there?' said the Captain, musing over the ruins of his\nfallen castle, with a very despondent face.\n\n'Now, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, starting a fresh point with a gayer\nair, to cheer the Captain up--but nothing could do that; he was too much\nconcerned--'I think we should exert ourselves to find someone who would\nbe a proper attendant for Miss Dombey while she remains here, and who\nmay be trusted. None of her relations may. It's clear Miss Dombey feels\nthat they are all subservient to her father. What has become of Susan?'\n\n'The young woman?' returned the Captain. 'It's my belief as she was sent\naway again the will of Heart's Delight. I made a signal for her when\nLady lass first come, and she rated of her wery high, and said she had\nbeen gone a long time.'\n\n'Then,' said Walter, 'do you ask Miss Dombey where she's gone, and we'll\ntry to find her. The morning's getting on, and Miss Dombey will soon be\nrising. You are her best friend. Wait for her upstairs, and leave me to\ntake care of all down here.'\n\nThe Captain, very crest-fallen indeed, echoed the sigh with which Walter\nsaid this, and complied. Florence was delighted with her new room,\nanxious to see Walter, and overjoyed at the prospect of greeting her old\nfriend Susan. But Florence could not say where Susan was gone, except\nthat it was in Essex, and no one could say, she remembered, unless it\nwere Mr Toots.\n\nWith this information the melancholy Captain returned to Walter, and\ngave him to understand that Mr Toots was the young gentleman whom he had\nencountered on the door-step, and that he was a friend of his, and that\nhe was a young gentleman of property, and that he hopelessly adored\nMiss Dombey. The Captain also related how the intelligence of Walter's\nsupposed fate had first made him acquainted with Mr Toots, and how there\nwas solemn treaty and compact between them, that Mr Toots should be mute\nupon the subject of his love.\n\nThe question then was, whether Florence could trust Mr Toots; and\nFlorence saying, with a smile, 'Oh, yes, with her whole heart!' it\nbecame important to find out where Mr Toots lived. This, Florence didn't\nknow, and the Captain had forgotten; and the Captain was telling Walter,\nin the little parlour, that Mr Toots was sure to be there soon, when in\ncame Mr Toots himself.\n\n'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, rushing into the parlour without any\nceremony, 'I'm in a state of mind bordering on distraction!'\n\nMr Toots had discharged those words, as from a mortar, before he\nobserved Walter, whom he recognised with what may be described as a\nchuckle of misery.\n\n'You'll excuse me, Sir,' said Mr Toots, holding his forehead, 'but\nI'm at present in that state that my brain is going, if not gone, and\nanything approaching to politeness in an individual so situated would\nbe a hollow mockery. Captain Gills, I beg to request the favour of a\nprivate interview.'\n\n'Why, Brother,' returned the Captain, taking him by the hand, 'you are\nthe man as we was on the look-out for.'\n\n'Oh, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'what a look-out that must be, of\nwhich I am the object! I haven't dared to shave, I'm in that rash state.\nI haven't had my clothes brushed. My hair is matted together. I told the\nChicken that if he offered to clean my boots, I'd stretch him a Corpse\nbefore me!'\n\nAll these indications of a disordered mind were verified in Mr Toots's\nappearance, which was wild and savage.\n\n'See here, Brother,' said the Captain. 'This here's old Sol Gills's nevy\nWal'r. Him as was supposed to have perished at sea.'\n\nMr Toots took his hand from his forehead, and stared at Walter.\n\n'Good gracious me!' stammered Mr Toots. 'What a complication of misery!\nHow-de-do? I--I--I'm afraid you must have got very wet. Captain Gills,\nwill you allow me a word in the shop?'\n\nHe took the Captain by the coat, and going out with him whispered:\n\n'That then, Captain Gills, is the party you spoke of, when you said that\nhe and Miss Dombey were made for one another?'\n\n'Why, ay, my lad,' replied the disconsolate Captain; 'I was of that mind\nonce.'\n\n'And at this time!' exclaimed Mr Toots, with his hand to his forehead\nagain. 'Of all others!--a hated rival! At least, he ain't a hated\nrival,' said Mr Toots, stopping short, on second thoughts, and taking\naway his hand; 'what should I hate him for? No. If my affection has been\ntruly disinterested, Captain Gills, let me prove it now!'\n\nMr Toots shot back abruptly into the parlour, and said, wringing Walter\nby the hand:\n\n'How-de-do? I hope you didn't take any cold. I--I shall be very glad if\nyou'll give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. I wish you many happy\nreturns of the day. Upon my word and honour,' said Mr Toots, warming\nas he became better acquainted with Walter's face and figure, 'I'm very\nglad to see you!'\n\n'Thank you, heartily,' said Walter. 'I couldn't desire a more genuine\nand genial welcome.'\n\n'Couldn't you, though?' said Mr Toots, still shaking his hand. 'It's\nvery kind of you. I'm much obliged to you. How-de-do? I hope you left\neverybody quite well over the--that is, upon the--I mean wherever you\ncame from last, you know.'\n\nAll these good wishes, and better intentions, Walter responded to\nmanfully.\n\n'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'I should wish to be strictly\nhonourable; but I trust I may be allowed now, to allude to a certain\nsubject that--'\n\n'Ay, ay, my lad,' returned the Captain. 'Freely, freely.'\n\n'Then, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'and Lieutenant Walters--are you\naware that the most dreadful circumstances have been happening at Mr\nDombey's house, and that Miss Dombey herself has left her father, who,\nin my opinion,' said Mr Toots, with great excitement, 'is a Brute,\nthat it would be a flattery to call a--a marble monument, or a bird\nof prey,--and that she is not to be found, and has gone no one knows\nwhere?'\n\n'May I ask how you heard this?' inquired Walter.\n\n'Lieutenant Walters,' said Mr Toots, who had arrived at that appellation\nby a process peculiar to himself; probably by jumbling up his Christian\nname with the seafaring profession, and supposing some relationship\nbetween him and the Captain, which would extend, as a matter of course,\nto their titles; 'Lieutenant Walters, I can have no objection to make a\nstraightforward reply. The fact is, that feeling extremely interested\nin everything that relates to Miss Dombey--not for any selfish reason,\nLieutenant Walters, for I am well aware that the most able thing I could\ndo for all parties would be to put an end to my existence, which can\nonly be regarded as an inconvenience--I have been in the habit of\nbestowing a trifle now and then upon a footman; a most respectable young\nman, of the name of Towlinson, who has lived in the family some time;\nand Towlinson informed me, yesterday evening, that this was the state of\nthings. Since which, Captain Gills--and Lieutenant Walters--I have been\nperfectly frantic, and have been lying down on the sofa all night, the\nRuin you behold.'\n\n'Mr Toots,' said Walter, 'I am happy to be able to relieve your mind.\nPray calm yourself. Miss Dombey is safe and well.'\n\n'Sir!' cried Mr Toots, starting from his chair and shaking hands with\nhim anew, 'the relief is so excessive, and unspeakable, that if you were\nto tell me now that Miss Dombey was married even, I could smile. Yes,\nCaptain Gills,' said Mr Toots, appealing to him, 'upon my soul and body,\nI really think, whatever I might do to myself immediately afterwards,\nthat I could smile, I am so relieved.'\n\n'It will be a greater relief and delight still, to such a generous mind\nas yours,' said Walter, not at all slow in returning his greeting, 'to\nfind that you can render service to Miss Dombey. Captain Cuttle, will\nyou have the kindness to take Mr Toots upstairs?'\n\nThe Captain beckoned to Mr Toots, who followed him with a bewildered\ncountenance, and, ascending to the top of the house, was introduced,\nwithout a word of preparation from his conductor, into Florence's new\nretreat.\n\nPoor Mr Toots's amazement and pleasure at sight of her were such, that\nthey could find a vent in nothing but extravagance. He ran up to her,\nseized her hand, kissed it, dropped it, seized it again, fell upon one\nknee, shed tears, chuckled, and was quite regardless of his danger of\nbeing pinned by Diogenes, who, inspired by the belief that there was\nsomething hostile to his mistress in these demonstrations, worked round\nand round him, as if only undecided at what particular point to go in\nfor the assault, but quite resolved to do him a fearful mischief.\n\n'Oh Di, you bad, forgetful dog! Dear Mr Toots, I am so rejoiced to see\nyou!'\n\n'Thankee,' said Mr Toots, 'I am pretty well, I'm much obliged to you,\nMiss Dombey. I hope all the family are the same.'\n\nMr Toots said this without the least notion of what he was talking\nabout, and sat down on a chair, staring at Florence with the liveliest\ncontention of delight and despair going on in his face that any face\ncould exhibit.\n\n'Captain Gills and Lieutenant Walters have mentioned, Miss Dombey,'\ngasped Mr Toots, 'that I can do you some service. If I could by any\nmeans wash out the remembrance of that day at Brighton, when I conducted\nmyself--much more like a Parricide than a person of independent\nproperty,' said Mr Toots, with severe self-accusation, 'I should sink\ninto the silent tomb with a gleam of joy.'\n\n'Pray, Mr Toots,' said Florence, 'do not wish me to forget anything in\nour acquaintance. I never can, believe me. You have been far too kind\nand good to me always.'\n\n'Miss Dombey,' returned Mr Toots, 'your consideration for my feelings is\na part of your angelic character. Thank you a thousand times. It's of no\nconsequence at all.'\n\n'What we thought of asking you,' said Florence, 'is, whether you\nremember where Susan, whom you were so kind as to accompany to the\ncoach-office when she left me, is to be found.'\n\n'Why I do not certainly, Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, after a little\nconsideration, 'remember the exact name of the place that was on the\ncoach; and I do recollect that she said she was not going to stop there,\nbut was going farther on. But, Miss Dombey, if your object is to find\nher, and to have her here, myself and the Chicken will produce her with\nevery dispatch that devotion on my part, and great intelligence on the\nChicken's, can ensure.'\n\nMr Toots was so manifestly delighted and revived by the prospect of\nbeing useful, and the disinterested sincerity of his devotion was so\nunquestionable, that it would have been cruel to refuse him. Florence,\nwith an instinctive delicacy, forbore to urge the least obstacle, though\nshe did not forbear to overpower him with thanks; and Mr Toots proudly\ntook the commission upon himself for immediate execution.\n\n'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, touching her proffered hand, with a pang\nof hopeless love visibly shooting through him, and flashing out in\nhis face, 'Good-bye! Allow me to take the liberty of saying, that your\nmisfortunes make me perfectly wretched, and that you may trust me,\nnext to Captain Gills himself. I am quite aware, Miss Dombey, of my own\ndeficiencies--they're not of the least consequence, thank you--but I am\nentirely to be relied upon, I do assure you, Miss Dombey.'\n\nWith that Mr Toots came out of the room, again accompanied by the\nCaptain, who, standing at a little distance, holding his hat under his\narm and arranging his scattered locks with his hook, had been a not\nuninterested witness of what passed. And when the door closed behind\nthem, the light of Mr Toots's life was darkly clouded again.\n\n'Captain Gills,' said that gentleman, stopping near the bottom of the\nstairs, and turning round, 'to tell you the truth, I am not in a frame\nof mind at the present moment, in which I could see Lieutenant Walters\nwith that entirely friendly feeling towards him that I should wish to\nharbour in my breast. We cannot always command our feelings, Captain\nGills, and I should take it as a particular favour if you'd let me out\nat the private door.'\n\n'Brother,' returned the Captain, 'you shall shape your own course.\nWotever course you take, is plain and seamanlike, I'm wery sure.'\n\n'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'you're extremely kind. Your good\nopinion is a consolation to me. There is one thing,' said Mr Toots,\nstanding in the passage, behind the half-opened door, 'that I hope\nyou'll bear in mind, Captain Gills, and that I should wish Lieutenant\nWalters to be made acquainted with. I have quite come into my property\nnow, you know, and--and I don't know what to do with it. If I could\nbe at all useful in a pecuniary point of view, I should glide into the\nsilent tomb with ease and smoothness.'\n\nMr Toots said no more, but slipped out quietly and shut the door upon\nhimself, to cut the Captain off from any reply.\n\nFlorence thought of this good creature, long after he had left her,\nwith mingled emotions of pain and pleasure. He was so honest and\nwarm-hearted, that to see him again and be assured of his truth to her\nin her distress, was a joy and comfort beyond all price; but for that\nvery reason, it was so affecting to think that she caused him a moment's\nunhappiness, or ruffled, by a breath, the harmless current of his life,\nthat her eyes filled with tears, and her bosom overflowed with pity.\nCaptain Cuttle, in his different way, thought much of Mr Toots too;\nand so did Walter; and when the evening came, and they were all\nsitting together in Florence's new room, Walter praised him in a most\nimpassioned manner, and told Florence what he had said on leaving\nthe house, with every graceful setting-off in the way of comment and\nappreciation that his own honesty and sympathy could surround it with.\n\nMr Toots did not return upon the next day, or the next, or for several\ndays; and in the meanwhile Florence, without any new alarm, lived like\na quiet bird in a cage, at the top of the old Instrument-maker's house.\nBut Florence drooped and hung her head more and more plainly, as the\ndays went on; and the expression that had been seen in the face of the\ndead child, was often turned to the sky from her high window, as if it\nsought his angel out, on the bright shore of which he had spoken: lying\non his little bed.\n\nFlorence had been weak and delicate of late, and the agitation she had\nundergone was not without its influences on her health. But it was no\nbodily illness that affected her now. She was distressed in mind; and\nthe cause of her distress was Walter.\n\nInterested in her, anxious for her, proud and glad to serve her, and\nshowing all this with the enthusiasm and ardour of his character,\nFlorence saw that he avoided her. All the long day through, he seldom\napproached her room. If she asked for him, he came, again for the moment\nas earnest and as bright as she remembered him when she was a lost\nchild in the staring streets; but he soon became constrained--her quick\naffection was too watchful not to know it--and uneasy, and soon left\nher. Unsought, he never came, all day, between the morning and the\nnight. When the evening closed in, he was always there, and that was\nher happiest time, for then she half believed that the old Walter of her\nchildhood was not changed. But, even then, some trivial word, look,\nor circumstance would show her that there was an indefinable division\nbetween them which could not be passed.\n\nAnd she could not but see that these revealings of a great alteration\nin Walter manifested themselves in despite of his utmost efforts to hide\nthem. In his consideration for her, she thought, and in the earnestness\nof his desire to spare her any wound from his kind hand, he resorted\nto innumerable little artifices and disguises. So much the more did\nFlorence feel the greatness of the alteration in him; so much the\noftener did she weep at this estrangement of her brother.\n\nThe good Captain--her untiring, tender, ever zealous friend--saw it,\ntoo, Florence thought, and it pained him. He was less cheerful and\nhopeful than he had been at first, and would steal looks at her and\nWalter, by turns, when they were all three together of an evening, with\nquite a sad face.\n\nFlorence resolved, at last, to speak to Walter. She believed she knew\nnow what the cause of his estrangement was, and she thought it would be\na relief to her full heart, and would set him more at ease, if she\ntold him she had found it out, and quite submitted to it, and did not\nreproach him.\n\nIt was on a certain Sunday afternoon, that Florence took this\nresolution. The faithful Captain, in an amazing shirt-collar, was\nsitting by her, reading with his spectacles on, and she asked him where\nWalter was.\n\n'I think he's down below, my lady lass,' returned the Captain.\n\n'I should like to speak to him,' said Florence, rising hurriedly as if\nto go downstairs.\n\n'I'll rouse him up here, Beauty,' said the Captain, 'in a trice.'\n\nThereupon the Captain, with much alacrity, shouldered his book--for he\nmade it a point of duty to read none but very large books on a Sunday,\nas having a more staid appearance: and had bargained, years ago, for\na prodigious volume at a book-stall, five lines of which utterly\nconfounded him at any time, insomuch that he had not yet ascertained of\nwhat subject it treated--and withdrew. Walter soon appeared.\n\n'Captain Cuttle tells me, Miss Dombey,' he eagerly began on coming\nin--but stopped when he saw her face.\n\n'You are not so well to-day. You look distressed. You have been\nweeping.'\n\nHe spoke so kindly, and with such a fervent tremor in his voice, that\nthe tears gushed into her eyes at the sound of his words.\n\n'Walter,' said Florence, gently, 'I am not quite well, and I have been\nweeping. I want to speak to you.'\n\nHe sat down opposite to her, looking at her beautiful and innocent face;\nand his own turned pale, and his lips trembled.\n\n'You said, upon the night when I knew that you were saved--and oh! dear\nWalter, what I felt that night, and what I hoped!--'\n\nHe put his trembling hand upon the table between them, and sat looking\nat her.\n\n'--that I was changed. I was surprised to hear you say so, but I\nunderstand, now, that I am. Don't be angry with me, Walter. I was too\nmuch overjoyed to think of it, then.'\n\nShe seemed a child to him again. It was the ingenuous, confiding, loving\nchild he saw and heard. Not the dear woman, at whose feet he would have\nlaid the riches of the earth.\n\n'You remember the last time I saw you, Walter, before you went away?'\n\nHe put his hand into his breast, and took out a little purse.\n\n'I have always worn it round my neck! If I had gone down in the deep, it\nwould have been with me at the bottom of the sea.'\n\n'And you will wear it still, Walter, for my old sake?'\n\n'Until I die!'\n\nShe laid her hand on his, as fearlessly and simply, as if not a day had\nintervened since she gave him the little token of remembrance.\n\n'I am glad of that. I shall be always glad to think so, Walter. Do you\nrecollect that a thought of this change seemed to come into our minds at\nthe same time that evening, when we were talking together?'\n\n'No!' he answered, in a wondering tone.\n\n'Yes, Walter. I had been the means of injuring your hopes and prospects\neven then. I feared to think so, then, but I know it now. If you were\nable, then, in your generosity, to hide from me that you knew it too,\nyou cannot do so now, although you try as generously as before. You do.\nI thank you for it, Walter, deeply, truly; but you cannot succeed.\nYou have suffered too much in your own hardships, and in those of your\ndearest relation, quite to overlook the innocent cause of all the peril\nand affliction that has befallen you. You cannot quite forget me in that\ncharacter, and we can be brother and sister no longer. But, dear\nWalter, do not think that I complain of you in this. I might have known\nit--ought to have known it--but forgot it in my joy. All I hope is that\nyou may think of me less irksomely when this feeling is no more a secret\none; and all I ask is, Walter, in the name of the poor child who was\nyour sister once, that you will not struggle with yourself, and pain\nyourself, for my sake, now that I know all!'\n\nWalter had looked upon her while she said this, with a face so full of\nwonder and amazement, that it had room for nothing else. Now he caught\nup the hand that touched his, so entreatingly, and held it between his\nown.\n\n'Oh, Miss Dombey,' he said, 'is it possible that while I have been\nsuffering so much, in striving with my sense of what is due to you, and\nmust be rendered to you, I have made you suffer what your words disclose\nto me? Never, never, before Heaven, have I thought of you but as the\nsingle, bright, pure, blessed recollection of my boyhood and my youth.\nNever have I from the first, and never shall I to the last, regard your\npart in my life, but as something sacred, never to be lightly thought\nof, never to be esteemed enough, never, until death, to be forgotten.\nAgain to see you look, and hear you speak, as you did on that night when\nwe parted, is happiness to me that there are no words to utter; and to\nbe loved and trusted as your brother, is the next gift I could receive\nand prize!'\n\n'Walter,' said Florence, looking at him earnestly, but with a changing\nface, 'what is that which is due to me, and must be rendered to me, at\nthe sacrifice of all this?'\n\n'Respect,' said Walter, in a low tone. 'Reverence.'\n\nThe colour dawned in her face, and she timidly and thoughtfully withdrew\nher hand; still looking at him with unabated earnestness.\n\n'I have not a brother's right,' said Walter. 'I have not a brother's\nclaim. I left a child. I find a woman.'\n\nThe colour overspread her face. She made a gesture as if of entreaty\nthat he would say no more, and her face dropped upon her hands.\n\nThey were both silent for a time; she weeping.\n\n'I owe it to a heart so trusting, pure, and good,' said Walter, 'even\nto tear myself from it, though I rend my own. How dare I say it is my\nsister's!'\n\nShe was weeping still.\n\n'If you had been happy; surrounded as you should be by loving and\nadmiring friends, and by all that makes the station you were born to\nenviable,' said Walter; 'and if you had called me brother, then, in your\naffectionate remembrance of the past, I could have answered to the name\nfrom my distant place, with no inward assurance that I wronged your\nspotless truth by doing so. But here--and now!'\n\n'Oh thank you, thank you, Walter! Forgive my having wronged you so much.\nI had no one to advise me. I am quite alone.'\n\n'Florence!' said Walter, passionately. 'I am hurried on to say, what I\nthought, but a few moments ago, nothing could have forced from my lips.\nIf I had been prosperous; if I had any means or hope of being one day\nable to restore you to a station near your own; I would have told you\nthat there was one name you might bestow upon--me--a right above all\nothers, to protect and cherish you--that I was worthy of in nothing but\nthe love and honour that I bore you, and in my whole heart being yours.\nI would have told you that it was the only claim that you could give me\nto defend and guard you, which I dare accept and dare assert; but that\nif I had that right, I would regard it as a trust so precious and so\npriceless, that the undivided truth and fervour of my life would poorly\nacknowledge its worth.'\n\nThe head was still bent down, the tears still falling, and the bosom\nswelling with its sobs.\n\n'Dear Florence! Dearest Florence! whom I called so in my thoughts before\nI could consider how presumptuous and wild it was. One last time let me\ncall you by your own dear name, and touch this gentle hand in token of\nyour sisterly forgetfulness of what I have said.'\n\nShe raised her head, and spoke to him with such a solemn sweetness in\nher eyes; with such a calm, bright, placid smile shining on him through\nher tears; with such a low, soft tremble in her frame and voice; that\nthe innermost chords of his heart were touched, and his sight was dim as\nhe listened.\n\n'No, Walter, I cannot forget it. I would not forget it, for the world.\nAre you--are you very poor?'\n\n'I am but a wanderer,' said Walter, 'making voyages to live, across the\nsea. That is my calling now.'\n\n'Are you soon going away again, Walter?'\n\n'Very soon.'\n\nShe sat looking at him for a moment; then timidly put her trembling hand\nin his.\n\n'If you will take me for your wife, Walter, I will love you dearly.\nIf you will let me go with you, Walter, I will go to the world's end\nwithout fear. I can give up nothing for you--I have nothing to resign,\nand no one to forsake; but all my love and life shall be devoted to you,\nand with my last breath I will breathe your name to God if I have sense\nand memory left.'\n\nHe caught her to his heart, and laid her cheek against his own, and now,\nno more repulsed, no more forlorn, she wept indeed, upon the breast of\nher dear lover.\n\nBlessed Sunday Bells, ringing so tranquilly in their entranced and happy\nears! Blessed Sunday peace and quiet, harmonising with the calmness in\ntheir souls, and making holy air around them! Blessed twilight stealing\non, and shading her so soothingly and gravely, as she falls asleep, like\na hushed child, upon the bosom she has clung to!\n\nOh load of love and trustfulness that lies to lightly there! Ay, look\ndown on the closed eyes, Walter, with a proudly tender gaze; for in all\nthe wide wide world they seek but thee now--only thee!\n\n\nThe Captain remained in the little parlour until it was quite dark. He\ntook the chair on which Walter had been sitting, and looked up at the\nskylight, until the day, by little and little, faded away, and the stars\npeeped down. He lighted a candle, lighted a pipe, smoked it out, and\nwondered what on earth was going on upstairs, and why they didn't call\nhim to tea.\n\nFlorence came to his side while he was in the height of his wonderment.\n\n'Ay! lady lass!' cried the Captain. 'Why, you and Wal'r have had a long\nspell o' talk, my beauty.'\n\nFlorence put her little hand round one of the great buttons of his coat,\nand said, looking down into his face:\n\n'Dear Captain, I want to tell you something, if you please.\n\nThe Captain raised his head pretty smartly, to hear what it was.\nCatching by this means a more distinct view of Florence, he pushed back\nhis chair, and himself with it, as far as they could go.\n\n'What! Heart's Delight!' cried the Captain, suddenly elated, 'Is it\nthat?'\n\n'Yes!' said Florence, eagerly.\n\n'Wal'r! Husband! THAT?' roared the Captain, tossing up his glazed hat\ninto the skylight.\n\n'Yes!' cried Florence, laughing and crying together.\n\nThe Captain immediately hugged her; and then, picking up the glazed hat\nand putting it on, drew her arm through his, and conducted her upstairs\nagain; where he felt that the great joke of his life was now to be made.\n\n'What, Wal'r my lad!' said the Captain, looking in at the door, with his\nface like an amiable warming-pan. 'So there ain't NO other character,\nain't there?'\n\nHe had like to have suffocated himself with this pleasantry, which he\nrepeated at least forty times during tea; polishing his radiant face\nwith the sleeve of his coat, and dabbing his head all over with his\npocket-handkerchief, in the intervals. But he was not without a graver\nsource of enjoyment to fall back upon, when so disposed, for he was\nrepeatedly heard to say in an undertone, as he looked with ineffable\ndelight at Walter and Florence:\n\n'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better course in your life,\nthan when you made that there little property over, jintly!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 51. Mr Dombey and the World\n\n\nWhat is the proud man doing, while the days go by? Does he ever think of\nhis daughter, or wonder where she is gone? Does he suppose she has come\nhome, and is leading her old life in the weary house? No one can answer\nfor him. He has never uttered her name, since. His household dread him\ntoo much to approach a subject on which he is resolutely dumb; and the\nonly person who dares question him, he silences immediately.\n\n'My dear Paul!' murmurs his sister, sidling into the room, on the day\nof Florence's departure, 'your wife! that upstart woman! Is it possible\nthat what I hear confusedly, is true, and that this is her return for\nyour unparalleled devotion to her; extending, I am sure, even to the\nsacrifice of your own relations, to her caprices and haughtiness? My\npoor brother!'\n\nWith this speech feelingly reminiscent of her not having been asked to\ndinner on the day of the first party, Mrs Chick makes great use of\nher pocket-handkerchief, and falls on Mr Dombey's neck. But Mr Dombey\nfrigidly lifts her off, and hands her to a chair.\n\n'I thank you, Louisa,' he says, 'for this mark of your affection; but\ndesire that our conversation may refer to any other subject. When\nI bewail my fate, Louisa, or express myself as being in want of\nconsolation, you can offer it, if you will have the goodness.'\n\n'My dear Paul,' rejoins his sister, with her handkerchief to her face,\nand shaking her head, 'I know your great spirit, and will say no more\nupon a theme so painful and revolting;' on the heads of which two\nadjectives, Mrs Chick visits scathing indignation; 'but pray let me\nask you--though I dread to hear something that will shock and distress\nme--that unfortunate child Florence--'\n\n'Louisa!' says her brother, sternly, 'silence! Not another word of\nthis!'\n\nMrs Chick can only shake her head, and use her handkerchief, and moan\nover degenerate Dombeys, who are no Dombeys. But whether Florence has\nbeen inculpated in the flight of Edith, or has followed her, or has done\ntoo much, or too little, or anything, or nothing, she has not the least\nidea.\n\nHe goes on, without deviation, keeping his thoughts and feelings close\nwithin his own breast, and imparting them to no one. He makes no search\nfor his daughter. He may think that she is with his sister, or that she\nis under his own roof. He may think of her constantly, or he may never\nthink about her. It is all one for any sign he makes.\n\nBut this is sure; he does not think that he has lost her. He has no\nsuspicion of the truth. He has lived too long shut up in his towering\nsupremacy, seeing her, a patient gentle creature, in the path below it,\nto have any fear of that. Shaken as he is by his disgrace, he is not\nyet humbled to the level earth. The root is broad and deep, and in the\ncourse of years its fibres have spread out and gathered nourishment from\neverything around it. The tree is struck, but not down.\n\nThough he hide the world within him from the world without--which\nhe believes has but one purpose for the time, and that, to watch him\neagerly wherever he goes--he cannot hide those rebel traces of it,\nwhich escape in hollow eyes and cheeks, a haggard forehead, and a moody,\nbrooding air. Impenetrable as before, he is still an altered man; and,\nproud as ever, he is humbled, or those marks would not be there.\n\nThe world. What the world thinks of him, how it looks at him, what it\nsees in him, and what it says--this is the haunting demon of his mind.\nIt is everywhere where he is; and, worse than that, it is everywhere\nwhere he is not. It comes out with him among his servants, and yet\nhe leaves it whispering behind; he sees it pointing after him in the\nstreet; it is waiting for him in his counting-house; it leers over\nthe shoulders of rich men among the merchants; it goes beckoning and\nbabbling among the crowd; it always anticipates him, in every place; and\nis always busiest, he knows, when he has gone away. When he is shut\nup in his room at night, it is in his house, outside it, audible in\nfootsteps on the pavement, visible in print upon the table, steaming to\nand fro on railroads and in ships; restless and busy everywhere, with\nnothing else but him.\n\nIt is not a phantom of his imagination. It is as active in other\npeople's minds as in his. Witness Cousin Feenix, who comes from\nBaden-Baden, purposely to talk to him. Witness Major Bagstock, who\naccompanies Cousin Feenix on that friendly mission.\n\nMr Dombey receives them with his usual dignity, and stands erect, in his\nold attitude, before the fire. He feels that the world is looking at\nhim out of their eyes. That it is in the stare of the pictures. That Mr\nPitt, upon the bookcase, represents it. That there are eyes in its own\nmap, hanging on the wall.\n\n'An unusually cold spring,' says Mr Dombey--to deceive the world.\n\n'Damme, Sir,' says the Major, in the warmth of friendship, 'Joseph\nBagstock is a bad hand at a counterfeit. If you want to hold your\nfriends off, Dombey, and to give them the cold shoulder, J. B. is not\nthe man for your purpose. Joe is rough and tough, Sir; blunt, Sir,\nblunt, is Joe. His Royal Highness the late Duke of York did me the\nhonour to say, deservedly or undeservedly--never mind that--\"If there is\na man in the service on whom I can depend for coming to the point, that\nman is Joe--Joe Bagstock.\"'\n\nMr Dombey intimates his acquiescence.\n\n'Now, Dombey,' says the Major, 'I am a man of the world. Our friend\nFeenix--if I may presume to--'\n\n'Honoured, I am sure,' says Cousin Feenix.\n\n'--is,' proceeds the Major, with a wag of his head, 'also a man of the\nworld. Dombey, you are a man of the world. Now, when three men of the\nworld meet together, and are friends--as I believe--' again appealing to\nCousin Feenix.\n\n'I am sure,' says Cousin Feenix, 'most friendly.'\n\n'--and are friends,' resumes the Major, 'Old Joe's opinion is (I may be\nwrong), that the opinion of the world on any particular subject, is very\neasily got at.'\n\n'Undoubtedly,' says Cousin Feenix. 'In point of fact, it's quite a\nself-evident sort of thing. I am extremely anxious, Major, that my\nfriend Dombey should hear me express my very great astonishment and\nregret, that my lovely and accomplished relative, who was possessed of\nevery qualification to make a man happy, should have so far forgotten\nwhat was due to--in point of fact, to the world--as to commit herself\nin such a very extraordinary manner. I have been in a devilish state of\ndepression ever since; and said indeed to Long Saxby last night--man of\nsix foot ten, with whom my friend Dombey is probably acquainted--that it\nhad upset me in a confounded way, and made me bilious. It induces a man\nto reflect, this kind of fatal catastrophe,' says Cousin Feenix, 'that\nevents do occur in quite a providential manner; for if my Aunt had been\nliving at the time, I think the effect upon a devilish lively woman like\nherself, would have been prostration, and that she would have fallen, in\npoint of fact, a victim.'\n\n'Now, Dombey!--' says the Major, resuming his discourse with great\nenergy.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' interposes Cousin Feenix. 'Allow me another word.\nMy friend Dombey will permit me to say, that if any circumstance could\nhave added to the most infernal state of pain in which I find myself\non this occasion, it would be the natural amazement of the world at my\nlovely and accomplished relative (as I must still beg leave to call\nher) being supposed to have so committed herself with a person--man with\nwhite teeth, in point of fact--of very inferior station to her husband.\nBut while I must, rather peremptorily, request my friend Dombey not to\ncriminate my lovely and accomplished relative until her criminality is\nperfectly established, I beg to assure my friend Dombey that the family\nI represent, and which is now almost extinct (devilish sad reflection\nfor a man), will interpose no obstacle in his way, and will be happy\nto assent to any honourable course of proceeding, with a view to the\nfuture, that he may point out. I trust my friend Dombey will give me\ncredit for the intentions by which I am animated in this very melancholy\naffair, and--a--in point of fact, I am not aware that I need trouble my\nfriend Dombey with any further observations.'\n\nMr Dombey bows, without raising his eyes, and is silent.\n\n'Now, Dombey,' says the Major, 'our friend Feenix having, with an amount\nof eloquence that Old Joe B. has never heard surpassed--no, by the Lord,\nSir! never!'--says the Major, very blue, indeed, and grasping his cane\nin the middle--'stated the case as regards the lady, I shall presume\nupon our friendship, Dombey, to offer a word on another aspect of it.\nSir,' says the Major, with the horse's cough, 'the world in these things\nhas opinions, which must be satisfied.'\n\n'I know it,' rejoins Mr Dombey.\n\n'Of course you know it, Dombey,' says the Major, 'Damme, Sir, I know you\nknow it. A man of your calibre is not likely to be ignorant of it.'\n\n'I hope not,' replies Mr Dombey.\n\n'Dombey!' says the Major, 'you will guess the rest. I speak\nout--prematurely, perhaps--because the Bagstock breed have always\nspoke out. Little, Sir, have they ever got by doing it; but it's in the\nBagstock blood. A shot is to be taken at this man. You have J. B. at\nyour elbow. He claims the name of friend. God bless you!'\n\n'Major,' returns Mr Dombey, 'I am obliged. I shall put myself in your\nhands when the time comes. The time not being come, I have forborne to\nspeak to you.'\n\n'Where is the fellow, Dombey?' inquires the Major, after gasping and\nlooking at him, for a minute.\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n'Any intelligence of him?' asks the Major.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Dombey, I am rejoiced to hear it,' says the Major. 'I congratulate\nyou.'\n\n'You will excuse--even you, Major,' replies Mr Dombey, 'my entering into\nany further detail at present. The intelligence is of a singular kind,\nand singularly obtained. It may turn out to be valueless; it may turn\nout to be true; I cannot say at present. My explanation must stop here.'\n\nAlthough this is but a dry reply to the Major's purple enthusiasm, the\nMajor receives it graciously, and is delighted to think that the world\nhas such a fair prospect of soon receiving its due. Cousin Feenix is\nthen presented with his meed of acknowledgment by the husband of his\nlovely and accomplished relative, and Cousin Feenix and Major Bagstock\nretire, leaving that husband to the world again, and to ponder at\nleisure on their representation of its state of mind concerning his\naffairs, and on its just and reasonable expectations.\n\nBut who sits in the housekeeper's room, shedding tears, and talking to\nMrs Pipchin in a low tone, with uplifted hands? It is a lady with her\nface concealed in a very close black bonnet, which appears not to belong\nto her. It is Miss Tox, who has borrowed this disguise from her servant,\nand comes from Princess's Place, thus secretly, to revive her old\nacquaintance with Mrs Pipchin, in order to get certain information of\nthe state of Mr Dombey.\n\n'How does he bear it, my dear creature?' asks Miss Tox.\n\n'Well,' says Mrs Pipchin, in her snappish way, 'he's pretty much as\nusual.'\n\n'Externally,' suggests Miss Tox 'But what he feels within!'\n\nMrs Pipchin's hard grey eye looks doubtful as she answers, in three\ndistinct jerks, 'Ah! Perhaps. I suppose so.'\n\n'To tell you my mind, Lucretia,' says Mrs Pipchin; she still calls Miss\nTox Lucretia, on account of having made her first experiments in the\nchild-quelling line of business on that lady, when an unfortunate and\nweazen little girl of tender years; 'to tell you my mind, Lucretia, I\nthink it's a good riddance. I don't want any of your brazen faces here,\nmyself!'\n\n'Brazen indeed! Well may you say brazen, Mrs Pipchin!' returned Miss\nTox. 'To leave him! Such a noble figure of a man!' And here Miss Tox is\novercome.\n\n'I don't know about noble, I'm sure,' observes Mrs Pipchin; irascibly\nrubbing her nose. 'But I know this--that when people meet with trials,\nthey must bear 'em. Hoity, toity! I have had enough to bear myself, in\nmy time! What a fuss there is! She's gone, and well got rid of. Nobody\nwants her back, I should think!'\n\nThis hint of the Peruvian Mines, causes Miss Tox to rise to go away; when\nMrs Pipchin rings the bell for Towlinson to show her out, Mr Towlinson,\nnot having seen Miss Tox for ages, grins, and hopes she's well; observing\nthat he didn't know her at first, in that bonnet.\n\n'Pretty well, Towlinson, I thank you,' says Miss Tox. 'I beg you'll\nhave the goodness, when you happen to see me here, not to mention it. My\nvisits are merely to Mrs Pipchin.'\n\n'Very good, Miss,' says Towlinson.\n\n'Shocking circumstances occur, Towlinson,' says Miss Tox.\n\n'Very much so indeed, Miss,' rejoins Towlinson.\n\n'I hope, Towlinson,' says Miss Tox, who, in her instruction of the\nToodle family, has acquired an admonitorial tone, and a habit of\nimproving passing occasions, 'that what has happened here, will be a\nwarning to you, Towlinson.'\n\n'Thank you, Miss, I'm sure,' says Towlinson.\n\nHe appears to be falling into a consideration of the manner in which\nthis warning ought to operate in his particular case, when the vinegary\nMrs Pipchin, suddenly stirring him up with a 'What are you doing? Why\ndon't you show the lady to the door?' he ushers Miss Tox forth. As she\npasses Mr Dombey's room, she shrinks into the inmost depths of the black\nbonnet, and walks, on tip-toe; and there is not another atom in the\nworld which haunts him so, that feels such sorrow and solicitude about\nhim, as Miss Tox takes out under the black bonnet into the street, and\ntries to carry home shadowed it from the newly-lighted lamps.\n\nBut Miss Tox is not a part of Mr Dombey's world. She comes back every\nevening at dusk; adding clogs and an umbrella to the bonnet on wet\nnights; and bears the grins of Towlinson, and the huffs and rebuffs\nof Mrs Pipchin, and all to ask how he does, and how he bears his\nmisfortune: but she has nothing to do with Mr Dombey's world. Exacting\nand harassing as ever, it goes on without her; and she, a by no means\nbright or particular star, moves in her little orbit in the corner of\nanother system, and knows it quite well, and comes, and cries, and goes\naway, and is satisfied. Verily Miss Tox is easier of satisfaction than\nthe world that troubles Mr Dombey so much!\n\nAt the Counting House, the clerks discuss the great disaster in all its\nlights and shades, but chiefly wonder who will get Mr Carker's place.\nThey are generally of opinion that it will be shorn of some of\nits emoluments, and made uncomfortable by newly-devised checks and\nrestrictions; and those who are beyond all hope of it are quite sure\nthey would rather not have it, and don't at all envy the person for whom\nit may prove to be reserved. Nothing like the prevailing sensation has\nexisted in the Counting House since Mr Dombey's little son died; but all\nsuch excitements there take a social, not to say a jovial turn, and lead\nto the cultivation of good fellowship. A reconciliation is established\non this propitious occasion between the acknowledged wit of the Counting\nHouse and an aspiring rival, with whom he has been at deadly feud for\nmonths; and a little dinner being proposed, in commemoration of their\nhappily restored amity, takes place at a neighbouring tavern; the wit\nin the chair; the rival acting as Vice-President. The orations following\nthe removal of the cloth are opened by the Chair, who says, Gentlemen,\nhe can't disguise from himself that this is not a time for private\ndissensions. Recent occurrences to which he need not more particularly\nallude, but which have not been altogether without notice in some Sunday\nPapers, and in a daily paper which he need not name (here every other\nmember of the company names it in an audible murmur), have caused him\nto reflect; and he feels that for him and Robinson to have any personal\ndifferences at such a moment, would be for ever to deny that good\nfeeling in the general cause, for which he has reason to think and hope\nthat the gentlemen in Dombey's House have always been distinguished.\nRobinson replies to this like a man and a brother; and one gentleman who\nhas been in the office three years, under continual notice to quit on\naccount of lapses in his arithmetic, appears in a perfectly new light,\nsuddenly bursting out with a thrilling speech, in which he says, May\ntheir respected chief never again know the desolation which has fallen\non his hearth! and says a great variety of things, beginning with 'May\nhe never again,' which are received with thunders of applause. In short,\na most delightful evening is passed, only interrupted by a difference\nbetween two juniors, who, quarrelling about the probable amount of Mr\nCarker's late receipts per annum, defy each other with decanters, and\nare taken out greatly excited. Soda water is in general request at the\noffice next day, and most of the party deem the bill an imposition.\n\nAs to Perch, the messenger, he is in a fair way of being ruined for\nlife. He finds himself again constantly in bars of public-houses, being\ntreated and lying dreadfully. It appears that he met everybody concerned\nin the late transaction, everywhere, and said to them, 'Sir,' or\n'Madam,' as the case was, 'why do you look so pale?' at which each\nshuddered from head to foot, and said, 'Oh, Perch!' and ran away. Either\nthe consciousness of these enormities, or the reaction consequent on\nliquor, reduces Mr Perch to an extreme state of low spirits at that hour\nof the evening when he usually seeks consolation in the society of Mrs\nPerch at Balls Pond; and Mrs Perch frets a good deal, for she fears his\nconfidence in woman is shaken now, and that he half expects on coming\nhome at night to find her gone off with some Viscount--'which,' as she\nobserves to an intimate female friend, 'is what these wretches in the\nform of woman have to answer for, Mrs P. It ain't the harm they do\nthemselves so much as what they reflect upon us, Ma'am; and I see it in\nPerch's eye.'\n\nMr Dombey's servants are becoming, at the same time, quite dissipated,\nand unfit for other service. They have hot suppers every night, and\n'talk it over' with smoking drinks upon the board. Mr Towlinson is\nalways maudlin after half-past ten, and frequently begs to know whether\nhe didn't say that no good would ever come of living in a corner house?\nThey whisper about Miss Florence, and wonder where she is; but agree\nthat if Mr Dombey don't know, Mrs Dombey does. This brings them to the\nlatter, of whom Cook says, She had a stately way though, hadn't she?\nBut she was too high! They all agree that she was too high, and Mr\nTowlinson's old flame, the housemaid (who is very virtuous), entreats\nthat you will never talk to her any more about people who hold their\nheads up, as if the ground wasn't good enough for 'em.\n\nEverything that is said and done about it, except by Mr Dombey, is done\nin chorus. Mr Dombey and the world are alone together.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 52. Secret Intelligence\n\n\nGood Mrs Brown and her daughter Alice kept silent company together, in\ntheir own dwelling. It was early in the evening, and late in the spring.\nBut a few days had elapsed since Mr Dombey had told Major Bagstock of\nhis singular intelligence, singularly obtained, which might turn out\nto be valueless, and might turn out to be true; and the world was not\nsatisfied yet.\n\nThe mother and daughter sat for a long time without interchanging a\nword: almost without motion. The old woman's face was shrewdly anxious\nand expectant; that of her daughter was expectant too, but in a\nless sharp degree, and sometimes it darkened, as if with gathering\ndisappointment and incredulity. The old woman, without heeding these\nchanges in its expression, though her eyes were often turned towards it,\nsat mumbling and munching, and listening confidently.\n\nTheir abode, though poor and miserable, was not so utterly wretched as\nin the days when only Good Mrs Brown inhabited it. Some few attempts at\ncleanliness and order were manifest, though made in a reckless, gipsy\nway, that might have connected them, at a glance, with the younger\nwoman. The shades of evening thickened and deepened as the two kept\nsilence, until the blackened walls were nearly lost in the prevailing\ngloom.\n\nThen Alice broke the silence which had lasted so long, and said:\n\n'You may give him up, mother. He'll not come here.'\n\n'Death give him up!' returned the old woman, impatiently. 'He will come\nhere.'\n\n'We shall see,' said Alice.\n\n'We shall see him,' returned her mother.\n\n'And doomsday,' said the daughter.\n\n'You think I'm in my second childhood, I know!' croaked the old woman.\n'That's the respect and duty that I get from my own gal, but I'm wiser\nthan you take me for. He'll come. T'other day when I touched his coat\nin the street, he looked round as if I was a toad. But Lord, to see him\nwhen I said their names, and asked him if he'd like to find out where\nthey was!'\n\n'Was it so angry?' asked her daughter, roused to interest in a moment.\n\n'Angry? ask if it was bloody. That's more like the word. Angry? Ha, ha!\nTo call that only angry!' said the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard,\nand lighting a candle, which displayed the workings of her mouth to ugly\nadvantage, as she brought it to the table. 'I might as well call your\nface only angry, when you think or talk about 'em.'\n\nIt was something different from that, truly, as she sat as still as a\ncrouched tigress, with her kindling eyes.\n\n'Hark!' said the old woman, triumphantly. 'I hear a step coming. It's\nnot the tread of anyone that lives about here, or comes this way often.\nWe don't walk like that. We should grow proud on such neighbours! Do you\nhear him?'\n\n'I believe you are right, mother,' replied Alice, in a low voice.\n'Peace! open the door.'\n\nAs she drew herself within her shawl, and gathered it about her, the\nold woman complied; and peering out, and beckoning, gave admission to Mr\nDombey, who stopped when he had set his foot within the door, and looked\ndistrustfully around.\n\n'It's a poor place for a great gentleman like your worship,' said the\nold woman, curtseying and chattering. 'I told you so, but there's no\nharm in it.'\n\n'Who is that?' asked Mr Dombey, looking at her companion.\n\n'That's my handsome daughter,' said the old woman. 'Your worship won't\nmind her. She knows all about it.'\n\nA shadow fell upon his face not less expressive than if he had groaned\naloud, 'Who does not know all about it!' but he looked at her steadily,\nand she, without any acknowledgment of his presence, looked at him. The\nshadow on his face was darker when he turned his glance away from her;\nand even then it wandered back again, furtively, as if he were haunted\nby her bold eyes, and some remembrance they inspired.\n\n'Woman,' said Mr Dombey to the old witch who was chuckling and leering\nclose at his elbow, and who, when he turned to address her, pointed\nstealthily at her daughter, and rubbed her hands, and pointed again,\n'Woman! I believe that I am weak and forgetful of my station in coming\nhere, but you know why I come, and what you offered when you stopped\nme in the street the other day. What is it that you have to tell me\nconcerning what I want to know; and how does it happen that I can find\nvoluntary intelligence in a hovel like this,' with a disdainful glance\nabout him, 'when I have exerted my power and means to obtain it in vain?\nI do not think,' he said, after a moment's pause, during which he had\nobserved her, sternly, 'that you are so audacious as to mean to trifle\nwith me, or endeavour to impose upon me. But if you have that purpose,\nyou had better stop on the threshold of your scheme. My humour is not a\ntrifling one, and my acknowledgment will be severe.'\n\n'Oh a proud, hard gentleman!' chuckled the old woman, shaking her head,\nand rubbing her shrivelled hands, 'oh hard, hard, hard! But your worship\nshall see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears; not with\nours--and if your worship's put upon their track, you won't mind paying\nsomething for it, will you, honourable deary?'\n\n'Money,' returned Mr Dombey, apparently relieved, and assured by this\ninquiry, 'will bring about unlikely things, I know. It may turn even\nmeans as unexpected and unpromising as these, to account. Yes. For\nany reliable information I receive, I will pay. But I must have the\ninformation first, and judge for myself of its value.'\n\n'Do you know nothing more powerful than money?' asked the younger woman,\nwithout rising, or altering her attitude.\n\n'Not here, I should imagine,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'You should know of something that is more powerful elsewhere, as I\njudge,' she returned. 'Do you know nothing of a woman's anger?'\n\n'You have a saucy tongue, Jade,' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Not usually,' she answered, without any show of emotion: 'I speak\nto you now, that you may understand us better, and rely more on us. A\nwoman's anger is pretty much the same here, as in your fine house. I am\nangry. I have been so, many years. I have as good cause for my anger as\nyou have for yours, and its object is the same man.'\n\nHe started, in spite of himself, and looked at her with astonishment.\n\n'Yes,' she said, with a kind of laugh. 'Wide as the distance may seem\nbetween us, it is so. How it is so, is no matter; that is my story, and\nI keep my story to myself. I would bring you and him together, because\nI have a rage against him. My mother there, is avaricious and poor; and\nshe would sell any tidings she could glean, or anything, or anybody, for\nmoney. It is fair enough, perhaps, that you should pay her some, if she\ncan help you to what you want to know. But that is not my motive. I have\ntold you what mine is, and it would be as strong and all-sufficient with\nme if you haggled and bargained with her for a sixpence. I have done. My\nsaucy tongue says no more, if you wait here till sunrise tomorrow.'\n\nThe old woman, who had shown great uneasiness during this speech, which\nhad a tendency to depreciate her expected gains, pulled Mr Dombey softly\nby the sleeve, and whispered to him not to mind her. He glared at them\nboth, by turns, with a haggard look, and said, in a deeper voice than\nwas usual with him:\n\n'Go on--what do you know?'\n\n'Oh, not so fast, your worship! we must wait for someone,' answered the\nold woman. 'It's to be got from someone else--wormed out--screwed and\ntwisted from him.'\n\n'What do you mean?' said Mr Dombey.\n\n'Patience,' she croaked, laying her hand, like a claw, upon his arm.\n'Patience. I'll get at it. I know I can! If he was to hold it back from\nme,' said Good Mrs Brown, crooking her ten fingers, 'I'd tear it out of\nhim!'\n\nMr Dombey followed her with his eyes as she hobbled to the door, and\nlooked out again: and then his glance sought her daughter; but she\nremained impassive, silent, and regardless of him.\n\n'Do you tell me, woman,' he said, when the bent figure of Mrs Brown came\nback, shaking its head and chattering to itself, 'that there is another\nperson expected here?'\n\n'Yes!' said the old woman, looking up into his face, and nodding.\n\n'From whom you are to exact the intelligence that is to be useful to\nme?'\n\n'Yes,' said the old woman, nodding again.\n\n'A stranger?'\n\n'Chut!' said the old woman, with a shrill laugh. 'What signifies! Well,\nwell; no. No stranger to your worship. But he won't see you. He'd be\nafraid of you, and wouldn't talk. You'll stand behind that door, and\njudge him for yourself. We don't ask to be believed on trust What! Your\nworship doubts the room behind the door? Oh the suspicion of you rich\ngentlefolks! Look at it, then.'\n\nHer sharp eye had detected an involuntary expression of this feeling\non his part, which was not unreasonable under the circumstances. In\nsatisfaction of it she now took the candle to the door she spoke of. Mr\nDombey looked in; assured himself that it was an empty, crazy room; and\nsigned to her to put the light back in its place.\n\n'How long,' he asked, 'before this person comes?'\n\n'Not long,' she answered. 'Would your worship sit down for a few odd\nminutes?'\n\nHe made no answer; but began pacing the room with an irresolute air, as\nif he were undecided whether to remain or depart, and as if he had some\nquarrel with himself for being there at all. But soon his tread grew\nslower and heavier, and his face more sternly thoughtful; as the object\nwith which he had come, fixed itself in his mind, and dilated there\nagain.\n\nWhile he thus walked up and down with his eyes on the ground, Mrs Brown,\nin the chair from which she had risen to receive him, sat listening\nanew. The monotony of his step, or the uncertainty of age, made her so\nslow of hearing, that a footfall without had sounded in her daughter's\nears for some moments, and she had looked up hastily to warn her mother\nof its approach, before the old woman was roused by it. But then she\nstarted from her seat, and whispering 'Here he is!' hurried her visitor\nto his place of observation, and put a bottle and glass upon the table,\nwith such alacrity, as to be ready to fling her arms round the neck of\nRob the Grinder on his appearance at the door.\n\n'And here's my bonny boy,' cried Mrs Brown, 'at last!--oho, oho! You're\nlike my own son, Robby!'\n\n'Oh! Misses Brown!' remonstrated the Grinder. 'Don't! Can't you be fond\nof a cove without squeedging and throttling of him? Take care of the\nbirdcage in my hand, will you?'\n\n'Thinks of a birdcage, afore me!' cried the old woman, apostrophizing\nthe ceiling. 'Me that feels more than a mother for him!'\n\n'Well, I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, Misses Brown,' said the\nunfortunate youth, greatly aggravated; 'but you're so jealous of a\ncove. I'm very fond of you myself, and all that, of course; but I don't\nsmother you, do I, Misses Brown?'\n\nHe looked and spoke as if he would have been far from objecting to do\nso, however, on a favourable occasion.\n\n'And to talk about birdcages, too!' whimpered the Grinder. 'As If that\nwas a crime! Why, look'ee here! Do you know who this belongs to?'\n\n'To Master, dear?' said the old woman with a grin.\n\n'Ah!' replied the Grinder, lifting a large cage tied up in a wrapper,\non the table, and untying it with his teeth and hands. 'It's our parrot,\nthis is.'\n\n'Mr Carker's parrot, Rob?'\n\n'Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown?' returned the goaded Grinder.\n'What do you go naming names for? I'm blest,' said Rob, pulling his\nhair with both hands in the exasperation of his feelings, 'if she ain't\nenough to make a cove run wild!'\n\n'What! Do you snub me, thankless boy!' cried the old woman, with ready\nvehemence.\n\n'Good gracious, Misses Brown, no!' returned the Grinder, with tears\nin his eyes. 'Was there ever such a--! Don't I dote upon you, Misses\nBrown?'\n\n'Do you, sweet Rob? Do you truly, chickabiddy?' With that, Mrs Brown\nheld him in her fond embrace once more; and did not release him until\nhe had made several violent and ineffectual struggles with his legs, and\nhis hair was standing on end all over his head.\n\n'Oh!' returned the Grinder, 'what a thing it is to be perfectly pitched\ninto with affection like this here. I wish she was--How have you been,\nMisses Brown?'\n\n'Ah! Not here since this night week!' said the old woman, contemplating\nhim with a look of reproach.\n\n'Good gracious, Misses Brown,' returned the Grinder, 'I said tonight's a\nweek, that I'd come tonight, didn't I? And here I am. How you do go on!\nI wish you'd be a little rational, Misses Brown. I'm hoarse with saying\nthings in my defence, and my very face is shiny with being hugged!' He\nrubbed it hard with his sleeve, as if to remove the tender polish in\nquestion.\n\n'Drink a little drop to comfort you, my Robin,' said the old woman,\nfilling the glass from the bottle and giving it to him.\n\n'Thank'ee, Misses Brown,' returned the Grinder. 'Here's your health. And\nlong may you--et ceterer.' Which, to judge from the expression of\nhis face, did not include any very choice blessings. 'And here's her\nhealth,' said the Grinder, glancing at Alice, who sat with her eyes\nfixed, as it seemed to him, on the wall behind him, but in reality on Mr\nDombey's face at the door, 'and wishing her the same and many of 'em!'\n\nHe drained the glass to these two sentiments, and set it down.\n\n'Well, I say, Misses Brown!' he proceeded. 'To go on a little rational\nnow. You're a judge of birds, and up to their ways, as I know to my\ncost.'\n\n'Cost!' repeated Mrs Brown.\n\n'Satisfaction, I mean,' returned the Grinder. 'How you do take up a\ncove, Misses Brown! You've put it all out of my head again.'\n\n'Judge of birds, Robby,' suggested the old woman.\n\n'Ah!' said the Grinder. 'Well, I've got to take care of this\nparrot--certain things being sold, and a certain establishment broke\nup--and as I don't want no notice took at present, I wish you'd attend\nto her for a week or so, and give her board and lodging, will you? If\nI must come backwards and forwards,' mused the Grinder with a dejected\nface, 'I may as well have something to come for.'\n\n'Something to come for?' screamed the old woman.\n\n'Besides you, I mean, Misses Brown,' returned the craven Rob. 'Not that\nI want any inducement but yourself, Misses Brown, I'm sure. Don't begin\nagain, for goodness' sake.'\n\n'He don't care for me! He don't care for me, as I care for him!' cried\nMrs Brown, lifting up her skinny hands. 'But I'll take care of his\nbird.'\n\n'Take good care of it too, you know, Mrs Brown,' said Rob, shaking his\nhead. 'If you was so much as to stroke its feathers once the wrong way,\nI believe it would be found out.'\n\n'Ah, so sharp as that, Rob?' said Mrs Brown, quickly.\n\n'Sharp, Misses Brown!' repeated Rob. 'But this is not to be talked\nabout.'\n\nChecking himself abruptly, and not without a fearful glance across the\nroom, Rob filled the glass again, and having slowly emptied it, shook\nhis head, and began to draw his fingers across and across the wires of\nthe parrot's cage by way of a diversion from the dangerous theme that\nhad just been broached.\n\nThe old woman eyed him slily, and hitching her chair nearer his, and\nlooking in at the parrot, who came down from the gilded dome at her\ncall, said:\n\n'Out of place now, Robby?'\n\n'Never you mind, Misses Brown,' returned the Grinder, shortly.\n\n'Board wages, perhaps, Rob?' said Mrs Brown.\n\n'Pretty Polly!' said the Grinder.\n\nThe old woman darted a glance at him that might have warned him to\nconsider his ears in danger, but it was his turn to look in at the\nparrot now, and however expressive his imagination may have made her\nangry scowl, it was unseen by his bodily eyes.\n\n'I wonder Master didn't take you with him, Rob,' said the old woman, in\na wheedling voice, but with increased malignity of aspect.\n\nRob was so absorbed in contemplation of the parrot, and in trolling his\nforefinger on the wires, that he made no answer.\n\nThe old woman had her clutch within a hair's breadth of his shock of\nhair as it stooped over the table; but she restrained her fingers, and\nsaid, in a voice that choked with its efforts to be coaxing:\n\n'Robby, my child.'\n\n'Well, Misses Brown,' returned the Grinder.\n\n'I say I wonder Master didn't take you with him, dear.'\n\n'Never you mind, Misses Brown,' returned the Grinder.\n\nMrs Brown instantly directed the clutch of her right hand at his hair,\nand the clutch of her left hand at his throat, and held on to the object\nof her fond affection with such extraordinary fury, that his face began\nto blacken in a moment.\n\n'Misses Brown!' exclaimed the Grinder, 'let go, will you? What are you\ndoing of? Help, young woman! Misses Brow--Brow--!'\n\nThe young woman, however, equally unmoved by his direct appeal to her,\nand by his inarticulate utterance, remained quite neutral, until, after\nstruggling with his assailant into a corner, Rob disengaged himself,\nand stood there panting and fenced in by his own elbows, while the old\nwoman, panting too, and stamping with rage and eagerness, appeared to be\ncollecting her energies for another swoop upon him. At this crisis Alice\ninterposed her voice, but not in the Grinder's favour, by saying,\n\n'Well done, mother. Tear him to pieces!'\n\n'What, young woman!' blubbered Rob; 'are you against me too? What have\nI been and done? What am I to be tore to pieces for, I should like to\nknow? Why do you take and choke a cove who has never done you any harm,\nneither of you? Call yourselves females, too!' said the frightened and\nafflicted Grinder, with his coat-cuff at his eye. 'I'm surprised at you!\nWhere's your feminine tenderness?'\n\n'You thankless dog!' gasped Mrs Brown. 'You impudent insulting dog!'\n\n'What have I been and done to go and give you offence, Misses Brown?'\nretorted the fearful Rob. 'You was very much attached to me a minute\nago.'\n\n'To cut me off with his short answers and his sulky words,' said the\nold woman. 'Me! Because I happen to be curious to have a little bit of\ngossip about Master and the lady, to dare to play at fast and loose with\nme! But I'll talk to you no more, my lad. Now go!'\n\n'I'm sure, Misses Brown,' returned the abject Grinder, 'I never\ninsiniwated that I wished to go. Don't talk like that, Misses Brown, if\nyou please.'\n\n'I won't talk at all,' said Mrs Brown, with an action of her crooked\nfingers that made him shrink into half his natural compass in the\ncorner. 'Not another word with him shall pass my lips. He's an\nungrateful hound. I cast him off. Now let him go! And I'll slip those\nafter him that shall talk too much; that won't be shook away; that'll\nhang to him like leeches, and slink arter him like foxes. What! He knows\n'em. He knows his old games and his old ways. If he's forgotten 'em,\nthey'll soon remind him. Now let him go, and see how he'll do Master's\nbusiness, and keep Master's secrets, with such company always following\nhim up and down. Ha, ha, ha! He'll find 'em a different sort from you\nand me, Ally; Close as he is with you and me. Now let him go, now let\nhim go!'\n\nThe old woman, to the unspeakable dismay of the Grinder, walked her\ntwisted figure round and round, in a ring of some four feet in diameter,\nconstantly repeating these words, and shaking her fist above her head,\nand working her mouth about.\n\n'Misses Brown,' pleaded Rob, coming a little out of his corner, 'I'm\nsure you wouldn't injure a cove, on second thoughts, and in cold blood,\nwould you?'\n\n'Don't talk to me,' said Mrs Brown, still wrathfully pursuing her\ncircle. 'Now let him go, now let him go!'\n\n'Misses Brown,' urged the tormented Grinder, 'I didn't mean to--Oh, what\na thing it is for a cove to get into such a line as this!--I was only\ncareful of talking, Misses Brown, because I always am, on account of his\nbeing up to everything; but I might have known it wouldn't have gone any\nfurther. I'm sure I'm quite agreeable,' with a wretched face, 'for\nany little bit of gossip, Misses Brown. Don't go on like this, if\nyou please. Oh, couldn't you have the goodness to put in a word for a\nmiserable cove, here?' said the Grinder, appealing in desperation to the\ndaughter.\n\n'Come, mother, you hear what he says,' she interposed, in her stern\nvoice, and with an impatient action of her head; 'try him once more,\nand if you fall out with him again, ruin him, if you like, and have done\nwith him.'\n\nMrs Brown, moved as it seemed by this very tender exhortation, presently\nbegan to howl; and softening by degrees, took the apologetic Grinder to\nher arms, who embraced her with a face of unutterable woe, and like\na victim as he was, resumed his former seat, close by the side of\nhis venerable friend, whom he suffered, not without much constrained\nsweetness of countenance, combating very expressive physiognomical\nrevelations of an opposite character to draw his arm through hers, and\nkeep it there.\n\n'And how's Master, deary dear?' said Mrs Brown, when, sitting in this\namicable posture, they had pledged each other.\n\n'Hush! If you'd be so good, Misses Brown, as to speak a little lower,'\nRob implored. 'Why, he's pretty well, thank'ee, I suppose.'\n\n'You're not out of place, Robby?' said Mrs Brown, in a wheedling tone.\n\n'Why, I'm not exactly out of place, nor in,' faltered Rob. 'I--I'm still\nin pay, Misses Brown.'\n\n'And nothing to do, Rob?'\n\n'Nothing particular to do just now, Misses Brown, but to--keep my eyes\nopen,' said the Grinder, rolling them in a forlorn way.\n\n'Master abroad, Rob?'\n\n'Oh, for goodness' sake, Misses Brown, couldn't you gossip with a cove\nabout anything else?' cried the Grinder, in a burst of despair.\n\nThe impetuous Mrs Brown rising directly, the tortured Grinder detained\nher, stammering 'Ye-es, Misses Brown, I believe he's abroad. What's\nshe staring at?' he added, in allusion to the daughter, whose eyes were\nfixed upon the face that now again looked out behind.\n\n'Don't mind her, lad,' said the old woman, holding him closer to prevent\nhis turning round. 'It's her way--her way. Tell me, Rob. Did you ever\nsee the lady, deary?'\n\n'Oh, Misses Brown, what lady?' cried the Grinder in a tone of piteous\nsupplication.\n\n'What lady?' she retorted. 'The lady; Mrs Dombey.'\n\n'Yes, I believe I see her once,' replied Rob.\n\n'The night she went away, Robby, eh?' said the old woman in his ear,\nand taking note of every change in his face. 'Aha! I know it was that\nnight.'\n\n'Well, if you know it was that night, you know, Misses Brown,' replied\nRob, 'it's no use putting pinchers into a cove to make him say so.\n\n'Where did they go that night, Rob? Straight away? How did they go?\nWhere did you see her? Did she laugh? Did she cry? Tell me all about\nit,' cried the old hag, holding him closer yet, patting the hand that\nwas drawn through his arm against her other hand, and searching every\nline in his face with her bleared eyes. 'Come! Begin! I want to be told\nall about it. What, Rob, boy! You and me can keep a secret together, eh?\nWe've done so before now. Where did they go first, Rob?'\n\nThe wretched Grinder made a gasp, and a pause.\n\n'Are you dumb?' said the old woman, angrily.\n\n'Lord, Misses Brown, no! You expect a cove to be a flash of lightning. I\nwish I was the electric fluency,' muttered the bewildered Grinder. 'I'd\nhave a shock at somebody, that would settle their business.'\n\n'What do you say?' asked the old woman, with a grin.\n\n'I'm wishing my love to you, Misses Brown,' returned the false Rob,\nseeking consolation in the glass. 'Where did they go to first was it?\nHim and her, do you mean?'\n\n'Ah!' said the old woman, eagerly. 'Them two.'\n\n'Why, they didn't go nowhere--not together, I mean,' answered Rob.\n\nThe old woman looked at him, as though she had a strong impulse upon her\nto make another clutch at his head and throat, but was restrained by a\ncertain dogged mystery in his face.\n\n'That was the art of it,' said the reluctant Grinder; 'that's the way\nnobody saw 'em go, or has been able to say how they did go. They went\ndifferent ways, I tell you Misses Brown.'\n\n'Ay, ay, ay! To meet at an appointed place,' chuckled the old woman,\nafter a moment's silent and keen scrutiny of his face.\n\n'Why, if they weren't a going to meet somewhere, I suppose they might as\nwell have stayed at home, mightn't they, Brown?' returned the unwilling\nGrinder.\n\n'Well, Rob? Well?' said the old woman, drawing his arm yet tighter\nthrough her own, as if, in her eagerness, she were afraid of his\nslipping away.\n\n'What, haven't we talked enough yet, Misses Brown?' returned the\nGrinder, who, between his sense of injury, his sense of liquor, and his\nsense of being on the rack, had become so lachrymose, that at almost\nevery answer he scooped his coats into one or other of his eyes, and\nuttered an unavailing whine of remonstrance. 'Did she laugh that night,\nwas it? Didn't you ask if she laughed, Misses Brown?'\n\n'Or cried?' added the old woman, nodding assent.\n\n'Neither,' said the Grinder. 'She kept as steady when she and me--oh, I\nsee you will have it out of me, Misses Brown! But take your solemn oath\nnow, that you'll never tell anybody.'\n\nThis Mrs Brown very readily did: being naturally Jesuitical; and having\nno other intention in the matter than that her concealed visitor should\nhear for himself.\n\n'She kept as steady, then, when she and me went down to Southampton,'\nsaid the Grinder, 'as a image. In the morning she was just the same,\nMisses Brown. And when she went away in the packet before daylight,\nby herself--me pretending to be her servant, and seeing her safe\naboard--she was just the same. Now, are you contented, Misses Brown?'\n\n'No, Rob. Not yet,' answered Mrs Brown, decisively.\n\n'Oh, here's a woman for you!' cried the unfortunate Rob, in an outburst\nof feeble lamentation over his own helplessness. 'What did you wish to\nknow next, Misses Brown?'\n\n'What became of Master? Where did he go?' she inquired, still holding\nhim tight, and looking close into his face, with her sharp eyes.\n\n'Upon my soul, I don't know, Misses Brown,' answered Rob. 'Upon my soul\nI don't know what he did, nor where he went, nor anything about him I\nonly know what he said to me as a caution to hold my tongue, when we\nparted; and I tell you this, Misses Brown, as a friend, that sooner than\never repeat a word of what we're saying now, you had better take and\nshoot yourself, or shut yourself up in this house, and set it a-fire, for\nthere's nothing he wouldn't do, to be revenged upon you.  You don't know\nhim half as well as I do, Misses Brown. You're never safe from him, I\ntell you.'\n\n'Haven't I taken an oath,' retorted the old woman, 'and won't I keep\nit?'\n\n'Well, I'm sure I hope you will, Misses Brown,' returned Rob, somewhat\ndoubtfully, and not without a latent threatening in his manner. 'For\nyour own sake, quite as much as mine.'\n\nHe looked at her as he gave her this friendly caution, and emphasized\nit with a nodding of his head; but finding it uncomfortable to encounter\nthe yellow face with its grotesque action, and the ferret eyes with\ntheir keen old wintry gaze, so close to his own, he looked down uneasily\nand sat skulking in his chair, as if he were trying to bring himself\nto a sullen declaration that he would answer no more questions. The old\nwoman, still holding him as before, took this opportunity of raising the\nforefinger of her right hand, in the air, as a stealthy signal to the\nconcealed observer to give particular attention to what was about to\nfollow.\n\n'Rob,' she said, in her most coaxing tone.\n\n'Good gracious, Misses Brown, what's the matter now?' returned the\nexasperated Grinder.\n\n'Rob! where did the lady and Master appoint to meet?'\n\nRob shuffled more and more, and looked up and looked down, and bit\nhis thumb, and dried it on his waistcoat, and finally said, eyeing his\ntormentor askance, 'How should I know, Misses Brown?'\n\nThe old woman held up her finger again, as before, and replying, 'Come,\nlad! It's no use leading me to that, and there leaving me. I want to\nknow' waited for his answer. Rob, after a discomfited pause, suddenly\nbroke out with, 'How can I pronounce the names of foreign places, Mrs\nBrown? What an unreasonable woman you are!'\n\n'But you have heard it said, Robby,' she retorted firmly, 'and you know\nwhat it sounded like. Come!'\n\n'I never heard it said, Misses Brown,' returned the Grinder.\n\n'Then,' retorted the old woman quickly, 'you have seen it written, and\nyou can spell it.'\n\nRob, with a petulant exclamation between laughing and crying--for he\nwas penetrated with some admiration of Mrs Brown's cunning, even through\nthis persecution--after some reluctant fumbling in his waistcoat pocket,\nproduced from it a little piece of chalk. The old woman's eyes sparkled\nwhen she saw it between his thumb and finger, and hastily clearing a\nspace on the deal table, that he might write the word there, she once\nmore made her signal with a shaking hand.\n\n'Now I tell you beforehand what it is, Misses Brown,' said Rob, 'it's no\nuse asking me anything else. I won't answer anything else; I can't. How\nlong it was to be before they met, or whose plan it was that they was to\ngo away alone, I don't know no more than you do. I don't know any more\nabout it. If I was to tell you how I found out this word, you'd believe\nthat. Shall I tell you, Misses Brown?'\n\n'Yes, Rob.'\n\n'Well then, Misses Brown. The way--now you won't ask any more, you\nknow?' said Rob, turning his eyes, which were now fast getting drowsy\nand stupid, upon her.\n\n'Not another word,' said Mrs Brown.\n\n'Well then, the way was this. When a certain person left the lady with\nme, he put a piece of paper with a direction written on it in the lady's\nhand, saying it was in case she should forget. She wasn't afraid of\nforgetting, for she tore it up as soon as his back was turned, and\nwhen I put up the carriage steps, I shook out one of the pieces--she\nsprinkled the rest out of the window, I suppose, for there was none\nthere afterwards, though I looked for 'em. There was only one word on\nit, and that was this, if you must and will know. But remember! You're\nupon your oath, Misses Brown!'\n\nMrs Brown knew that, she said. Rob, having nothing more to say, began to\nchalk, slowly and laboriously, on the table.\n\n'\"D,\"' the old woman read aloud, when he had formed the letter.\n\n'Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown?' he exclaimed, covering it\nwith his hand, and turning impatiently upon her. 'I won't have it read\nout. Be quiet, will you!'\n\n'Then write large, Rob,' she returned, repeating her secret signal; 'for\nmy eyes are not good, even at print.'\n\nMuttering to himself, and returning to his work with an ill will, Rob\nwent on with the word. As he bent his head down, the person for whose\ninformation he so unconsciously laboured, moved from the door behind him\nto within a short stride of his shoulder, and looked eagerly towards the\ncreeping track of his hand upon the table. At the same time, Alice, from\nher opposite chair, watched it narrowly as it shaped the letters, and\nrepeated each one on her lips as he made it, without articulating it\naloud. At the end of every letter her eyes and Mr Dombey's met, as if\neach of them sought to be confirmed by the other; and thus they both\nspelt D.I.J.O.N.\n\n'There!' said the Grinder, moistening the palm of his hand hastily, to\nobliterate the word; and not content with smearing it out, rubbing and\nplaning all trace of it away with his coat-sleeve, until the very colour\nof the chalk was gone from the table. 'Now, I hope you're contented,\nMisses Brown!'\n\nThe old woman, in token of her being so, released his arm and patted his\nback; and the Grinder, overcome with mortification, cross-examination,\nand liquor, folded his arms on the table, laid his head upon them, and\nfell asleep.\n\nNot until he had been heavily asleep some time, and was snoring roundly,\ndid the old woman turn towards the door where Mr Dombey stood concealed,\nand beckon him to come through the room, and pass out. Even then, she\nhovered over Rob, ready to blind him with her hands, or strike his head\ndown, if he should raise it while the secret step was crossing to the\ndoor. But though her glance took sharp cognizance of the sleeper, it was\nsharp too for the waking man; and when he touched her hand with his, and\nin spite of all his caution, made a chinking, golden sound, it was as\nbright and greedy as a raven's.\n\nThe daughter's dark gaze followed him to the door, and noted well how\npale he was, and how his hurried tread indicated that the least delay\nwas an insupportable restraint upon him, and how he was burning to be\nactive and away. As he closed the door behind him, she looked round at\nher mother. The old woman trotted to her; opened her hand to show what\nwas within; and, tightly closing it again in her jealousy and avarice,\nwhispered:\n\n'What will he do, Ally?'\n\n'Mischief,' said the daughter.\n\n'Murder?' asked the old woman.\n\n'He's a madman, in his wounded pride, and may do that, for anything we\ncan say, or he either.'\n\nHer glance was brighter than her mother's, and the fire that shone in it\nwas fiercer; but her face was colourless, even to her lips.\n\nThey said no more, but sat apart; the mother communing with her money;\nthe daughter with her thoughts; the glance of each, shining in the gloom\nof the feebly lighted room. Rob slept and snored. The disregarded parrot\nonly was in action. It twisted and pulled at the wires of its cage, with\nits crooked beak, and crawled up to the dome, and along its roof like\na fly, and down again head foremost, and shook, and bit, and rattled at\nevery slender bar, as if it knew its master's danger, and was wild to\nforce a passage out, and fly away to warn him of it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 53. More Intelligence\n\n\nThere were two of the traitor's own blood--his renounced brother and\nsister--on whom the weight of his guilt rested almost more heavily, at\nthis time, than on the man whom he had so deeply injured. Prying and\ntormenting as the world was, it did Mr Dombey the service of nerving him\nto pursuit and revenge. It roused his passion, stung his pride, twisted\nthe one idea of his life into a new shape, and made some gratification\nof his wrath, the object into which his whole intellectual existence\nresolved itself. All the stubbornness and implacability of his nature,\nall its hard impenetrable quality, all its gloom and moroseness, all its\nexaggerated sense of personal importance, all its jealous disposition\nto resent the least flaw in the ample recognition of his importance by\nothers, set this way like many streams united into one, and bore him on\nupon their tide. The most impetuously passionate and violently impulsive\nof mankind would have been a milder enemy to encounter than the sullen\nMr Dombey wrought to this. A wild beast would have been easier turned\nor soothed than the grave gentleman without a wrinkle in his starched\ncravat.\n\nBut the very intensity of his purpose became almost a substitute for\naction in it. While he was yet uninformed of the traitor's retreat, it\nserved to divert his mind from his own calamity, and to entertain it\nwith another prospect. The brother and sister of his false favourite had\nno such relief; everything in their history, past and present, gave his\ndelinquency a more afflicting meaning to them.\n\nThe sister may have sometimes sadly thought that if she had remained\nwith him, the companion and friend she had been once, he might have\nescaped the crime into which he had fallen. If she ever thought so, it\nwas still without regret for what she had done, without the least doubt\nof her duty, without any pricing or enhancing of her self-devotion.\nBut when this possibility presented itself to the erring and repentant\nbrother, as it sometimes did, it smote upon his heart with such a keen,\nreproachful touch as he could hardly bear. No idea of retort upon his\ncruel brother came into his mind. New accusation of himself, fresh\ninward lamentings over his own unworthiness, and the ruin in which it\nwas at once his consolation and his self-reproach that he did not stand\nalone, were the sole kind of reflections to which the discovery gave\nrise in him.\n\nIt was on the very same day whose evening set upon the last chapter, and\nwhen Mr Dombey's world was busiest with the elopement of his wife, that\nthe window of the room in which the brother and sister sat at their\nearly breakfast, was darkened by the unexpected shadow of a man coming\nto the little porch: which man was Perch the Messenger.\n\n'I've stepped over from Balls Pond at a early hour,' said Mr Perch,\nconfidentially looking in at the room door, and stopping on the mat to\nwipe his shoes all round, which had no mud upon them, 'agreeable to my\ninstructions last night. They was, to be sure and bring a note to you,\nMr Carker, before you went out in the morning. I should have been here a\ngood hour and a half ago,' said Mr Perch, meekly, 'but for the state of\nhealth of Mrs P., who I thought I should have lost in the night, I do\nassure you, five distinct times.'\n\n'Is your wife so ill?' asked Harriet.\n\n'Why, you see,' said Mr Perch, first turning round to shut the door\ncarefully, 'she takes what has happened in our House so much to heart,\nMiss. Her nerves is so very delicate, you see, and soon unstrung. Not\nbut what the strongest nerves had good need to be shook, I'm sure. You\nfeel it very much yourself, no doubts.'\n\nHarriet repressed a sigh, and glanced at her brother.\n\n'I'm sure I feel it myself, in my humble way,' Mr Perch went on to say,\nwith a shake of his head, 'in a manner I couldn't have believed if I\nhadn't been called upon to undergo. It has almost the effect of drink\nupon me. I literally feels every morning as if I had been taking more\nthan was good for me over-night.'\n\nMr Perch's appearance corroborated this recital of his symptoms. There\nwas an air of feverish lassitude about it, that seemed referable to\ndrams; and, which, in fact, might no doubt have been traced to those\nnumerous discoveries of himself in the bars of public-houses, being\ntreated and questioned, which he was in the daily habit of making.\n\n'Therefore I can judge,' said Mr Perch, shaking his head and speaking\nin a silvery murmur, 'of the feelings of such as is at all peculiarly\nsitiwated in this most painful rewelation.'\n\nHere Mr Perch waited to be confided in; and receiving no confidence,\ncoughed behind his hand. This leading to nothing, he coughed behind\nhis hat; and that leading to nothing, he put his hat on the ground and\nsought in his breast pocket for the letter.\n\n'If I rightly recollect, there was no answer,' said Mr Perch, with an\naffable smile; 'but perhaps you'll be so good as cast your eye over it,\nSir.'\n\nJohn Carker broke the seal, which was Mr Dombey's, and possessing\nhimself of the contents, which were very brief, replied, 'No. No answer\nis expected.'\n\n'Then I shall wish you good morning, Miss,' said Perch, taking a step\ntoward the door, and hoping, I'm sure, that you'll not permit yourself\nto be more reduced in mind than you can help, by the late painful\nrewelation. The Papers,' said Mr Perch, taking two steps back again, and\ncomprehensively addressing both the brother and sister in a whisper\nof increased mystery, 'is more eager for news of it than you'd suppose\npossible. One of the Sunday ones, in a blue cloak and a white hat,\nthat had previously offered for to bribe me--need I say with what\nsuccess?--was dodging about our court last night as late as twenty\nminutes after eight o'clock. I see him myself, with his eye at the\ncounting-house keyhole, which being patent is impervious. Another one,'\nsaid Mr Perch, 'with military frogs, is in the parlour of the King's\nArms all the blessed day. I happened, last week, to let a little\nobserwation fall there, and next morning, which was Sunday, I see it\nworked up in print, in a most surprising manner.'\n\nMr Perch resorted to his breast pocket, as if to produce the paragraph\nbut receiving no encouragement, pulled out his beaver gloves, picked up\nhis hat, and took his leave; and before it was high noon, Mr Perch had\nrelated to several select audiences at the King's Arms and elsewhere,\nhow Miss Carker, bursting into tears, had caught him by both hands, and\nsaid, 'Oh! dear dear Perch, the sight of you is all the comfort I have\nleft!' and how Mr John Carker had said, in an awful voice, 'Perch, I\ndisown him. Never let me hear him mentioned as a brother more!'\n\n'Dear John,' said Harriet, when they were left alone, and had remained\nsilent for some few moments. 'There are bad tidings in that letter.'\n\n'Yes. But nothing unexpected,' he replied. 'I saw the writer yesterday.'\n\n'The writer?'\n\n'Mr Dombey. He passed twice through the Counting House while I was\nthere. I had been able to avoid him before, but of course could not\nhope to do that long. I know how natural it was that he should regard my\npresence as something offensive; I felt it must be so, myself.'\n\n'He did not say so?'\n\n'No; he said nothing: but I saw that his glance rested on me for a\nmoment, and I was prepared for what would happen--for what has happened.\nI am dismissed!'\n\nShe looked as little shocked and as hopeful as she could, but it was\ndistressing news, for many reasons.\n\n'\"I need not tell you,\"' said John Carker, reading the letter, '\"why\nyour name would henceforth have an unnatural sound, in however remote\na connexion with mine, or why the daily sight of anyone who bears\nit, would be unendurable to me. I have to notify the cessation of all\nengagements between us, from this date, and to request that no renewal\nof any communication with me, or my establishment, be ever attempted by\nyou.\"--Enclosed is an equivalent in money to a generously long notice,\nand this is my discharge. Heaven knows, Harriet, it is a lenient and\nconsiderate one, when we remember all!'\n\n'If it be lenient and considerate to punish you at all, John, for the\nmisdeed of another,' she replied gently, 'yes.'\n\n'We have been an ill-omened race to him,' said John Carker. 'He has\nreason to shrink from the sound of our name, and to think that there is\nsomething cursed and wicked in our blood. I should almost think it too,\nHarriet, but for you.'\n\n'Brother, don't speak like this. If you have any special reason, as you\nsay you have, and think you have--though I say, No!--to love me, spare\nme the hearing of such wild mad words!'\n\nHe covered his face with both his hands; but soon permitted her, coming\nnear him, to take one in her own.\n\n'After so many years, this parting is a melancholy thing, I know,' said\nhis sister, 'and the cause of it is dreadful to us both. We have to\nlive, too, and must look about us for the means. Well, well! We can do\nso, undismayed. It is our pride, not our trouble, to strive, John, and\nto strive together!'\n\nA smile played on her lips, as she kissed his cheek, and entreated him\nto be of of good cheer.\n\n'Oh, dearest sister! Tied, of your own noble will, to a ruined man!\nwhose reputation is blighted; who has no friend himself, and has driven\nevery friend of yours away!'\n\n'John!' she laid her hand hastily upon his lips, 'for my sake! In\nremembrance of our long companionship!' He was silent 'Now, let me tell\nyou, dear,' quietly sitting by his side, 'I have, as you have, expected\nthis; and when I have been thinking of it, and fearing that it would\nhappen, and preparing myself for it, as well as I could, I have resolved\nto tell you, if it should be so, that I have kept a secret from you, and\nthat we have a friend.'\n\n'What's our friend's name, Harriet?' he answered with a sorrowful smile.\n\n'Indeed, I don't know, but he once made a very earnest protestation to\nme of his friendship and his wish to serve us: and to this day I believe\nhim.'\n\n'Harriet!' exclaimed her wondering brother, 'where does this friend\nlive?'\n\n'Neither do I know that,' she returned. 'But he knows us both, and our\nhistory--all our little history, John. That is the reason why, at his\nown suggestion, I have kept the secret of his coming, here, from you,\nlest his acquaintance with it should distress you.'\n\n'Here! Has he been here, Harriet?'\n\n'Here, in this room. Once.'\n\n'What kind of man?'\n\n'Not young. \"Grey-headed,\" as he said, \"and fast growing greyer.\" But\ngenerous, and frank, and good, I am sure.'\n\n'And only seen once, Harriet?'\n\n'In this room only once,' said his sister, with the slightest and most\ntransient glow upon her cheek; 'but when here, he entreated me to suffer\nhim to see me once a week as he passed by, in token of our being well,\nand continuing to need nothing at his hands. For I told him, when he\nproffered us any service he could render--which was the object of his\nvisit--that we needed nothing.'\n\n'And once a week--'\n\n'Once every week since then, and always on the same day, and at the\nsame hour, he his gone past; always on foot; always going in the same\ndirection--towards London; and never pausing longer than to bow to me,\nand wave his hand cheerfully, as a kind guardian might. He made that\npromise when he proposed these curious interviews, and has kept it so\nfaithfully and pleasantly, that if I ever felt any trifling uneasiness\nabout them in the beginning (which I don't think I did, John; his manner\nwas so plain and true) It very soon vanished, and left me quite glad\nwhen the day was coming. Last Monday--the first since this terrible\nevent--he did not go by; and I have wondered whether his absence can\nhave been in any way connected with what has happened.'\n\n'How?' inquired her brother.\n\n'I don't know how. I have only speculated on the coincidence; I have not\ntried to account for it. I feel sure he will return. When he does, dear\nJohn, let me tell him that I have at last spoken to you, and let me\nbring you together. He will certainly help us to a new livelihood. His\nentreaty was that he might do something to smooth my life and yours; and\nI gave him my promise that if we ever wanted a friend, I would remember\nhim. Then his name was to be no secret.'\n\n'Harriet,' said her brother, who had listened with close attention,\n'describe this gentleman to me. I surely ought to know one who knows me\nso well.'\n\nHis sister painted, as vividly as she could, the features, stature, and\ndress of her visitor; but John Carker, either from having no knowledge\nof the original, or from some fault in her description, or from some\nabstraction of his thoughts as he walked to and fro, pondering, could\nnot recognise the portrait she presented to him.\n\nHowever, it was agreed between them that he should see the original when\nhe next appeared. This concluded, the sister applied herself, with a\nless anxious breast, to her domestic occupations; and the grey-haired\nman, late Junior of Dombey's, devoted the first day of his unwonted\nliberty to working in the garden.\n\nIt was quite late at night, and the brother was reading aloud while the\nsister plied her needle, when they were interrupted by a knocking at the\ndoor. In the atmosphere of vague anxiety and dread that lowered about\nthem in connexion with their fugitive brother, this sound, unusual\nthere, became almost alarming. The brother going to the door, the sister\nsat and listened timidly. Someone spoke to him, and he replied and\nseemed surprised; and after a few words, the two approached together.\n\n'Harriet,' said her brother, lighting in their late visitor, and\nspeaking in a low voice, 'Mr Morfin--the gentleman so long in Dombey's\nHouse with James.'\n\nHis sister started back, as if a ghost had entered. In the doorway stood\nthe unknown friend, with the dark hair sprinkled with grey, the ruddy\nface, the broad clear brow, and hazel eyes, whose secret she had kept so\nlong!\n\n'John!' she said, half-breathless. 'It is the gentleman I told you of,\ntoday!'\n\n'The gentleman, Miss Harriet,' said the visitor, coming in--for he had\nstopped a moment in the doorway--'is greatly relieved to hear you\nsay that: he has been devising ways and means, all the way here, of\nexplaining himself, and has been satisfied with none. Mr John, I am not\nquite a stranger here. You were stricken with astonishment when you saw\nme at your door just now. I observe you are more astonished at present.\nWell! That's reasonable enough under existing circumstances. If we were\nnot such creatures of habit as we are, we shouldn't have reason to be\nastonished half so often.'\n\nBy this time, he had greeted Harriet with that able mingling of\ncordiality and respect which she recollected so well, and had sat down\nnear her, pulled off his gloves, and thrown them into his hat upon the\ntable.\n\n'There's nothing astonishing,' he said, 'in my having conceived a desire\nto see your sister, Mr John, or in my having gratified it in my own way.\nAs to the regularity of my visits since (which she may have mentioned\nto you), there is nothing extraordinary in that. They soon grew into a\nhabit; and we are creatures of habit--creatures of habit!'\n\nPutting his hands into his pockets, and leaning back in his chair, he\nlooked at the brother and sister as if it were interesting to him to\nsee them together; and went on to say, with a kind of irritable\nthoughtfulness: 'It's this same habit that confirms some of us, who are\ncapable of better things, in Lucifer's own pride and stubbornness--that\nconfirms and deepens others of us in villainy--more of us in indifference\n--that hardens us from day to day, according to the temper of our clay,\nlike images, and leaves us as susceptible as images to new impressions\nand convictions. You shall judge of its influence on me, John. For more\nyears than I need name, I had my small, and exactly defined share, in the\nmanagement of Dombey's House, and saw your brother (who has proved\nhimself a scoundrel! Your sister will forgive my being obliged to mention\nit) extending and extending his influence, until the business and its\nowner were his football; and saw you toiling at your obscure desk every\nday; and was quite content to be as little troubled as I might be, out of\nmy own strip of duty, and to let everything about me go on, day by day,\nunquestioned, like a great machine--that was its habit and mine--and to\ntake it all for granted, and consider it all right.  My Wednesday nights\ncame regularly round, our quartette parties came regularly off, my\nvioloncello was in good tune, and there was nothing wrong in my world--or\nif anything not much--or little or much, it was no affair of mine.'\n\n'I can answer for your being more respected and beloved during all that\ntime than anybody in the House, Sir,' said John Carker.\n\n'Pooh! Good-natured and easy enough, I daresay,' returned the other, 'a\nhabit I had. It suited the Manager; it suited the man he managed: it\nsuited me best of all. I did what was allotted to me to do, made no\ncourt to either of them, and was glad to occupy a station in which none\nwas required. So I should have gone on till now, but that my room had\na thin wall. You can tell your sister that it was divided from the\nManager's room by a wainscot partition.'\n\n'They were adjoining rooms; had been one, Perhaps, originally; and were\nseparated, as Mr Morfin says,' said her brother, looking back to him for\nthe resumption of his explanation.\n\n'I have whistled, hummed tunes, gone accurately through the whole of\nBeethoven's Sonata in B, to let him know that I was within hearing,'\nsaid Mr Morfin; 'but he never heeded me. It happened seldom enough that\nI was within hearing of anything of a private nature, certainly. But\nwhen I was, and couldn't otherwise avoid knowing something of it, I\nwalked out. I walked out once, John, during a conversation between two\nbrothers, to which, in the beginning, young Walter Gay was a party.\nBut I overheard some of it before I left the room. You remember it\nsufficiently, perhaps, to tell your sister what its nature was?'\n\n'It referred, Harriet,' said her brother in a low voice, 'to the past,\nand to our relative positions in the House.'\n\n'Its matter was not new to me, but was presented in a new aspect.\nIt shook me in my habit--the habit of nine-tenths of the world--of\nbelieving that all was right about me, because I was used to it,'\nsaid their visitor; 'and induced me to recall the history of the two\nbrothers, and to ponder on it. I think it was almost the first time in\nmy life when I fell into this train of reflection--how will many things\nthat are familiar, and quite matters of course to us now, look, when we\ncome to see them from that new and distant point of view which we must\nall take up, one day or other? I was something less good-natured, as the\nphrase goes, after that morning, less easy and complacent altogether.'\n\nHe sat for a minute or so, drumming with one hand on the table; and\nresumed in a hurry, as if he were anxious to get rid of his confession.\n\n'Before I knew what to do, or whether I could do anything, there was a\nsecond conversation between the same two brothers, in which their sister\nwas mentioned. I had no scruples of conscience in suffering all the\nwaifs and strays of that conversation to float to me as freely as they\nwould. I considered them mine by right. After that, I came here to see\nthe sister for myself. The first time I stopped at the garden gate, I\nmade a pretext of inquiring into the character of a poor neighbour; but\nI wandered out of that tract, and I think Miss Harriet mistrusted me.\nThe second time I asked leave to come in; came in; and said what I\nwished to say. Your sister showed me reasons which I dared not dispute,\nfor receiving no assistance from me then; but I established a means of\ncommunication between us, which remained unbroken until within these\nfew days, when I was prevented, by important matters that have lately\ndevolved upon me, from maintaining them.'\n\n'How little I have suspected this,' said John Carker, 'when I have seen\nyou every day, Sir! If Harriet could have guessed your name--'\n\n'Why, to tell you the truth, John,' interposed the visitor, 'I kept it\nto myself for two reasons. I don't know that the first might have\nbeen binding alone; but one has no business to take credit for good\nintentions, and I made up my mind, at all events, not to disclose myself\nuntil I should be able to do you some real service or other. My\nsecond reason was, that I always hoped there might be some lingering\npossibility of your brother's relenting towards you both; and in that\ncase, I felt that where there was the chance of a man of his suspicious,\nwatchful character, discovering that you had been secretly befriended\nby me, there was the chance of a new and fatal cause of division. I\nresolved, to be sure, at the risk of turning his displeasure against\nmyself--which would have been no matter--to watch my opportunity of\nserving you with the head of the House; but the distractions of death,\ncourtship, marriage, and domestic unhappiness, have left us no head but\nyour brother for this long, long time. And it would have been better\nfor us,' said the visitor, dropping his voice, 'to have been a lifeless\ntrunk.'\n\nHe seemed conscious that these latter words had escaped hIm against\nhis will, and stretching out a hand to the brother, and a hand to the\nsister, continued:\n\n'All I could desire to say, and more, I have now said. All I mean goes\nbeyond words, as I hope you understand and believe. The time has come,\nJohn--though most unfortunately and unhappily come--when I may help you\nwithout interfering with that redeeming struggle, which has lasted\nthrough so many years; since you were discharged from it today by no act\nof your own. It is late; I need say no more to-night. You will guard the\ntreasure you have here, without advice or reminder from me.'\n\nWith these words he rose to go.\n\n'But go you first, John,' he said goodhumouredly, 'with a light, without\nsaying what you want to say, whatever that maybe;' John Carker's heart\nwas full, and he would have relieved it in speech, if he could; 'and\nlet me have a word with your sister. We have talked alone before, and in\nthis room too; though it looks more natural with you here.'\n\nFollowing him out with his eyes, he turned kindly to Harriet, and said\nin a lower voice, and with an altered and graver manner:\n\n'You wish to ask me something of the man whose sister it is your\nmisfortune to be.'\n\n'I dread to ask,' said Harriet.\n\n'You have looked so earnestly at me more than once,' rejoined the\nvisitor, 'that I think I can divine your question. Has he taken money?\nIs it that?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'He has not.'\n\n'I thank Heaven!' said Harriet. 'For the sake of John.'\n\n'That he has abused his trust in many ways,' said Mr Morfin; 'that he\nhas oftener dealt and speculated to advantage for himself, than for\nthe House he represented; that he has led the House on, to prodigious\nventures, often resulting in enormous losses; that he has always\npampered the vanity and ambition of his employer, when it was his duty\nto have held them in check, and shown, as it was in his power to do,\nto what they tended here or there; will not, perhaps, surprise you now.\nUndertakings have been entered on, to swell the reputation of the House\nfor vast resources, and to exhibit it in magnificent contrast to other\nmerchants' Houses, of which it requires a steady head to contemplate\nthe possibly--a few disastrous changes of affairs might render them the\nprobably--ruinous consequences. In the midst of the many transactions of\nthe House, in most parts of the world: a great labyrinth of which only\nhe has held the clue: he has had the opportunity, and he seems to have\nused it, of keeping the various results afloat, when ascertained, and\nsubstituting estimates and generalities for facts. But latterly--you\nfollow me, Miss Harriet?'\n\n'Perfectly, perfectly,' she answered, with her frightened face fixed on\nhis. 'Pray tell me all the worst at once.'\n\n'Latterly, he appears to have devoted the greatest pains to making these\nresults so plain and clear, that reference to the private books enables\none to grasp them, numerous and varying as they are, with extraordinary\nease. As if he had resolved to show his employer at one broad view what\nhas been brought upon him by ministration to his ruling passion! That it\nhas been his constant practice to minister to that passion basely, and\nto flatter it corruptly, is indubitable. In that, his criminality, as it\nis connected with the affairs of the House, chiefly consists.'\n\n'One other word before you leave me, dear Sir,' said Harriet. 'There is\nno danger in all this?'\n\n'How danger?' he returned, with a little hesitation.\n\n'To the credit of the House?'\n\n'I cannot help answering you plainly, and trusting you completely,' said\nMr Morfin, after a moment's survey of her face.\n\n'You may. Indeed you may!'\n\n'I am sure I may. Danger to the House's credit? No; none There may be\ndifficulty, greater or less difficulty, but no danger, unless--unless,\nindeed--the head of the House, unable to bring his mind to the reduction\nof its enterprises, and positively refusing to believe that it is,\nor can be, in any position but the position in which he has always\nrepresented it to himself, should urge it beyond its strength. Then it\nwould totter.'\n\n'But there is no apprehension of that?' said Harriet.\n\n'There shall be no half-confidence,' he replied, shaking her hand,\n'between us. Mr Dombey is unapproachable by anyone, and his state of\nmind is haughty, rash, unreasonable, and ungovernable, now. But he is\ndisturbed and agitated now beyond all common bounds, and it may\npass. You now know all, both worst and best. No more to-night, and\ngood-night!'\n\nWith that he kissed her hand, and, passing out to the door where her\nbrother stood awaiting his coming, put him cheerfully aside when he\nessayed to speak; told him that, as they would see each other soon and\noften, he might speak at another time, if he would, but there was no\nleisure for it then; and went away at a round pace, in order that no\nword of gratitude might follow him.\n\nThe brother and sister sat conversing by the fireside, until it was\nalmost day; made sleepless by this glimpse of the new world that opened\nbefore them, and feeling like two people shipwrecked long ago, upon a\nsolitary coast, to whom a ship had come at last, when they were old in\nresignation, and had lost all thought of any other home. But another and\ndifferent kind of disquietude kept them waking too. The darkness out of\nwhich this light had broken on them gathered around; and the shadow of\ntheir guilty brother was in the house where his foot had never trod.\n\nNor was it to be driven out, nor did it fade before the sun. Next\nmorning it was there; at noon; at night Darkest and most distinct at\nnight, as is now to be told.\n\nJohn Carker had gone out, in pursuance of a letter of appointment from\ntheir friend, and Harriet was left in the house alone. She had been\nalone some hours. A dull, grave evening, and a deepening twilight, were\nnot favourable to the removal of the oppression on her spirits. The idea\nof this brother, long unseen and unknown, flitted about her in frightful\nshapes. He was dead, dying, calling to her, staring at her, frowning on\nher. The pictures in her mind were so obtrusive and exact that, as the\ntwilight deepened, she dreaded to raise her head and look at the dark\ncorners of the room, lest his wraith, the offspring of her excited\nimagination, should be waiting there, to startle her. Once she had such\na fancy of his being in the next room, hiding--though she knew quite\nwell what a distempered fancy it was, and had no belief in it--that she\nforced herself to go there, for her own conviction. But in vain. The\nroom resumed its shadowy terrors, the moment she left it; and she had no\nmore power to divest herself of these vague impressions of dread, than\nif they had been stone giants, rooted in the solid earth.\n\nIt was almost dark, and she was sitting near the window, with her head\nupon her hand, looking down, when, sensible of a sudden increase in the\ngloom of the apartment, she raised her eyes, and uttered an involuntary\ncry. Close to the glass, a pale scared face gazed in; vacantly, for an\ninstant, as searching for an object; then the eyes rested on herself,\nand lighted up.\n\n'Let me in! Let me in! I want to speak to you!' and the hand rattled on\nthe glass.\n\nShe recognised immediately the woman with the long dark hair, to whom\nshe had given warmth, food, and shelter, one wet night. Naturally afraid\nof her, remembering her violent behaviour, Harriet, retreating a little\nfrom the window, stood undecided and alarmed.\n\n'Let me in! Let me speak to you! I am thankful--quiet--humble--anything\nyou like. But let me speak to you.'\n\nThe vehement manner of the entreaty, the earnest expression of the face,\nthe trembling of the two hands that were raised imploringly, a certain\ndread and terror in the voice akin to her own condition at the moment,\nprevailed with Harriet. She hastened to the door and opened it.\n\n'May I come in, or shall I speak here?' said the woman, catching at her\nhand.\n\n'What is it that you want? What is it that you have to say?'\n\n'Not much, but let me say it out, or I shall never say it. I am tempted\nnow to go away. There seem to be hands dragging me from the door. Let me\ncome in, if you can trust me for this once!'\n\nHer energy again prevailed, and they passed into the firelight of\nthe little kitchen, where she had before sat, and ate, and dried her\nclothes.\n\n'Sit there,' said Alice, kneeling down beside her, 'and look at me. You\nremember me?'\n\n'I do.'\n\n'You remember what I told you I had been, and where I came from, ragged\nand lame, with the fierce wind and weather beating on my head?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'You know how I came back that night, and threw your money in the\ndirt, and you and your race. Now, see me here, upon my knees. Am I less\nearnest now, than I was then?'\n\n'If what you ask,' said Harriet, gently, 'is forgiveness--'\n\n'But it's not!' returned the other, with a proud, fierce look 'What I\nask is to be believed. Now you shall judge if I am worthy of belief,\nboth as I was, and as I am.'\n\nStill upon her knees, and with her eyes upon the fire, and the fire\nshining on her ruined beauty and her wild black hair, one long tress\nof which she pulled over her shoulder, and wound about her hand, and\nthoughtfully bit and tore while speaking, she went on:\n\n'When I was young and pretty, and this,' plucking contemptuously at\nthe hair she held, 'was only handled delicately, and couldn't be admired\nenough, my mother, who had not been very mindful of me as a child, found\nout my merits, and was fond of me, and proud of me. She was covetous and\npoor, and thought to make a sort of property of me. No great lady ever\nthought that of a daughter yet, I'm sure, or acted as if she did--it's\nnever done, we all know--and that shows that the only instances of\nmothers bringing up their daughters wrong, and evil coming of it, are\namong such miserable folks as us.'\n\nLooking at the fire, as if she were forgetful, for the moment, of having\nany auditor, she continued in a dreamy way, as she wound the long tress\nof hair tight round and round her hand.\n\n'What came of that, I needn't say. Wretched marriages don't come of such\nthings, in our degree; only wretchedness and ruin. Wretchedness and ruin\ncame on me--came on me.'\n\nRaising her eyes swiftly from their moody gaze upon the fire, to\nHarriet's face, she said:\n\n'I am wasting time, and there is none to spare; yet if I hadn't thought\nof all, I shouldn't be here now. Wretchedness and ruin came on me, I\nsay. I was made a short-lived toy, and flung aside more cruelly and\ncarelessly than even such things are. By whose hand do you think?'\n\n'Why do you ask me?' said Harriet.\n\n'Why do you tremble?' rejoined Alice, with an eager look. 'His usage\nmade a Devil of me. I sunk in wretchedness and ruin, lower and\nlower yet. I was concerned in a robbery--in every part of it but the\ngains--and was found out, and sent to be tried, without a friend,\nwithout a penny. Though I was but a girl, I would have gone to Death,\nsooner than ask him for a word, if a word of his could have saved me.\nI would! To any death that could have been invented. But my mother,\ncovetous always, sent to him in my name, told the true story of my case,\nand humbly prayed and petitioned for a small last gift--for not so many\npounds as I have fingers on this hand. Who was it, do you think, who\nsnapped his fingers at me in my misery, lying, as he believed, at his\nfeet, and left me without even this poor sign of remembrance; well\nsatisfied that I should be sent abroad, beyond the reach of farther\ntrouble to him, and should die, and rot there? Who was this, do you\nthink?'\n\n'Why do you ask me?' repeated Harriet.\n\n'Why do you tremble?' said Alice, laying her hand upon her arm, and\nlooking in her face, 'but that the answer is on your lips! It was your\nbrother James.'\n\nHarriet trembled more and more, but did not avert her eyes from the\neager look that rested on them.\n\n'When I knew you were his sister--which was on that night--I came back,\nweary and lame, to spurn your gift. I felt that night as if I could have\ntravelled, weary and lame, over the whole world, to stab him, if I could\nhave found him in a lonely place with no one near. Do you believe that I\nwas earnest in all that?'\n\n'I do! Good Heaven, why are you come again?'\n\n'Since then,' said Alice, with the same grasp of her arm, and the same\nlook in her face, 'I have seen him! I have followed him with my eyes, In\nthe broad day. If any spark of my resentment slumbered in my bosom, it\nsprung into a blaze when my eyes rested on him. You know he has\nwronged a proud man, and made him his deadly enemy. What if I had given\ninformation of him to that man?'\n\n'Information!' repeated Harriet.\n\n'What if I had found out one who knew your brother's secret; who knew\nthe manner of his flight, who knew where he and the companion of his\nflight were gone? What if I had made him utter all his knowledge, word\nby word, before his enemy, concealed to hear it? What if I had sat by at\nthe time, looking into this enemy's face, and seeing it change till it\nwas scarcely human? What if I had seen him rush away, mad, in pursuit?\nWhat if I knew, now, that he was on his road, more fiend than man, and\nmust, in so many hours, come up with him?'\n\n'Remove your hand!' said Harriet, recoiling. 'Go away! Your touch is\ndreadful to me!'\n\n'I have done this,' pursued the other, with her eager look, regardless\nof the interruption. 'Do I speak and look as if I really had? Do you\nbelieve what I am saying?'\n\n'I fear I must. Let my arm go!'\n\n'Not yet. A moment more. You can think what my revengeful purpose must\nhave been, to last so long, and urge me to do this?'\n\n'Dreadful!' said Harriet.\n\n'Then when you see me now,' said Alice hoarsely, 'here again, kneeling\nquietly on the ground, with my touch upon your arm, with my eyes upon\nyour face, you may believe that there is no common earnestness in what\nI say, and that no common struggle has been battling in my breast. I\nam ashamed to speak the words, but I relent. I despise myself; I have\nfought with myself all day, and all last night; but I relent towards him\nwithout reason, and wish to repair what I have done, if it is possible.\nI wouldn't have them come together while his pursuer is so blind and\nheadlong. If you had seen him as he went out last night, you would know\nthe danger better.'\n\n'How can it be prevented? What can I do?' cried Harriet.\n\n'All night long,' pursued the other, hurriedly, 'I had dreams of\nhim--and yet I didn't sleep--in his blood. All day, I have had him near\nme.'\n\n'What can I do?' cried Harriet, shuddering at these words.\n\n'If there is anyone who'll write, or send, or go to him, let them lose\nno time. He is at Dijon. Do you know the name, and where it is?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Warn him that the man he has made his enemy is in a frenzy, and that he\ndoesn't know him if he makes light of his approach. Tell him that he is\non the road--I know he is!--and hurrying on. Urge him to get away while\nthere is time--if there is time--and not to meet him yet. A month or\nso will make years of difference. Let them not encounter, through me.\nAnywhere but there! Any time but now! Let his foe follow him, and\nfind him for himself, but not through me! There is enough upon my head\nwithout.'\n\nThe fire ceased to be reflected in her jet black hair, uplifted face,\nand eager eyes; her hand was gone from Harriet's arm; and the place\nwhere she had been was empty.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 54. The Fugitives\n\n\nTea-time, an hour short of midnight; the place, a French apartment,\ncomprising some half-dozen rooms;--a dull cold hall or corridor, a\ndining-room, a drawing-room, a bed-room, and an inner drawingroom, or\nboudoir, smaller and more retired than the rest. All these shut in by\none large pair of doors on the main staircase, but each room provided\nwith two or three pairs of doors of its own, establishing several means\nof communication with the remaining portion of the apartment, or with\ncertain small passages within the wall, leading, as is not unusual in\nsuch houses, to some back stairs with an obscure outlet below. The whole\nsituated on the first floor of so large an Hotel, that it did not absorb\none entire row of windows upon one side of the square court-yard in the\ncentre, upon which the whole four sides of the mansion looked.\n\nAn air of splendour, sufficiently faded to be melancholy, and\nsufficiently dazzling to clog and embarrass the details of life with a\nshow of state, reigned in these rooms The walls and ceilings were gilded\nand painted; the floors were waxed and polished; crimson drapery hung\nin festoons from window, door, and mirror; and candelabra, gnarled and\nintertwisted like the branches of trees, or horns of animals, stuck\nout from the panels of the wall. But in the day-time, when the\nlattice-blinds (now closely shut) were opened, and the light let in,\ntraces were discernible among this finery, of wear and tear and dust,\nof sun and damp and smoke, and lengthened intervals of want of use and\nhabitation, when such shows and toys of life seem sensitive like life,\nand waste as men shut up in prison do. Even night, and clusters of\nburning candles, could not wholly efface them, though the general\nglitter threw them in the shade.\n\nThe glitter of bright tapers, and their reflection in looking-glasses,\nscraps of gilding and gay colours, were confined, on this night, to one\nroom--that smaller room within the rest, just now enumerated. Seen from\nthe hall, where a lamp was feebly burning, through the dark perspective\nof open doors, it looked as shining and precious as a gem. In the heart\nof its radiance sat a beautiful woman--Edith.\n\nShe was alone. The same defiant, scornful woman still. The cheek a\nlittle worn, the eye a little larger in appearance, and more lustrous,\nbut the haughty bearing just the same. No shame upon her brow; no late\nrepentance bending her disdainful neck. Imperious and stately yet, and\nyet regardless of herself and of all else, she sat with her dark eyes\ncast down, waiting for someone.\n\nNo book, no work, no occupation of any kind but her own thought,\nbeguiled the tardy time. Some purpose, strong enough to fill up any\npause, possessed her. With her lips pressed together, and quivering\nif for a moment she released them from her control; with her nostril\ninflated; her hands clasped in one another; and her purpose swelling in\nher breast; she sat, and waited.\n\nAt the sound of a key in the outer door, and a footstep in the hall, she\nstarted up, and cried 'Who's that?' The answer was in French, and two\nmen came in with jingling trays, to make preparation for supper.\n\n'Who had bade them to do so?' she asked.\n\n'Monsieur had commanded it, when it was his pleasure to take the\napartment. Monsieur had said, when he stayed there for an hour, en\nroute, and left the letter for Madame--Madame had received it surely?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'A thousand pardons! The sudden apprehension that it might have been\nforgotten had struck hIm;' a bald man, with a large beard from a\nneighbouring restaurant; 'with despair! Monsieur had said that supper\nwas to be ready at that hour: also that he had forewarned Madame of the\ncommands he had given, in his letter. Monsieur had done the Golden Head\nthe honour to request that the supper should be choice and delicate.\nMonsieur would find that his confidence in the Golden Head was not\nmisplaced.'\n\nEdith said no more, but looked on thoughtfully while they prepared the\ntable for two persons, and set the wine upon it. She arose before they\nhad finished, and taking a lamp, passed into the bed-chamber and into\nthe drawing-room, where she hurriedly but narrowly examined all the\ndoors; particularly one in the former room that opened on the passage in\nthe wall. From this she took the key, and put it on the outer side. She\nthen came back.\n\nThe men--the second of whom was a dark, bilious subject, in a jacket,\nclose shaved, and with a black head of hair close cropped--had completed\ntheir preparation of the table, and were standing looking at it. He\nwho had spoken before, inquired whether Madame thought it would be long\nbefore Monsieur arrived?\n\n'She couldn't say. It was all one.'\n\n'Pardon! There was the supper! It should be eaten on the instant.\nMonsieur (who spoke French like an Angel--or a Frenchman--it was all the\nsame) had spoken with great emphasis of his punctuality. But the English\nnation had so grand a genius for punctuality. Ah! what noise! Great\nHeaven, here was Monsieur. Behold him!'\n\nIn effect, Monsieur, admitted by the other of the two, came, with his\ngleaming teeth, through the dark rooms, like a mouth; and arriving in\nthat sanctuary of light and colour, a figure at full length, embraced\nMadame, and addressed her in the French tongue as his charming wife.\n\n'My God! Madame is going to faint. Madame is overcome with joy!' The\nbald man with the beard observed it, and cried out.\n\nMadame had only shrunk and shivered. Before the words were spoken, she\nwas standing with her hand upon the velvet back of a great chair; her\nfigure drawn up to its full height, and her face immoveable.\n\n'Francois has flown over to the Golden Head for supper. He flies on\nthese occasions like an angel or a bird. The baggage of Monsieur is in\nhis room. All is arranged. The supper will be here this moment.' These\nfacts the bald man notified with bows and smiles, and presently the\nsupper came.\n\nThe hot dishes were on a chafing-dish; the cold already set forth, with\nthe change of service on a sideboard. Monsieur was satisfied with this\narrangement. The supper table being small, it pleased him very well. Let\nthem set the chafing-dish upon the floor, and go. He would remove the\ndishes with his own hands.\n\n'Pardon!' said the bald man, politely. 'It was impossible!'\n\nMonsieur was of another opinion. He required no further attendance that\nnight.\n\n'But Madame--' the bald man hinted.\n\n'Madame,' replied Monsieur, 'had her own maid. It was enough.'\n\n'A million pardons! No! Madame had no maid!'\n\n'I came here alone,' said Edith 'It was my choice to do so. I am well\nused to travelling; I want no attendance. They need send nobody to me.\n\nMonsieur accordingly, persevering in his first proposed impossibility,\nproceeded to follow the two attendants to the outer door, and secure it\nafter them for the night. The bald man turning round to bow, as he went\nout, observed that Madame still stood with her hand upon the velvet\nback of the great chair, and that her face was quite regardless of him,\nthough she was looking straight before her.\n\nAs the sound of Carker's fastening the door resounded through the\nintermediate rooms, and seemed to come hushed and stilled into that last\ndistant one, the sound of the Cathedral clock striking twelve mingled\nwith it, in Edith's ears She heard him pause, as if he heard it too\nand listened; and then came back towards her, laying a long train of\nfootsteps through the silence, and shutting all the doors behind him as\nhe came along. Her hand, for a moment, left the velvet chair to bring a\nknife within her reach upon the table; then she stood as she had stood\nbefore.\n\n'How strange to come here by yourself, my love!' he said as he entered.\n\n'What?' she returned.\n\nHer tone was so harsh; the quick turn of her head so fierce; her\nattitude so repellent; and her frown so black; that he stood, with the\nlamp in his hand, looking at her, as if she had struck him motionless.\n\n'I say,' he at length repeated, putting down the lamp, and smiling his\nmost courtly smile, 'how strange to come here alone! It was unnecessarty\ncaution surely, and might have defeated itself. You were to have engaged\nan attendant at Havre or Rouen, and have had abundance of time for the\npurpose, though you had been the most capricious and difficult (as you\nare the most beautiful, my love) of women.'\n\nHer eyes gleamed strangely on him, but she stood with her hand resting\non the chair, and said not a word.\n\n'I have never,' resumed Carker, 'seen you look so handsome, as you do\nto-night. Even the picture I have carried in my mind during this cruel\nprobation, and which I have contemplated night and day, is exceeded by\nthe reality.'\n\nNot a word. Not a look Her eyes completely hidden by their drooping\nlashes, but her head held up.\n\n'Hard, unrelenting terms they were!' said Carker, with a smile, 'but\nthey are all fulfilled and passed, and make the present more delicious\nand more safe. Sicily shall be the place of our retreat. In the idlest\nand easiest part of the world, my soul, we'll both seek compensation for\nold slavery.'\n\nHe was coming gaily towards her, when, in an instant, she caught the\nknife up from the table, and started one pace back.\n\n'Stand still!' she said, 'or I shall murder you!'\n\nThe sudden change in her, the towering fury and intense abhorrence\nsparkling in her eyes and lighting up her brow, made him stop as if a\nfire had stopped him.\n\n'Stand still!' she said, 'come no nearer me, upon your life!'\n\nThey both stood looking at each other. Rage and astonishment were in his\nface, but he controlled them, and said lightly,\n\n'Come, come! Tush, we are alone, and out of everybody's sight and\nhearing. Do you think to frighten me with these tricks of virtue?'\n\n'Do you think to frighten me,' she answered fiercely, 'from any purpose\nthat I have, and any course I am resolved upon, by reminding me of the\nsolitude of this place, and there being no help near? Me, who am here\nalone, designedly? If I feared you, should I not have avoided you? If I\nfeared you, should I be here, in the dead of night, telling you to your\nface what I am going to tell?'\n\n'And what is that,' he said, 'you handsome shrew? Handsomer so, than any\nother woman in her best humour?'\n\n'I tell you nothing,' she returned, until you go back to that\nchair--except this, once again--Don't come near me! Not a step nearer. I\ntell you, if you do, as Heaven sees us, I shall murder you!'\n\n'Do you mistake me for your husband?' he retorted, with a grin.\n\nDisdaining to reply, she stretched her arm out, pointing to the chair.\nHe bit his lip, frowned, laughed, and sat down in it, with a baffled,\nirresolute, impatient air, he was unable to conceal; and biting his nail\nnervously, and looking at her sideways, with bitter discomfiture, even\nwhile he feigned to be amused by her caprice.\n\nShe put the knife down upon the table, and touching her bosom with her\nhand, said:\n\n'I have something lying here that is no love trinket, and sooner than\nendure your touch once more, I would use it on you--and you know it,\nwhile I speak--with less reluctance than I would on any other creeping\nthing that lives.'\n\nHe affected to laugh jestingly, and entreated her to act her play out\nquickly, for the supper was growing cold. But the secret look with which\nhe regarded her, was more sullen and lowering, and he struck his foot\nonce upon the floor with a muttered oath.\n\n'How many times,' said Edith, bending her darkest glance upon him, 'has\nyour bold knavery assailed me with outrage and insult? How many times\nin your smooth manner, and mocking words and looks, have I been twitted\nwith my courtship and my marriage? How many times have you laid bare my\nwound of love for that sweet, injured girl and lacerated it? How often\nhave you fanned the fire on which, for two years, I have writhed; and\ntempted me to take a desperate revenge, when it has most tortured me?'\n\n'I have no doubt, Ma'am,' he replied, 'that you have kept a good\naccount, and that it's pretty accurate. Come, Edith. To your husband,\npoor wretch, this was well enough--'\n\n'Why, if,' she said, surveying him with a haughty contempt and disgust,\nthat he shrunk under, let him brave it as he would, 'if all my other\nreasons for despising him could have been blown away like feathers,\nhis having you for his counsellor and favourite, would have almost been\nenough to hold their place.'\n\n'Is that a reason why you have run away with me?' he asked her,\ntauntingly.\n\n'Yes, and why we are face to face for the last time. Wretch! We meet\ntonight, and part tonight. For not one moment after I have ceased to\nspeak, will I stay here!'\n\nHe turned upon her with his ugliest look, and gripped the table with his\nhand; but neither rose, nor otherwise answered or threatened her.\n\n'I am a woman,' she said, confronting him steadfastly, 'who from her\nchildhood has been shamed and steeled. I have been offered and rejected,\nput up and appraised, until my very soul has sickened. I have not had\nan accomplishment or grace that might have been a resource to me, but it\nhas been paraded and vended to enhance my value, as if the common crier\nhad called it through the streets. My poor, proud friends, have looked\non and approved; and every tie between us has been deadened in my\nbreast. There is not one of them for whom I care, as I could care for\na pet dog. I stand alone in the world, remembering well what a hollow\nworld it has been to me, and what a hollow part of it I have been\nmyself. You know this, and you know that my fame with it is worthless to\nme.'\n\n'Yes; I imagined that,' he said.\n\n'And calculated on it,' she rejoined, 'and so pursued me. Grown too\nindifferent for any opposition but indifference, to the daily working\nof the hands that had moulded me to this; and knowing that my marriage\nwould at least prevent their hawking of me up and down; I suffered\nmyself to be sold, as infamously as any woman with a halter round her\nneck is sold in any market-place. You know that.'\n\n'Yes,' he said, showing all his teeth 'I know that.'\n\n'And calculated on it,' she rejoined once more, 'and so pursued me.\nFrom my marriage day, I found myself exposed to such new shame--to such\nsolicitation and pursuit (expressed as clearly as if it had been written\nin the coarsest words, and thrust into my hand at every turn) from one\nmean villain, that I felt as if I had never known humiliation till\nthat time. This shame my husband fixed upon me; hemmed me round with,\nhimself; steeped me in, with his own hands, and of his own act, repeated\nhundreds of times. And thus--forced by the two from every point of\nrest I had--forced by the two to yield up the last retreat of love\nand gentleness within me, or to be a new misfortune on its innocent\nobject--driven from each to each, and beset by one when I escaped the\nother--my anger rose almost to distraction against both I do not know\nagainst which it rose higher--the master or the man!'\n\nHe watched her closely, as she stood before him in the very triumph of\nher indignant beauty. She was resolute, he saw; undauntable; with no\nmore fear of him than of a worm.\n\n'What should I say of honour or of chastity to you!' she went on. 'What\nmeaning would it have to you; what meaning would it have from me! But if\nI tell you that the lightest touch of your hand makes my blood cold with\nantipathy; that from the hour when I first saw and hated you, to now,\nwhen my instinctive repugnance is enhanced by every minute's knowledge\nof you I have since had, you have been a loathsome creature to me which\nhas not its like on earth; how then?'\n\nHe answered with a faint laugh, 'Ay! How then, my queen?'\n\n'On that night, when, emboldened by the scene you had assisted at, you\ndared come to my room and speak to me,' she said, 'what passed?'\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders, and laughed\n\n'What passed?' she said.\n\n'Your memory is so distinct,' he said, 'that I have no doubt you can\nrecall it.'\n\n'I can,' she said. 'Hear it! Proposing then, this flight--not this\nflight, but the flight you thought it--you told me that in the having\ngiven you that meeting, and leaving you to be discovered there, if you\nso thought fit; and in the having suffered you to be alone with me many\ntimes before,--and having made the opportunities, you said,--and in the\nhaving openly avowed to you that I had no feeling for my husband but\naversion, and no care for myself--I was lost; I had given you the power\nto traduce my name; and I lived, in virtuous reputation, at the pleasure\nof your breath.'\n\n'All stratagems in love---' he interrupted, smiling. 'The old adage--'\n\n'On that night,' said Edith, 'and then, the struggle that I long had had\nwith something that was not respect for my good fame--that was I know\nnot what--perhaps the clinging to that last retreat--was ended. On that\nnight, and then, I turned from everything but passion and resentment.\nI struck a blow that laid your lofty master in the dust, and set you\nthere, before me, looking at me now, and knowing what I mean.'\n\nHe sprung up from his chair with a great oath. She put her hand into her\nbosom, and not a finger trembled, not a hair upon her head was stirred.\nHe stood still: she too: the table and chair between them.\n\n'When I forget that this man put his lips to mine that night, and held\nme in his arms as he has done again to-night,' said Edith, pointing at\nhim; 'when I forget the taint of his kiss upon my cheek--the cheek that\nFlorence would have laid her guiltless face against--when I forget my\nmeeting with her, while that taint was hot upon me, and in what a flood\nthe knowledge rushed upon me when I saw her, that in releasing her\nfrom the persecution I had caused by my love, I brought a shame and\ndegradation on her name through mine, and in all time to come should be\nthe solitary figure representing in her mind her first avoidance of a\nguilty creature--then, Husband, from whom I stand divorced henceforth,\nI will forget these last two years, and undo what I have done, and\nundeceive you!'\n\nHer flashing eyes, uplifted for a moment, lighted again on Carker, and\nshe held some letters out in her left hand.\n\n'See these!' she said, contemptuously. 'You have addressed these to me\nin the false name you go by; one here, some elsewhere on my road. The\nseals are unbroken. Take them back!'\n\nShe crunched them in her hand, and tossed them to his feet. And as she\nlooked upon him now, a smile was on her face.\n\n'We meet and part to-night,' she said. 'You have fallen on Sicilian\ndays and sensual rest, too soon. You might have cajoled, and fawned,\nand played your traitor's part, a little longer, and grown richer. You\npurchase your voluptuous retirement dear!'\n\n'Edith!' he retorted, menacing her with his hand. 'Sit down! Have done\nwith this! What devil possesses you?'\n\n'Their name is Legion,' she replied, uprearing her proud form as if\nshe would have crushed him; 'you and your master have raised them in a\nfruitful house, and they shall tear you both. False to him, false to his\ninnocent child, false every way and everywhere, go forth and boast of\nme, and gnash your teeth, for once, to know that you are lying!'\n\nHe stood before her, muttering and menacing, and scowling round as if\nfor something that would help him to conquer her; but with the same\nindomitable spirit she opposed him, without faltering.\n\n'In every vaunt you make,' she said, 'I have my triumph I single out in\nyou the meanest man I know, the parasite and tool of the proud tyrant,\nthat his wound may go the deeper, and may rankle more. Boast, and\nrevenge me on him! You know how you came here to-night; you know how you\nstand cowering there; you see yourself in colours quite as despicable,\nif not as odious, as those in which I see you. Boast then, and revenge\nme on yourself.'\n\nThe foam was on his lips; the wet stood on his forehead. If she would\nhave faltered once for only one half-moment, he would have pinioned her;\nbut she was as firm as rock, and her searching eyes never left him.\n\n'We don't part so,' he said. 'Do you think I am drivelling, to let you\ngo in your mad temper?'\n\n'Do you think,' she answered, 'that I am to be stayed?'\n\n'I'll try, my dear,' he said with a ferocious gesture of his head.\n\n'God's mercy on you, if you try by coming near me!' she replied.\n\n'And what,' he said, 'if there are none of these same boasts and vaunts\non my part? What if I were to turn too? Come!' and his teeth fairly\nshone again. 'We must make a treaty of this, or I may take some\nunexpected course. Sit down, sit down!'\n\n'Too late!' she cried, with eyes that seemed to sparkle fire. 'I have\nthrown my fame and good name to the winds! I have resolved to bear\nthe shame that will attach to me--resolved to know that it attaches\nfalsely--that you know it too--and that he does not, never can, and\nnever shall. I'll die, and make no sign. For this, I am here alone with\nyou, at the dead of night. For this, I have met you here, in a false\nname, as your wife. For this, I have been seen here by those men, and\nleft here. Nothing can save you now.'\n\nHe would have sold his soul to root her, in her beauty, to the floor,\nand make her arms drop at her sides, and have her at his mercy. But\nhe could not look at her, and not be afraid of her. He saw a strength\nwithin her that was resistless. He saw that she was desperate, and that\nher unquenchable hatred of him would stop at nothing. His eyes followed\nthe hand that was put with such rugged uncongenial purpose into her\nwhite bosom, and he thought that if it struck at hIm, and failed, it\nwould strike there, just as soon.\n\nHe did not venture, therefore, to advance towards her; but the door by\nwhich he had entered was behind him, and he stepped back to lock it.\n\n'Lastly, take my warning! Look to yourself!' she said, and smiled again.\n'You have been betrayed, as all betrayers are. It has been made known\nthat you are in this place, or were to be, or have been. If I live, I\nsaw my husband in a carriage in the street to-night!'\n\n'Strumpet, it's false!' cried Carker.\n\nAt the moment, the bell rang loudly in the hall. He turned white, as she\nheld her hand up like an enchantress, at whose invocation the sound had\ncome.\n\n'Hark! do you hear it?'\n\nHe set his back against the door; for he saw a change in her, and\nfancied she was coming on to pass him. But, in a moment, she was gone\nthrough the opposite doors communicating with the bed-chamber, and they\nshut upon her.\n\nOnce turned, once changed in her inflexible unyielding look, he felt\nthat he could cope with her. He thought a sudden terror, occasioned\nby this night-alarm, had subdued her; not the less readily, for her\noverwrought condition. Throwing open the doors, he followed, almost\ninstantly.\n\nBut the room was dark; and as she made no answer to his call, he\nwas fain to go back for the lamp. He held it up, and looked round,\neverywhere, expecting to see her crouching in some corner; but the\nroom was empty. So, into the drawing-room and dining-room he went,\nin succession, with the uncertain steps of a man in a strange place;\nlooking fearfully about, and prying behind screens and couches; but she\nwas not there. No, nor in the hall, which was so bare that he could see\nthat, at a glance.\n\nAll this time, the ringing at the bell was constantly renewed, and those\nwithout were beating at the door. He put his lamp down at a distance,\nand going near it, listened. There were several voices talking together:\nat least two of them in English; and though the door was thick, and\nthere was great confusion, he knew one of these too well to doubt whose\nvoice it was.\n\nHe took up his lamp again, and came back quickly through all the rooms,\nstopping as he quitted each, and looking round for her, with the light\nraised above his head. He was standing thus in the bed-chamber, when the\ndoor, leading to the little passage in the wall, caught his eye. He went\nto it, and found it fastened on the other side; but she had dropped a\nveil in going through, and shut it in the door.\n\nAll this time the people on the stairs were ringing at the bell, and\nknocking with their hands and feet.\n\nHe was not a coward: but these sounds; what had gone before; the\nstrangeness of the place, which had confused him, even in his return\nfrom the hall; the frustration of his schemes (for, strange to say, he\nwould have been much bolder, if they had succeeded); the unseasonable\ntime; the recollection of having no one near to whom he could appeal for\nany friendly office; above all, the sudden sense, which made even his\nheart beat like lead, that the man whose confidence he had outraged,\nand whom he had so treacherously deceived, was there to recognise and\nchallenge him with his mask plucked off his face; struck a panic through\nhim. He tried the door in which the veil was shut, but couldn't force\nit. He opened one of the windows, and looked down through the lattice of\nthe blind, into the court-yard; but it was a high leap, and the stones\nwere pitiless.\n\nThe ringing and knocking still continuing--his panic too--he went back\nto the door in the bed-chamber, and with some new efforts, each more\nstubborn than the last, wrenched it open. Seeing the little staircase\nnot far off, and feeling the night-air coming up, he stole back for his\nhat and coat, made the door as secure after hIm as he could, crept down\nlamp in hand, extinguished it on seeing the street, and having put it in\na corner, went out where the stars were shining.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 55. Rob the Grinder loses his Place\n\n\nThe Porter at the iron gate which shut the court-yard from the street,\nhad left the little wicket of his house open, and was gone away; no\ndoubt to mingle in the distant noise at the door of the great staircase.\nLifting the latch softly, Carker crept out, and shutting the jangling\ngate after him with as little noise as possible, hurried off.\n\nIn the fever of his mortification and unavailing rage, the panic that\nhad seized upon him mastered him completely. It rose to such a height\nthat he would have blindly encountered almost any risk, rather than\nmeet the man of whom, two hours ago, he had been utterly regardless.\nHis fierce arrival, which he had never expected; the sound of his voice;\ntheir having been so near a meeting, face to face; he would have braved\nout this, after the first momentary shock of alarm, and would have put\nas bold a front upon his guilt as any villain. But the springing of his\nmine upon himself, seemed to have rent and shivered all his hardihood\nand self-reliance. Spurned like any reptile; entrapped and mocked;\nturned upon, and trodden down by the proud woman whose mind he had\nslowly poisoned, as he thought, until she had sunk into the mere\ncreature of his pleasure; undeceived in his deceit, and with his fox's\nhide stripped off, he sneaked away, abashed, degraded, and afraid.\n\nSome other terror came upon hIm quite removed from this of being\npursued, suddenly, like an electric shock, as he was creeping through\nthe streets Some visionary terror, unintelligible and inexplicable,\nassociated with a trembling of the ground,--a rush and sweep of\nsomething through the air, like Death upon the wing. He shrunk, as if to\nlet the thing go by. It was not gone, it never had been there, yet what\na startling horror it had left behind.\n\nHe raised his wicked face so full of trouble, to the night sky, where\nthe stars, so full of peace, were shining on him as they had been when\nhe first stole out into the air; and stopped to think what he should\ndo. The dread of being hunted in a strange remote place, where the laws\nmight not protect him--the novelty of the feeling that it was strange\nand remote, originating in his being left alone so suddenly amid the\nruins of his plans--his greater dread of seeking refuge now, in Italy or\nin Sicily, where men might be hired to assassinate him, he thought, at\nany dark street corner--the waywardness of guilt and fear--perhaps some\nsympathy of action with the turning back of all his schemes--impelled\nhim to turn back too, and go to England.\n\n'I am safer there, in any case. If I should not decide,' he thought,\n'to give this fool a meeting, I am less likely to be traced there, than\nabroad here, now. And if I should (this cursed fit being over), at least\nI shall not be alone, without a soul to speak to, or advise with, or\nstand by me. I shall not be run in upon and worried like a rat.'\n\nHe muttered Edith's name, and clenched his hand. As he crept along,\nin the shadow of the massive buildings, he set his teeth, and muttered\ndreadful imprecations on her head, and looked from side to side, as\nif in search of her. Thus, he stole on to the gate of an inn-yard. The\npeople were a-bed; but his ringing at the bell soon produced a man with\na lantern, in company with whom he was presently in a dim coach-house,\nbargaining for the hire of an old phaeton, to Paris.\n\nThe bargain was a short one; and the horses were soon sent for. Leaving\nword that the carriage was to follow him when they came, he stole away\nagain, beyond the town, past the old ramparts, out on the open road,\nwhich seemed to glide away along the dark plain, like a stream.\n\nWhither did it flow? What was the end of it? As he paused, with some\nsuch suggestion within him, looking over the gloomy flat where the\nslender trees marked out the way, again that flight of Death came\nrushing up, again went on, impetuous and resistless, again was nothing\nbut a horror in his mind, dark as the scene and undefined as its\nremotest verge.\n\nThere was no wind; there was no passing shadow on the deep shade of the\nnight; there was no noise. The city lay behind hIm, lighted here and\nthere, and starry worlds were hidden by the masonry of spire and\nroof that hardly made out any shapes against the sky. Dark and lonely\ndistance lay around him everywhere, and the clocks were faintly striking\ntwo.\n\nHe went forward for what appeared a long time, and a long way; often\nstopping to listen. At last the ringing of horses' bells greeted his\nanxious ears. Now softer, and now louder, now inaudible, now ringing\nvery slowly over bad ground, now brisk and merry, it came on; until with\na loud shouting and lashing, a shadowy postillion muffled to the eyes,\nchecked his four struggling horses at his side.\n\n'Who goes there! Monsieur?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Monsieur has walked a long way in the dark midnight.'\n\n'No matter. Everyone to his task. Were there any other horses ordered at\nthe Post-house?'\n\n'A thousand devils!--and pardons! other horses? at this hour? No.'\n\n'Listen, my friend. I am much hurried. Let us see how fast we can\ntravel! The faster, the more money there will be to drink. Off we go\nthen! Quick!'\n\n'Halloa! whoop! Halloa! Hi!' Away, at a gallop, over the black\nlandscape, scattering the dust and dirt like spray!\n\nThe clatter and commotion echoed to the hurry and discordance of the\nfugitive's ideas. Nothing clear without, and nothing clear within.\nObjects flitting past, merging into one another, dimly descried,\nconfusedly lost sight of, gone! Beyond the changing scraps of fence and\ncottage immediately upon the road, a lowering waste. Beyond the shifting\nimages that rose up in his mind and vanished as they showed themselves,\na black expanse of dread and rage and baffled villainy. Occasionally, a\nsigh of mountain air came from the distant Jura, fading along the\nplain. Sometimes that rush which was so furious and horrible, again\ncame sweeping through his fancy, passed away, and left a chill upon his\nblood.\n\nThe lamps, gleaming on the medley of horses' heads, jumbled with\nthe shadowy driver, and the fluttering of his cloak, made a thousand\nindistinct shapes, answering to his thoughts. Shadows of familiar\npeople, stooping at their desks and books, in their remembered\nattitudes; strange apparitions of the man whom he was flying from, or\nof Edith; repetitions in the ringing bells and rolling wheels, of words\nthat had been spoken; confusions of time and place, making last night\na month ago, a month ago last night--home now distant beyond hope, now\ninstantly accessible; commotion, discord, hurry, darkness, and confusion\nin his mind, and all around him.--Hallo! Hi! away at a gallop over the\nblack landscape; dust and dirt flying like spray, the smoking horses\nsnorting and plunging as if each of them were ridden by a demon, away in\na frantic triumph on the dark road--whither?\n\nAgain the nameless shock comes speeding up, and as it passes, the bells\nring in his ears 'whither?' The wheels roar in his ears 'whither?' All\nthe noise and rattle shapes itself into that cry. The lights and shadows\ndance upon the horses' heads like imps. No stopping now: no slackening!\nOn, on! Away with him upon the dark road wildly!\n\nHe could not think to any purpose. He could not separate one subject of\nreflection from another, sufficiently to dwell upon it, by itself, for\na minute at a time. The crash of his project for the gaining of a\nvoluptuous compensation for past restraint; the overthrow of his\ntreachery to one who had been true and generous to him, but whose least\nproud word and look he had treasured up, at interest, for years--for\nfalse and subtle men will always secretly despise and dislike the object\nupon which they fawn and always resent the payment and receipt of homage\nthat they know to be worthless; these were the themes uppermost in his\nmind. A lurking rage against the woman who had so entrapped him and\navenged herself was always there; crude and misshapen schemes of\nretaliation upon her, floated in his brain; but nothing was distinct. A\nhurry and contradiction pervaded all his thoughts. Even while he was so\nbusy with this fevered, ineffectual thinking, his one constant idea was,\nthat he would postpone reflection until some indefinite time.\n\nThen, the old days before the second marriage rose up in his\nremembrance. He thought how jealous he had been of the boy, how jealous\nhe had been of the girl, how artfully he had kept intruders at a\ndistance, and drawn a circle round his dupe that none but himself should\ncross; and then he thought, had he done all this to be flying now, like\na scared thief, from only the poor dupe?\n\nHe could have laid hands upon himself for his cowardice, but it was the\nvery shadow of his defeat, and could not be separated from it. To have\nhis confidence in his own knavery so shattered at a blow--to be within\nhis own knowledge such a miserable tool--was like being paralysed. With\nan impotent ferocity he raged at Edith, and hated Mr Dombey and hated\nhimself, but still he fled, and could do nothing else.\n\nAgain and again he listened for the sound of wheels behind. Again and\nagain his fancy heard it, coming on louder and louder. At last he was so\npersuaded of this, that he cried out, 'Stop' preferring even the loss of\nground to such uncertainty.\n\nThe word soon brought carriage, horses, driver, all in a heap together,\nacross the road.\n\n'The devil!' cried the driver, looking over his shoulder, 'what's the\nmatter?'\n\n'Hark! What's that?'\n\n'What?'\n\n'That noise?'\n\n'Ah Heaven, be quiet, cursed brigand!' to a horse who shook his bells\n'What noise?'\n\n'Behind. Is it not another carriage at a gallop? There! what's that?'\n\n'Miscreant with a Pig's head, stand still!' to another horse, who bit\nanother, who frightened the other two, who plunged and backed. 'There is\nnothing coming.'\n\n'Nothing.'\n\n'No, nothing but the day yonder.'\n\n'You are right, I think. I hear nothing now, indeed. Go on!'\n\nThe entangled equipage, half hidden in the reeking cloud from the\nhorses, goes on slowly at first, for the driver, checked unnecessarily\nin his progress, sulkily takes out a pocket-knife, and puts a new lash\nto his whip. Then 'Hallo, whoop! Hallo, hi!' Away once more, savagely.\n\nAnd now the stars faded, and the day glimmered, and standing in the\ncarriage, looking back, he could discern the track by which he had\ncome, and see that there was no traveller within view, on all the\nheavy expanse. And soon it was broad day, and the sun began to shine\non cornfields and vineyards; and solitary labourers, risen from little\ntemporary huts by heaps of stones upon the road, were, here and there,\nat work repairing the highway, or eating bread. By and by, there were\npeasants going to their daily labour, or to market, or lounging at the\ndoors of poor cottages, gazing idly at him as he passed. And then there\nwas a postyard, ankle-deep in mud, with steaming dunghills and vast\nouthouses half ruined; and looking on this dainty prospect, an immense,\nold, shadeless, glaring, stone chateau, with half its windows blinded,\nand green damp crawling lazily over it, from the balustraded terrace to\nthe taper tips of the extinguishers upon the turrets.\n\nGathered up moodily in a corner of the carriage, and only intent on\ngoing fast--except when he stood up, for a mile together, and looked\nback; which he would do whenever there was a piece of open country--he\nwent on, still postponing thought indefinitely, and still always\ntormented with thinking to no purpose.\n\nShame, disappointment, and discomfiture gnawed at his heart; a constant\napprehension of being overtaken, or met--for he was groundlessly\nafraid even of travellers, who came towards him by the way he was\ngoing--oppressed him heavily. The same intolerable awe and dread that\nhad come upon him in the night, returned unweakened in the day. The\nmonotonous ringing of the bells and tramping of the horses; the monotony\nof his anxiety, and useless rage; the monotonous wheel of fear, regret,\nand passion, he kept turning round and round; made the journey like a\nvision, in which nothing was quite real but his own torment.\n\nIt was a vision of long roads, that stretched away to an horizon, always\nreceding and never gained; of ill-paved towns, up hill and down, where\nfaces came to dark doors and ill-glazed windows, and where rows of\nmudbespattered cows and oxen were tied up for sale in the long narrow\nstreets, butting and lowing, and receiving blows on their blunt heads\nfrom bludgeons that might have beaten them in; of bridges, crosses,\nchurches, postyards, new horses being put in against their wills, and\nthe horses of the last stage reeking, panting, and laying their drooping\nheads together dolefully at stable doors; of little cemeteries with\nblack crosses settled sideways in the graves, and withered wreaths upon\nthem dropping away; again of long, long roads, dragging themselves out,\nup hill and down, to the treacherous horizon.\n\nOf morning, noon, and sunset; night, and the rising of an early moon.\nOf long roads temporarily left behind, and a rough pavement reached; of\nbattering and clattering over it, and looking up, among house-roofs, at\na great church-tower; of getting out and eating hastily, and drinking\ndraughts of wine that had no cheering influence; of coming forth afoot,\namong a host of beggars--blind men with quivering eyelids, led by\nold women holding candles to their faces; idiot girls; the lame, the\nepileptic, and the palsied--of passing through the clamour, and looking\nfrom his seat at the upturned countenances and outstretched hands,\nwith a hurried dread of recognising some pursuer pressing forward--of\ngalloping away again, upon the long, long road, gathered up, dull and\nstunned, in his corner, or rising to see where the moon shone faintly on\na patch of the same endless road miles away, or looking back to see who\nfollowed.\n\nOf never sleeping, but sometimes dozing with unclosed eyes, and\nspringing up with a start, and a reply aloud to an imaginary voice. Of\ncursing himself for being there, for having fled, for having let her\ngo, for not having confronted and defied him. Of having a deadly quarrel\nwith the whole world, but chiefly with himself. Of blighting everything\nwith his black mood as he was carried on and away.\n\nIt was a fevered vision of things past and present all confounded\ntogether; of his life and journey blended into one. Of being madly\nhurried somewhere, whither he must go. Of old scenes starting up among\nthe novelties through which he travelled. Of musing and brooding over\nwhat was past and distant, and seeming to take no notice of the actual\nobjects he encountered, but with a wearisome exhausting consciousness of\nbeing bewildered by them, and having their images all crowded in his hot\nbrain after they were gone.\n\nA vision of change upon change, and still the same monotony of bells and\nwheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. Of town and country, postyards,\nhorses, drivers, hill and valley, light and darkness, road and pavement,\nheight and hollow, wet weather and dry, and still the same monotony of\nbells and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. A vision of tending\non at last, towards the distant capital, by busier roads, and sweeping\nround, by old cathedrals, and dashing through small towns and villages,\nless thinly scattered on the road than formerly, and sitting shrouded in\nhis corner, with his cloak up to his face, as people passing by looked\nat him.\n\nOf rolling on and on, always postponing thought, and always racked with\nthinking; of being unable to reckon up the hours he had been upon the\nroad, or to comprehend the points of time and place in his journey. Of\nbeing parched and giddy, and half mad. Of pressing on, in spite of all,\nas if he could not stop, and coming into Paris, where the turbid river\nheld its swift course undisturbed, between two brawling streams of life\nand motion.\n\nA troubled vision, then, of bridges, quays, interminable streets; of\nwine-shops, water-carriers, great crowds of people, soldiers, coaches,\nmilitary drums, arcades. Of the monotony of bells and wheels and horses'\nfeet being at length lost in the universal din and uproar. Of the\ngradual subsidence of that noise as he passed out in another carriage\nby a different barrier from that by which he had entered. Of the\nrestoration, as he travelled on towards the seacoast, of the monotony of\nbells and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest.\n\nOf sunset once again, and nightfall. Of long roads again, and dead of\nnight, and feeble lights in windows by the roadside; and still the old\nmonotony of bells and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. Of dawn,\nand daybreak, and the rising of the sun. Of tolling slowly up a hill,\nand feeling on its top the fresh sea-breeze; and seeing the morning\nlight upon the edges of the distant waves. Of coming down into a harbour\nwhen the tide was at its full, and seeing fishing-boats float on, and\nglad women and children waiting for them. Of nets and seamen's clothes\nspread out to dry upon the shore; of busy sailors, and their voices high\namong ships' masts and rigging; of the buoyancy and brightness of the\nwater, and the universal sparkling.\n\nOf receding from the coast, and looking back upon it from the deck when\nit was a haze upon the water, with here and there a little opening of\nbright land where the Sun struck. Of the swell, and flash, and murmur of\nthe calm sea. Of another grey line on the ocean, on the vessel's\ntrack, fast growing clearer and higher. Of cliffs and buildings, and\na windmill, and a church, becoming more and more visible upon it. Of\nsteaming on at last into smooth water, and mooring to a pier\nwhence groups of people looked down, greeting friends on board. Of\ndisembarking, passing among them quickly, shunning every one; and of\nbeing at last again in England.\n\nHe had thought, in his dream, of going down into a remote country-place\nhe knew, and lying quiet there, while he secretly informed himself of\nwhat transpired, and determined how to act, Still in the same stunned\ncondition, he remembered a certain station on the railway, where he\nwould have to branch off to his place of destination, and where there\nwas a quiet Inn. Here, he indistinctly resolved to tarry and rest.\n\nWith this purpose he slunk into a railway carriage as quickly as he\ncould, and lying there wrapped in his cloak as if he were asleep,\nwas soon borne far away from the sea, and deep into the inland green.\nArrived at his destination he looked out, and surveyed it carefully. He\nwas not mistaken in his impression of the place. It was a retired spot,\non the borders of a little wood. Only one house, newly-built or altered\nfor the purpose, stood there, surrounded by its neat garden; the small\ntown that was nearest, was some miles away. Here he alighted then; and\ngoing straight into the tavern, unobserved by anyone, secured two rooms\nupstairs communicating with each other, and sufficiently retired.\n\nHis object was to rest, and recover the command of himself, and the\nbalance of his mind. Imbecile discomfiture and rage--so that, as he\nwalked about his room, he ground his teeth--had complete possession of\nhim. His thoughts, not to be stopped or directed, still wandered where\nthey would, and dragged him after them. He was stupefied, and he was\nwearied to death.\n\nBut, as if there were a curse upon him that he should never rest again,\nhis drowsy senses would not lose their consciousness. He had no more\ninfluence with them, in this regard, than if they had been another\nman's. It was not that they forced him to take note of present sounds\nand objects, but that they would not be diverted from the whole hurried\nvision of his journey. It was constantly before him all at once. She\nstood there, with her dark disdainful eyes again upon him; and he was\nriding on nevertheless, through town and country, light and darkness,\nwet weather and dry, over road and pavement, hill and valley, height\nand hollow, jaded and scared by the monotony of bells and wheels, and\nhorses' feet, and no rest.\n\n'What day is this?' he asked of the waiter, who was making preparations\nfor his dinner.\n\n'Day, Sir?'\n\n'Is it Wednesday?'\n\n'Wednesday, Sir? No, Sir. Thursday, Sir.'\n\n'I forgot. How goes the time? My watch is unwound.'\n\n'Wants a few minutes of five o'clock, Sir. Been travelling a long time,\nSir, perhaps?'\n\n'Yes'\n\n'By rail, Sir?'\n\n'Yes'\n\n'Very confusing, Sir. Not much in the habit of travelling by rail\nmyself, Sir, but gentlemen frequently say so.'\n\n'Do many gentlemen come here?\n\n'Pretty well, Sir, in general. Nobody here at present. Rather slack just\nnow, Sir. Everything is slack, Sir.'\n\nHe made no answer; but had risen into a sitting posture on the sofa\nwhere he had been lying, and leaned forward with an arm on each knee,\nstaring at the ground. He could not master his own attention for a\nminute together. It rushed away where it would, but it never, for an\ninstant, lost itself in sleep.\n\nHe drank a quantity of wine after dinner, in vain. No such artificial\nmeans would bring sleep to his eyes. His thoughts, more incoherent,\ndragged him more unmercifully after them--as if a wretch, condemned to\nsuch expiation, were drawn at the heels of wild horses. No oblivion, and\nno rest.\n\nHow long he sat, drinking and brooding, and being dragged in imagination\nhither and thither, no one could have told less correctly than he. But\nhe knew that he had been sitting a long time by candle-light, when he\nstarted up and listened, in a sudden terror.\n\nFor now, indeed, it was no fancy. The ground shook, the house rattled,\nthe fierce impetuous rush was in the air! He felt it come up, and go\ndarting by; and even when he had hurried to the window, and saw what it\nwas, he stood, shrinking from it, as if it were not safe to look.\n\nA curse upon the fiery devil, thundering along so smoothly, tracked\nthrough the distant valley by a glare of light and lurid smoke, and\ngone! He felt as if he had been plucked out of its path, and saved from\nbeing torn asunder. It made him shrink and shudder even now, when its\nfaintest hum was hushed, and when the lines of iron road he could trace\nin the moonlight, running to a point, were as empty and as silent as a\ndesert.\n\nUnable to rest, and irresistibly attracted--or he thought so--to this\nroad, he went out, and lounged on the brink of it, marking the way the\ntrain had gone, by the yet smoking cinders that were lying in its\ntrack. After a lounge of some half hour in the direction by which it had\ndisappeared, he turned and walked the other way--still keeping to the\nbrink of the road--past the inn garden, and a long way down; looking\ncuriously at the bridges, signals, lamps, and wondering when another\nDevil would come by.\n\nA trembling of the ground, and quick vibration in his ears; a distant\nshriek; a dull light advancing, quickly changed to two red eyes, and\na fierce fire, dropping glowing coals; an irresistible bearing on of a\ngreat roaring and dilating mass; a high wind, and a rattle--another come\nand gone, and he holding to a gate, as if to save himself!\n\nHe waited for another, and for another. He walked back to his former\npoint, and back again to that, and still, through the wearisome vision\nof his journey, looked for these approaching monsters. He loitered about\nthe station, waiting until one should stay to call there; and when one\ndid, and was detached for water, he stood parallel with it, watching its\nheavy wheels and brazen front, and thinking what a cruel power and might\nit had. Ugh! To see the great wheels slowly turning, and to think of\nbeing run down and crushed!\n\nDisordered with wine and want of rest--that want which nothing, although\nhe was so weary, would appease--these ideas and objects assumed a\ndiseased importance in his thoughts. When he went back to his room,\nwhich was not until near midnight, they still haunted him, and he sat\nlistening for the coming of another.\n\nSo in his bed, whither he repaired with no hope of sleep. He still lay\nlistening; and when he felt the trembling and vibration, got up and went\nto the window, to watch (as he could from its position) the dull light\nchanging to the two red eyes, and the fierce fire dropping glowing\ncoals, and the rush of the giant as it fled past, and the track of glare\nand smoke along the valley. Then he would glance in the direction by\nwhich he intended to depart at sunrise, as there was no rest for him\nthere; and would lie down again, to be troubled by the vision of his\njourney, and the old monotony of bells and wheels and horses' feet,\nuntil another came. This lasted all night. So far from resuming the\nmastery of himself, he seemed, if possible, to lose it more and more, as\nthe night crept on. When the dawn appeared, he was still tormented with\nthinking, still postponing thought until he should be in a better state;\nthe past, present, and future all floated confusedly before him, and he\nhad lost all power of looking steadily at any one of them.\n\n'At what time,' he asked the man who had waited on hIm over-night, now\nentering with a candle, 'do I leave here, did you say?'\n\n'About a quarter after four, Sir. Express comes through at four,\nSir.--It don't stop.'\n\nHe passed his hand across his throbbing head, and looked at his watch.\nNearly half-past three.\n\n'Nobody going with you, Sir, probably,' observed the man. 'Two gentlemen\nhere, Sir, but they're waiting for the train to London.'\n\n'I thought you said there was nobody here,' said Carker, turning upon\nhim with the ghost of his old smile, when he was angry or suspicious.\n\n'Not then, sir. Two gentlemen came in the night by the short train that\nstops here, Sir. Warm water, Sir?'\n\n'No; and take away the candle. There's day enough for me.'\n\nHaving thrown himself upon the bed, half-dressed he was at the window as\nthe man left the room. The cold light of morning had succeeded to night\nand there was already, in the sky, the red suffusion of the coming sun.\nHe bathed his head and face with water--there was no cooling influence\nin it for him--hurriedly put on his clothes, paid what he owed, and went\nout.\n\nThe air struck chill and comfortless as it breathed upon him. There was\na heavy dew; and, hot as he was, it made him shiver. After a glance\nat the place where he had walked last night, and at the signal-lights\nburning in the morning, and bereft of their significance, he turned to\nwhere the sun was rising, and beheld it, in its glory, as it broke upon\nthe scene.\n\nSo awful, so transcendent in its beauty, so divinely solemn. As he cast\nhis faded eyes upon it, where it rose, tranquil and serene, unmoved\nby all the wrong and wickedness on which its beams had shone since the\nbeginning of the world, who shall say that some weak sense of virtue\nupon Earth, and its in Heaven, did not manifest itself, even to him?\nIf ever he remembered sister or brother with a touch of tenderness and\nremorse, who shall say it was not then?\n\nHe needed some such touch then. Death was on him. He was marked off--the\nliving world, and going down into his grave.\n\nHe paid the money for his journey to the country-place he had thought\nof; and was walking to and fro, alone, looking along the lines of iron,\nacross the valley in one direction, and towards a dark bridge near at\nhand in the other; when, turning in his walk, where it was bounded by\none end of the wooden stage on which he paced up and down, he saw the\nman from whom he had fled, emerging from the door by which he himself\nhad entered. And their eyes met.\n\nIn the quick unsteadiness of the surprise, he staggered, and slipped on\nto the road below him. But recovering his feet immediately, he stepped\nback a pace or two upon that road, to interpose some wider space between\nthem, and looked at his pursuer, breathing short and quick.\n\nHe heard a shout--another--saw the face change from its vindictive\npassion to a faint sickness and terror--felt the earth tremble--knew in\na moment that the rush was come--uttered a shriek--looked round--saw the\nred eyes, bleared and dim, in the daylight, close upon him--was beaten\ndown, caught up, and whirled away upon a jagged mill, that spun him\nround and round, and struck him limb from limb, and licked his stream\nof life up with its fiery heat, and cast his mutilated fragments in the\nair.\n\nWhen the traveller, who had been recognised, recovered from a swoon, he\nsaw them bringing from a distance something covered, that lay heavy and\nstill, upon a board, between four men, and saw that others drove some\ndogs away that sniffed upon the road, and soaked his blood up, with a\ntrain of ashes.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 56. Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted\n\n\nThe Midshipman was all alive. Mr Toots and Susan had arrived at last.\nSusan had run upstairs like a young woman bereft of her senses, and Mr\nToots and the Chicken had gone into the Parlour.\n\n'Oh my own pretty darling sweet Miss Floy!' cried the Nipper, running\ninto Florence's room, 'to think that it should come to this and I should\nfind you here my own dear dove with nobody to wait upon you and no home\nto call your own but never never will I go away again Miss Floy for\nthough I may not gather moss I'm not a rolling stone nor is my heart a\nstone or else it wouldn't bust as it is busting now oh dear oh dear!'\n\nPouring out these words, without the faintest indication of a stop,\nof any sort, Miss Nipper, on her knees beside her mistress, hugged her\nclose.\n\n'Oh love!' cried Susan, 'I know all that's past I know it all my tender\npet and I'm a choking give me air!'\n\n'Susan, dear good Susan!' said Florence.\n\n'Oh bless her! I that was her little maid when she was a little child!\nand is she really, really truly going to be married?' exclaimed Susan,\nin a burst of pain and pleasure, pride and grief, and Heaven knows how\nmany other conflicting feelings.\n\n'Who told you so?' said Florence.\n\n'Oh gracious me! that innocentest creetur Toots,' returned Susan\nhysterically. 'I knew he must be right my dear, because he took on so.\nHe's the devotedest and innocentest infant! And is my darling,' pursued\nSusan, with another close embrace and burst of tears, 'really really\ngoing to be married!'\n\nThe mixture of compassion, pleasure, tenderness, protection, and regret\nwith which the Nipper constantly recurred to this subject, and at every\nsuch once, raised her head to look in the young face and kiss it, and\nthen laid her head again upon her mistress's shoulder, caressing her and\nsobbing, was as womanly and good a thing, in its way, as ever was seen\nin the world.\n\n'There, there!' said the soothing voice of Florence presently. 'Now\nyou're quite yourself, dear Susan!'\n\nMiss Nipper, sitting down upon the floor, at her mistress's feet,\nlaughing and sobbing, holding her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes with\none hand, and patting Diogenes with the other as he licked her face,\nconfessed to being more composed, and laughed and cried a little more in\nproof of it.\n\n'I-I-I never did see such a creetur as that Toots,' said Susan, 'in all\nmy born days never!'\n\n'So kind,' suggested Florence.\n\n'And so comic!' Susan sobbed. 'The way he's been going on inside with me\nwith that disrespectable Chicken on the box!'\n\n'About what, Susan?' inquired Florence, timidly.\n\n'Oh about Lieutenant Walters, and Captain Gills, and you my dear Miss\nFloy, and the silent tomb,' said Susan.\n\n'The silent tomb!' repeated Florence.\n\n'He says,' here Susan burst into a violent hysterical laugh, 'that he'll\ngo down into it now immediately and quite comfortable, but bless your\nheart my dear Miss Floy he won't, he's a great deal too happy in seeing\nother people happy for that, he may not be a Solomon,' pursued the\nNipper, with her usual volubility, 'nor do I say he is but this I do\nsay a less selfish human creature human nature never knew!'\n\nMiss Nipper being still hysterical, laughed immoderately after making\nthis energetic declaration, and then informed Florence that he was\nwaiting below to see her; which would be a rich repayment for the\ntrouble he had had in his late expedition.\n\nFlorence entreated Susan to beg of Mr Toots as a favour that she might\nhave the pleasure of thanking him for his kindness; and Susan, in a few\nmoments, produced that young gentleman, still very much dishevelled in\nappearance, and stammering exceedingly.\n\n'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots. 'To be again permitted to--to--gaze--at\nleast, not to gaze, but--I don't exactly know what I was going to say,\nbut it's of no consequence.'\n\n'I have to thank you so often,' returned Florence, giving him both her\nhands, with all her innocent gratitude beaming in her face, 'that I have\nno words left, and don't know how to do it.'\n\n'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, in an awful voice, 'if it was possible\nthat you could, consistently with your angelic nature, Curse me, you\nwould--if I may be allowed to say so--floor me infinitely less, than by\nthese undeserved expressions of kindness Their effect upon me--is--but,'\nsaid Mr Toots, abruptly, 'this is a digression, and of no consequence at\nall.'\n\nAs there seemed to be no means of replying to this, but by thanking him\nagain, Florence thanked him again.\n\n'I could wish,' said Mr Toots, 'to take this opportunity, Miss Dombey,\nif I might, of entering into a word of explanation. I should have had\nthe pleasure of--of returning with Susan at an earlier period; but, in\nthe first place, we didn't know the name of the relation to whose house\nshe had gone, and, in the second, as she had left that relation's and\ngone to another at a distance, I think that scarcely anything short of\nthe sagacity of the Chicken, would have found her out in the time.'\n\nFlorence was sure of it.\n\n'This, however,' said Mr Toots, 'is not the point. The company of Susan\nhas been, I assure you, Miss Dombey, a consolation and satisfaction\nto me, in my state of mind, more easily conceived than described. The\njourney has been its own reward. That, however, still, is not the\npoint. Miss Dombey, I have before observed that I know I am not what is\nconsidered a quick person. I am perfectly aware of that. I don't think\nanybody could be better acquainted with his own--if it was not too\nstrong an expression, I should say with the thickness of his own\nhead--than myself. But, Miss Dombey, I do, notwithstanding, perceive the\nstate of--of things--with Lieutenant Walters. Whatever agony that state\nof things may have caused me (which is of no consequence at all), I\nam bound to say, that Lieutenant Walters is a person who appears to be\nworthy of the blessing that has fallen on his--on his brow. May he\nwear it long, and appreciate it, as a very different, and very unworthy\nindividual, that it is of no consequence to name, would have done! That,\nhowever, still, is not the point. Miss Dombey, Captain Gills is a friend\nof mine; and during the interval that is now elapsing, I believe it\nwould afford Captain Gills pleasure to see me occasionally coming\nbackwards and forwards here. It would afford me pleasure so to come. But\nI cannot forget that I once committed myself, fatally, at the corner of\nthe Square at Brighton; and if my presence will be, in the least degree,\nunpleasant to you, I only ask you to name it to me now, and assure you\nthat I shall perfectly understand you. I shall not consider it at all\nunkind, and shall only be too delighted and happy to be honoured with\nyour confidence.'\n\n'Mr Toots,' returned Florence, 'if you, who are so old and true a friend\nof mine, were to stay away from this house now, you would make me very\nunhappy. It can never, never, give me any feeling but pleasure to see\nyou.\n\n'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, 'if I\nshed a tear, it is a tear of joy. It is of no consequence, and I am very\nmuch obliged to you. I may be allowed to remark, after what you have\nso kindly said, that it is not my intention to neglect my person any\nlonger.'\n\nFlorence received this intimation with the prettiest expression of\nperplexity possible.\n\n'I mean,' said Mr Toots, 'that I shall consider it my duty as a\nfellow-creature generally, until I am claimed by the silent tomb, to\nmake the best of myself, and to--to have my boots as brightly polished,\nas--as--circumstances will admit of. This is the last time, Miss Dombey,\nof my intruding any observation of a private and personal nature. I\nthank you very much indeed. If I am not, in a general way, as sensible\nas my friends could wish me to be, or as I could wish myself, I\nreally am, upon my word and honour, particularly sensible of what is\nconsiderate and kind. I feel,' said Mr Toots, in an impassioned tone,\n'as if I could express my feelings, at the present moment, in a most\nremarkable manner, if--if--I could only get a start.'\n\nAppearing not to get it, after waiting a minute or two to see if it\nwould come, Mr Toots took a hasty leave, and went below to seek the\nCaptain, whom he found in the shop.\n\n'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'what is now to take place between\nus, takes place under the sacred seal of confidence. It is the sequel,\nCaptain Gills, of what has taken place between myself and Miss Dombey,\nupstairs.'\n\n'Alow and aloft, eh, my lad?' murmured the Captain.\n\n'Exactly so, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, whose fervour of\nacquiescence was greatly heightened by his entire ignorance of the\nCaptain's meaning. 'Miss Dombey, I believe, Captain Gills, is to be\nshortly united to Lieutenant Walters?'\n\n'Why, ay, my lad. We're all shipmets here,--Wal'r and sweet--heart will\nbe jined together in the house of bondage, as soon as the askings is\nover,' whispered Captain Cuttle, in his ear.\n\n'The askings, Captain Gills!' repeated Mr Toots.\n\n'In the church, down yonder,' said the Captain, pointing his thumb over\nhis shoulder.\n\n'Oh! Yes!' returned Mr Toots.\n\n'And then,' said the Captain, in his hoarse whisper, and tapping Mr\nToots on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling from him with\na look of infinite admiration, 'what follers? That there pretty creetur,\nas delicately brought up as a foreign bird, goes away upon the roaring\nmain with Wal'r on a woyage to China!'\n\n'Lord, Captain Gills!' said Mr Toots.\n\n'Ay!' nodded the Captain. 'The ship as took him up, when he was wrecked\nin the hurricane that had drove her clean out of her course, was a\nChina trader, and Wal'r made the woyage, and got into favour, aboard\nand ashore--being as smart and good a lad as ever stepped--and so, the\nsupercargo dying at Canton, he got made (having acted as clerk afore),\nand now he's supercargo aboard another ship, same owners. And so, you\nsee,' repeated the Captain, thoughtfully, 'the pretty creetur goes away\nupon the roaring main with Wal'r, on a woyage to China.'\n\nMr Toots and Captain Cuttle heaved a sigh in concert. 'What then?' said\nthe Captain. 'She loves him true. He loves her true. Them as should have\nloved and tended of her, treated of her like the beasts as perish. When\nshe, cast out of home, come here to me, and dropped upon them planks,\nher wownded heart was broke. I know it. I, Ed'ard Cuttle, see it.\nThere's nowt but true, kind, steady love, as can ever piece it up again.\nIf so be I didn't know that, and didn't know as Wal'r was her true love,\nbrother, and she his, I'd have these here blue arms and legs chopped\noff, afore I'd let her go. But I know it, and what then! Why, then, I\nsay, Heaven go with 'em both, and so it will! Amen!'\n\n'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'let me have the pleasure of shaking\nhands You've a way of saying things, that gives me an agreeable warmth,\nall up my back. I say Amen. You are aware, Captain Gills, that I, too,\nhave adored Miss Dombey.'\n\n'Cheer up!' said the Captain, laying his hand on Mr Toots's shoulder.\n'Stand by, boy!'\n\n'It is my intention, Captain Gills,' returned the spirited Mr Toots,\n'to cheer up. Also to standby, as much as possible. When the silent tomb\nshall yawn, Captain Gills, I shall be ready for burial; not before. But\nnot being certain, just at present, of my power over myself, what I wish\nto say to you, and what I shall take it as a particular favour if you\nwill mention to Lieutenant Walters, is as follows.'\n\n'Is as follers,' echoed the Captain. 'Steady!'\n\n'Miss Dombey being so inexpressably kind,' continued Mr Toots with\nwatery eyes, 'as to say that my presence is the reverse of disagreeable\nto her, and you and everybody here being no less forbearing and\ntolerant towards one who--who certainly,' said Mr Toots, with momentary\ndejection, 'would appear to have been born by mistake, I shall come\nbackwards and forwards of an evening, during the short time we can all\nbe together. But what I ask is this. If, at any moment, I find that\nI cannot endure the contemplation of Lieutenant Walters's bliss, and\nshould rush out, I hope, Captain Gills, that you and he will both\nconsider it as my misfortune and not my fault, or the want of inward\nconflict. That you'll feel convinced I bear no malice to any living\ncreature-least of all to Lieutenant Walters himself--and that you'll\ncasually remark that I have gone out for a walk, or probably to see what\no'clock it is by the Royal Exchange. Captain Gills, if you could enter\ninto this arrangement, and could answer for Lieutenant Walters, it would\nbe a relief to my feelings that I should think cheap at the sacrifice of\na considerable portion of my property.'\n\n'My lad,' returned the Captain, 'say no more. There ain't a colour you\ncan run up, as won't be made out, and answered to, by Wal'r and self.'\n\n'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'my mind is greatly relieved. I wish to\npreserve the good opinion of all here. I--I--mean well, upon my honour,\nhowever badly I may show it. You know,' said Mr Toots, 'it's as exactly\nas Burgess and Co. wished to oblige a customer with a most extraordinary\npair of trousers, and could not cut out what they had in their minds.'\n\nWith this apposite illustration, of which he seemed a little Proud, Mr\nToots gave Captain Cuttle his blessing and departed.\n\nThe honest Captain, with his Heart's Delight in the house, and Susan\ntending her, was a beaming and a happy man. As the days flew by, he\ngrew more beaming and more happy, every day. After some conferences with\nSusan (for whose wisdom the Captain had a profound respect, and whose\nvaliant precipitation of herself on Mrs MacStinger he could never\nforget), he proposed to Florence that the daughter of the elderly lady\nwho usually sat under the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, should,\nfor prudential reasons and considerations of privacy, be superseded in\nthe temporary discharge of the household duties, by someone who was not\nunknown to them, and in whom they could safely confide. Susan, being\npresent, then named, in furtherance of a suggestion she had previously\noffered to the Captain, Mrs Richards. Florence brightened at the name.\nAnd Susan, setting off that very afternoon to the Toodle domicile, to\nsound Mrs Richards, returned in triumph the same evening, accompanied by\nthe identical rosy-cheeked apple-faced Polly, whose demonstrations, when\nbrought into Florence's presence, were hardly less affectionate than\nthose of Susan Nipper herself.\n\nThis piece of generalship accomplished; from which the Captain derived\nuncommon satisfaction, as he did, indeed, from everything else that was\ndone, whatever it happened to be; Florence had next to prepare Susan for\ntheir approaching separation. This was a much more difficult task, as\nMiss Nipper was of a resolute disposition, and had fully made up her\nmind that she had come back never to be parted from her old mistress any\nmore.\n\n'As to wages dear Miss Floy,' she said, 'you wouldn't hint and wrong me\nso as think of naming them, for I've put money by and wouldn't sell my\nlove and duty at a time like this even if the Savings' Banks and me were\ntotal strangers or the Banks were broke to pieces, but you've never been\nwithout me darling from the time your poor dear Ma was took away, and\nthough I'm nothing to be boasted of you're used to me and oh my own dear\nmistress through so many years don't think of going anywhere without me,\nfor it mustn't and can't be!'\n\n'Dear Susan, I am going on a long, long voyage.'\n\n'Well Miss Floy, and what of that? the more you'll want me. Lengths of\nvoyages ain't an object in my eyes, thank God!' said the impetuous Susan\nNipper.\n\n'But, Susan, I am going with Walter, and I would go with Walter\nanywhere--everywhere! Walter is poor, and I am very poor, and I must\nlearn, now, both to help myself, and help him.'\n\n'Dear Miss Floy!' cried Susan, bursting out afresh, and shaking her head\nviolently, 'it's nothing new to you to help yourself and others too\nand be the patientest and truest of noble hearts, but let me talk to Mr\nWalter Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away across the\nworld alone I cannot, and I won't.'\n\n'Alone, Susan?' returned Florence. 'Alone? and Walter taking me with\nhim!' Ah, what a bright, amazed, enraptured smile was on her face!--He\nshould have seen it. 'I am sure you will not speak to Walter if I ask\nyou not,' she added tenderly; 'and pray don't, dear.'\n\nSusan sobbed 'Why not, Miss Floy?'\n\n'Because,' said Florence, 'I am going to be his wife, to give him up my\nwhole heart, and to live with him and die with him. He might think, if\nyou said to him what you have said to me, that I am afraid of what is\nbefore me, or that you have some cause to be afraid for me. Why, Susan,\ndear, I love him!'\n\nMiss Nipper was so much affected by the quiet fervour of these words,\nand the simple, heartfelt, all-pervading earnestness expressed in them,\nand making the speaker's face more beautiful and pure than ever, that\nshe could only cling to her again, crying. Was her little mistress\nreally, really going to be married, and pitying, caressing, and\nprotecting her, as she had done before.\n\nBut the Nipper, though susceptible of womanly weaknesses, was almost as\ncapable of putting constraint upon herself as of attacking the\nredoubtable MacStinger. From that time, she never returned to the\nsubject, but was always cheerful, active, bustling, and hopeful. She did,\nindeed, inform Mr Toots privately, that she was only 'keeping up' for the\ntime, and that when it was all over, and Miss Dombey was gone, she might\nbe expected to become a spectacle distressful; and Mr Toots did also\nexpress that it was his case too, and that they would mingle their tears\ntogether; but she never otherwise indulged her private feelings in the\npresence of Florence or within the precincts of the Midshipman.\n\nLimited and plain as Florence's wardrobe was--what a contrast to that\nprepared for the last marriage in which she had taken part!--there was a\ngood deal to do in getting it ready, and Susan Nipper worked away at\nher side, all day, with the concentrated zeal of fifty sempstresses. The\nwonderful contributions Captain Cuttle would have made to this branch\nof the outfit, if he had been permitted--as pink parasols, tinted\nsilk stockings, blue shoes, and other articles no less necessary on\nshipboard--would occupy some space in the recital. He was induced,\nhowever, by various fraudulent representations, to limit his\ncontributions to a work-box and dressing case, of each of which he\npurchased the very largest specimen that could be got for money. For\nten days or a fortnight afterwards, he generally sat, during the\ngreater part of the day, gazing at these boxes; divided between extreme\nadmiration of them, and dejected misgivings that they were not gorgeous\nenough, and frequently diving out into the street to purchase some\nwild article that he deemed necessary to their completeness. But his\nmaster-stroke was, the bearing of them both off, suddenly, one morning,\nand getting the two words FLORENCE GAY engraved upon a brass heart\ninlaid over the lid of each. After this, he smoked four pipes\nsuccessively in the little parlour by himself, and was discovered\nchuckling, at the expiration of as many hours.\n\nWalter was busy and away all day, but came there every morning early\nto see Florence, and always passed the evening with her. Florence never\nleft her high rooms but to steal downstairs to wait for him when it was\nhis time to come, or, sheltered by his proud, encircling arm, to bear\nhim company to the door again, and sometimes peep into the street. In\nthe twilight they were always together. Oh blessed time! Oh wandering\nheart at rest! Oh deep, exhaustless, mighty well of love, in which so\nmuch was sunk!\n\nThe cruel mark was on her bosom yet. It rose against her father with the\nbreath she drew, it lay between her and her lover when he pressed her to\nhis heart. But she forgot it. In the beating of that heart for her, and\nin the beating of her own for him, all harsher music was unheard, all\nstern unloving hearts forgotten. Fragile and delicate she was, but with\na might of love within her that could, and did, create a world to fly\nto, and to rest in, out of his one image.\n\nHow often did the great house, and the old days, come before her in the\ntwilight time, when she was sheltered by the arm, so proud, so fond,\nand, creeping closer to him, shrunk within it at the recollection! How\noften, from remembering the night when she went down to that room and\nmet the never-to-be forgotten look, did she raise her eyes to those that\nwatched her with such loving earnestness, and weep with happiness in\nsuch a refuge! The more she clung to it, the more the dear dead child\nwas in her thoughts: but as if the last time she had seen her father,\nhad been when he was sleeping and she kissed his face, she always left\nhim so, and never, in her fancy, passed that hour.\n\n'Walter, dear,' said Florence, one evening, when it was almost dark. 'Do\nyou know what I have been thinking to-day?'\n\n'Thinking how the time is flying on, and how soon we shall be upon the\nsea, sweet Florence?'\n\n'I don't mean that, Walter, though I think of that too. I have been\nthinking what a charge I am to you.'\n\n'A precious, sacred charge, dear heart! Why, I think that sometimes.'\n\n'You are laughing, Walter. I know that's much more in your thoughts than\nmine. But I mean a cost.\n\n'A cost, my own?'\n\n'In money, dear. All these preparations that Susan and I are so busy\nwith--I have been able to purchase very little for myself. You were poor\nbefore. But how much poorer I shall make you, Walter!'\n\n'And how much richer, Florence!'\n\nFlorence laughed, and shook her head.\n\n'Besides,' said Walter, 'long ago--before I went to sea--I had a little\npurse presented to me, dearest, which had money in it.'\n\n'Ah!' returned Florence, laughing sorrowfully, 'very little! very\nlittle, Walter! But, you must not think,' and here she laid her light\nhand on his shoulder, and looked into his face, 'that I regret to be\nthis burden on you. No, dear love, I am glad of it. I am happy in it. I\nwouldn't have it otherwise for all the world!'\n\n'Nor I, indeed, dear Florence.'\n\n'Ay! but, Walter, you can never feel it as I do. I am so proud of you!\nIt makes my heart swell with such delight to know that those who speak\nof you must say you married a poor disowned girl, who had taken shelter\nhere; who had no other home, no other friends; who had nothing--nothing!\nOh, Walter, if I could have brought you millions, I never could have\nbeen so happy for your sake, as I am!'\n\n'And you, dear Florence? are you nothing?' he returned.\n\n'No, nothing, Walter. Nothing but your wife.' The light hand stole about\nhis neck, and the voice came nearer--nearer. 'I am nothing any more,\nthat is not you. I have no earthly hope any more, that is not you. I\nhave nothing dear to me any more, that is not you.'\n\nOh! well might Mr Toots leave the little company that evening, and twice\ngo out to correct his watch by the Royal Exchange, and once to keep an\nappointment with a banker which he suddenly remembered, and once to take\na little turn to Aldgate Pump and back!\n\nBut before he went upon these expeditions, or indeed before he came, and\nbefore lights were brought, Walter said:\n\n'Florence, love, the lading of our ship is nearly finished, and probably\non the very day of our marriage she will drop down the river. Shall we\ngo away that morning, and stay in Kent until we go on board at Gravesend\nwithin a week?'\n\n'If you please, Walter. I shall be happy anywhere. But--'\n\n'Yes, my life?'\n\n'You know,' said Florence, 'that we shall have no marriage party, and\nthat nobody will distinguish us by our dress from other people. As we\nleave the same day, will you--will you take me somewhere that morning,\nWalter--early--before we go to church?'\n\nWalter seemed to understand her, as so true a lover so truly loved\nshould, and confirmed his ready promise with a kiss--with more than one\nperhaps, or two or three, or five or six; and in the grave, peaceful\nevening, Florence was very happy.\n\nThen into the quiet room came Susan Nipper and the candles; shortly\nafterwards, the tea, the Captain, and the excursive Mr Toots, who, as\nabove mentioned, was frequently on the move afterwards, and passed but a\nrestless evening. This, however, was not his habit: for he generally got\non very well, by dint of playing at cribbage with the Captain under the\nadvice and guidance of Miss Nipper, and distracting his mind with\nthe calculations incidental to the game; which he found to be a very\neffectual means of utterly confounding himself.\n\nThe Captain's visage on these occasions presented one of the finest\nexamples of combination and succession of expression ever observed. His\ninstinctive delicacy and his chivalrous feeling towards Florence,\ntaught him that it was not a time for any boisterous jollity, or violent\ndisplay of satisfaction; floating reminiscences of Lovely Peg, on\nthe other hand, were constantly struggling for a vent, and urging the\nCaptain to commit himself by some irreparable demonstration. Anon, his\nadmiration of Florence and Walter--well-matched, truly, and full of\ngrace and interest in their youth, and love, and good looks, as they\nsat apart--would take such complete possession of hIm, that he would lay\ndown his cards, and beam upon them, dabbing his head all over with his\npocket-handkerchief; until warned, perhaps, by the sudden rushing forth\nof Mr Toots, that he had unconsciously been very instrumental, indeed,\nin making that gentleman miserable. This reflection would make the\nCaptain profoundly melancholy, until the return of Mr Toots; when he\nwould fall to his cards again, with many side winks and nods, and polite\nwaves of his hook at Miss Nipper, importing that he wasn't going to do\nso any more. The state that ensued on this, was, perhaps, his best; for\nthen, endeavouring to discharge all expression from his face, he would\nsit staring round the room, with all these expressions conveyed into\nit at once, and each wrestling with the other. Delighted admiration of\nFlorence and Walter always overthrew the rest, and remained victorious\nand undisguised, unless Mr Toots made another rush into the air, and\nthen the Captain would sit, like a remorseful culprit, until he came\nback again, occasionally calling upon himself, in a low reproachful\nvoice, to 'Stand by!' or growling some remonstrance to 'Ed'ard Cuttle,\nmy lad,' on the want of caution observable in his behaviour.\n\nOne of Mr Toots's hardest trials, however, was of his own seeking.\nOn the approach of the Sunday which was to witness the last of those\naskings in church of which the Captain had spoken, Mr Toots thus stated\nhis feelings to Susan Nipper.\n\n'Susan,' said Mr Toots, 'I am drawn towards the building. The words\nwhich cut me off from Miss Dombey for ever, will strike upon my ears\nlike a knell you know, but upon my word and honour, I feel that I must\nhear them. Therefore,' said Mr Toots, 'will you accompany me to-morrow,\nto the sacred edifice?'\n\nMiss Nipper expressed her readiness to do so, if that would be any\nsatisfaction to Mr Toots, but besought him to abandon his idea of going.\n\n'Susan,' returned Mr Toots, with much solemnity, 'before my whiskers\nbegan to be observed by anybody but myself, I adored Miss Dombey. While\nyet a victim to the thraldom of Blimber, I adored Miss Dombey. When I\ncould no longer be kept out of my property, in a legal point of view,\nand--and accordingly came into it--I adored Miss Dombey. The banns which\nconsign her to Lieutenant Walters, and me to--to Gloom, you know,' said\nMr Toots, after hesitating for a strong expression, 'may be dreadful,\nwill be dreadful; but I feel that I should wish to hear them spoken. I\nfeel that I should wish to know that the ground was certainly cut from\nunder me, and that I hadn't a hope to cherish, or a--or a leg, in short,\nto--to go upon.'\n\nSusan Nipper could only commiserate Mr Toots's unfortunate condition,\nand agree, under these circumstances, to accompany him; which she did\nnext morning.\n\nThe church Walter had chosen for the purpose, was a mouldy old church\nin a yard, hemmed in by a labyrinth of back streets and courts, with a\nlittle burying-ground round it, and itself buried in a kind of vault,\nformed by the neighbouring houses, and paved with echoing stones It was\na great dim, shabby pile, with high old oaken pews, among which about\na score of people lost themselves every Sunday; while the clergyman's\nvoice drowsily resounded through the emptiness, and the organ\nrumbled and rolled as if the church had got the colic, for want of a\ncongregation to keep the wind and damp out. But so far was this city\nchurch from languishing for the company of other churches, that spires\nwere clustered round it, as the masts of shipping cluster on the river.\nIt would have been hard to count them from its steeple-top, they were so\nmany. In almost every yard and blind-place near, there was a church. The\nconfusion of bells when Susan and Mr Toots betook themselves towards it\non the Sunday morning, was deafening. There were twenty churches close\ntogether, clamouring for people to come in.\n\nThe two stray sheep in question were penned by a beadle in a commodious\npew, and, being early, sat for some time counting the congregation,\nlistening to the disappointed bell high up in the tower, or looking at\na shabby little old man in the porch behind the screen, who was ringing\nthe same, like the Bull in Cock Robin, with his foot in a stirrup. Mr\nToots, after a lengthened survey of the large books on the reading-desk,\nwhispered Miss Nipper that he wondered where the banns were kept, but\nthat young lady merely shook her head and frowned; repelling for the\ntime all approaches of a temporal nature.\n\nMr Toots, however, appearing unable to keep his thoughts from the banns,\nwas evidently looking out for them during the whole preliminary portion\nof the service. As the time for reading them approached, the poor\nyoung gentleman manifested great anxiety and trepidation, which was not\ndiminished by the unexpected apparition of the Captain in the front row\nof the gallery. When the clerk handed up a list to the clergyman, Mr\nToots, being then seated, held on by the seat of the pew; but when the\nnames of Walter Gay and Florence Dombey were read aloud as being in the\nthird and last stage of that association, he was so entirley conquered\nby his feelings as to rush from the church without his hat, followed by\nthe beadle and pew-opener, and two gentlemen of the medical profeesion,\nwho happened to be present; of whom the first-named presently returned\nfor that article, informing Miss Nipper in a whisper that she was not\nto make herself uneasy about the gentleman, as the gentleman said his\nindisposition was of no consequence.\n\nMiss Nipper, feeling that the eyes of that integral portion of Europe\nwhich lost itself weekly among the high-backed pews, were upon her,\nwould have been sufficient embarrassed by this incident, though it had\nterminated here; the more so, as the Captain in the front row of the\ngallery, was in a state of unmitigated consciousness which could\nhardly fail to express to the congregation that he had some mysterious\nconnection with it. But the extreme restlessness of Mr Toots painfully\nincreased and protracted the delicacy of her situation. That young\ngentleman, incapable, in his state of mind, of remaining alone in the\nchurchyard, a prey to solitary meditation, and also desirous, no\ndoubt, of testifying his respect for the offices he had in some\nmeasure interrupted, suddenly returned--not coming back to the pew,\nbut stationing himself on a free seat in the aisle, between two elderly\nfemales who were in the habit of receiving their portion of a\nweekly dole of bread then set forth on a shelf in the porch. In this\nconjunction Mr Toots remained, greatly disturbing the congregation, who\nfelt it impossible to avoid looking at him, until his feelings overcame\nhim again, when he departed silently and suddenly. Not venturing to\ntrust himself in the church any more, and yet wishing to have some\nsocial participation in what was going on there, Mr Toots was, after\nthis, seen from time to time, looking in, with a lorn aspect, at one or\nother of the windows; and as there were several windows accessible to\nhim from without, and as his restlessness was very great, it not only\nbecame difficult to conceive at which window he would appear next, but\nlikewise became necessary, as it were, for the whole congregation\nto speculate upon the chances of the different windows, during the\ncomparative leisure afforded them by the sermon. Mr Toots's movements in\nthe churchyard were so eccentric, that he seemed generally to defeat\nall calculation, and to appear, like the conjuror's figure, where he\nwas least expected; and the effect of these mysterious presentations\nwas much increased by its being difficult to him to see in, and easy to\neverybody else to see out: which occasioned his remaining, every time,\nlonger than might have been expected, with his face close to the glass,\nuntil he all at once became aware that all eyes were upon him, and\nvanished.\n\nThese proceedings on the part of Mr Toots, and the strong individual\nconsciousness of them that was exhibited by the Captain, rendered Miss\nNipper's position so responsible a one, that she was mightily relieved\nby the conclusion of the service; and was hardly so affable to Mr Toots\nas usual, when he informed her and the Captain, on the way back, that\nnow he was sure he had no hope, you know, he felt more comfortable--at\nleast not exactly more comfortable, but more comfortably and completely\nmiserable.\n\nSwiftly now, indeed, the time flew by until it was the evening before\nthe day appointed for the marriage. They were all assembled in the upper\nroom at the Midshipman's, and had no fear of interruption; for there\nwere no lodgers in the house now, and the Midshipman had it all to\nhimself. They were grave and quiet in the prospect of to-morrow, but\nmoderately cheerful too. Florence, with Walter close beside her, was\nfinishing a little piece of work intended as a parting gift to the\nCaptain. The Captain was playing cribbage with Mr Toots. Mr Toots was\ntaking counsel as to his hand, of Susan Nipper. Miss Nipper was giving\nit, with all due secrecy and circumspection. Diogenes was listening,\nand occasionally breaking out into a gruff half-smothered fragment of\na bark, of which he afterwards seemed half-ashamed, as if he doubted\nhaving any reason for it.\n\n'Steady, steady!' said the Captain to Diogenes, 'what's amiss with you?\nYou don't seem easy in your mind to-night, my boy!'\n\nDiogenes wagged his tail, but pricked up his ears immediately\nafterwards, and gave utterance to another fragment of a bark; for which\nhe apologised to the Captain, by again wagging his tail.\n\n'It's my opinion, Di,' said the Captain, looking thoughtfully at his\ncards, and stroking his chin with his hook, 'as you have your doubts of\nMrs Richards; but if you're the animal I take you to be, you'll think\nbetter o' that; for her looks is her commission. Now, Brother:' to Mr\nToots: 'if so be as you're ready, heave ahead.'\n\nThe Captain spoke with all composure and attention to the game, but\nsuddenly his cards dropped out of his hand, his mouth and eyes opened\nwide, his legs drew themselves up and stuck out in front of his chair,\nand he sat staring at the door with blank amazement. Looking round upon\nthe company, and seeing that none of them observed him or the cause\nof his astonishment, the Captain recovered himself with a great gasp,\nstruck the table a tremendous blow, cried in a stentorian roar, 'Sol\nGills ahoy!' and tumbled into the arms of a weather-beaten pea-coat that\nhad come with Polly into the room.\n\nIn another moment, Walter was in the arms of the weather-beaten\npea-coat. In another moment, Florence was in the arms of the\nweather-beaten pea-coat. In another moment, Captain Cuttle had embraced\nMrs Richards and Miss Nipper, and was violently shaking hands with Mr\nToots, exclaiming, as he waved his hook above his head, 'Hooroar, my\nlad, hooroar!' To which Mr Toots, wholly at a loss to account for these\nproceedings, replied with great politeness, 'Certainly, Captain Gills,\nwhatever you think proper!'\n\nThe weather-beaten pea-coat, and a no less weather-beaten cap and\ncomforter belonging to it, turned from the Captain and from Florence\nback to Walter, and sounds came from the weather-beaten pea-coat, cap,\nand comforter, as of an old man sobbing underneath them; while the\nshaggy sleeves clasped Walter tight. During this pause, there was\nan universal silence, and the Captain polished his nose with great\ndiligence. But when the pea-coat, cap, and comforter lifted themselves\nup again, Florence gently moved towards them; and she and Walter taking\nthem off, disclosed the old Instrument-maker, a little thinner and more\ncareworn than of old, in his old Welsh wig and his old coffee-coloured\ncoat and basket buttons, with his old infallible chronometer ticking\naway in his pocket.\n\n'Chock full o' science,' said the radiant Captain, 'as ever he was! Sol\nGills, Sol Gills, what have you been up to, for this many a long day, my\nould boy?'\n\n'I'm half blind, Ned,' said the old man, 'and almost deaf and dumb with\njoy.'\n\n'His wery woice,' said the Captain, looking round with an exultation\nto which even his face could hardly render justice--'his wery woice as\nchock full o' science as ever it was! Sol Gills, lay to, my lad, upon\nyour own wines and fig-trees like a taut ould patriark as you are, and\noverhaul them there adwentures o' yourn, in your own formilior woice.\n'Tis the woice,' said the Captain, impressively, and announcing a\nquotation with his hook, 'of the sluggard, I heerd him complain, you\nhave woke me too soon, I must slumber again. Scatter his ene-mies, and\nmake 'em fall!'\n\nThe Captain sat down with the air of a man who had happily expressed the\nfeeling of everybody present, and immediately rose again to present Mr\nToots, who was much disconcerted by the arrival of anybody, appearing to\nprefer a claim to the name of Gills.\n\n'Although,' stammered Mr Toots, 'I had not the pleasure of your\nacquaintance, Sir, before you were--you were--'\n\n'Lost to sight, to memory dear,' suggested the Captain, in a low voice.\n\n'Exactly so, Captain Gills!' assented Mr Toots. 'Although I had not the\npleasure of your acquaintance, Mr--Mr Sols,' said Toots, hitting on that\nname in the inspiration of a bright idea, 'before that happened, I have\nthe greatest pleasure, I assure you, in--you know, in knowing you. I\nhope,' said Mr Toots, 'that you're as well as can be expected.'\n\nWith these courteous words, Mr Toots sat down blushing and chuckling.\n\nThe old Instrument-maker, seated in a corner between Walter and\nFlorence, and nodding at Polly, who was looking on, all smiles and\ndelight, answered the Captain thus:\n\n'Ned Cuttle, my dear boy, although I have heard something of the changes\nof events here, from my pleasant friend there--what a pleasant face she\nhas to be sure, to welcome a wanderer home!' said the old man, breaking\noff, and rubbing his hands in his old dreamy way.\n\n'Hear him!' cried the Captain gravely. ''Tis woman as seduces all\nmankind. For which,' aside to Mr Toots, 'you'll overhaul your Adam and\nEve, brother.'\n\n'I shall make a point of doing so, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots.\n\n'Although I have heard something of the changes of events, from her,'\nresumed the Instrument-maker, taking his old spectacles from his pocket,\nand putting them on his forehead in his old manner, 'they are so great\nand unexpected, and I am so overpowered by the sight of my dear boy, and\nby the,'--glancing at the downcast eyes of Florence, and not attempting\nto finish the sentence--'that I--I can't say much to-night. But my dear\nNed Cuttle, why didn't you write?'\n\nThe astonishment depicted in the Captain's features positively\nfrightened Mr Toots, whose eyes were quite fixed by it, so that he could\nnot withdraw them from his face.\n\n'Write!' echoed the Captain. 'Write, Sol Gills?'\n\n'Ay,' said the old man, 'either to Barbados, or Jamaica, or Demerara,\nThat was what I asked.'\n\n'What you asked, Sol Gills?' repeated the Captain.\n\n'Ay,' said the old man. 'Don't you know, Ned? Sure you have not\nforgotten? Every time I wrote to you.'\n\nThe Captain took off his glazed hat, hung it on his hook, and smoothing\nhis hair from behind with his hand, sat gazing at the group around him:\na perfect image of wondering resignation.\n\n'You don't appear to understand me, Ned!' observed old Sol.\n\n'Sol Gills,' returned the Captain, after staring at him and the rest\nfor a long time, without speaking, 'I'm gone about and adrift. Pay out\na word or two respecting them adwenturs, will you! Can't I bring up,\nnohows? Nohows?' said the Captain, ruminating, and staring all round.\n\n'You know, Ned,' said Sol Gills, 'why I left here. Did you open my\npacket, Ned?'\n\n'Why, ay, ay,' said the Captain. 'To be sure, I opened the packet.'\n\n'And read it?' said the old man.\n\n'And read it,' answered the Captain, eyeing him attentively, and\nproceeding to quote it from memory. '\"My dear Ned Cuttle, when I left\nhome for the West Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear-\"\nThere he sits! There's Wal'r!' said the Captain, as if he were relieved\nby getting hold of anything that was real and indisputable.\n\n'Well, Ned. Now attend a moment!' said the old man. 'When I wrote\nfirst--that was from Barbados--I said that though you would receive that\nletter long before the year was out, I should be glad if you would open\nthe packet, as it explained the reason of my going away. Very good, Ned.\nWhen I wrote the second, third, and perhaps the fourth times--that was\nfrom Jamaica--I said I was in just the same state, couldn't rest, and\ncouldn't come away from that part of the world, without knowing that\nmy boy was lost or saved. When I wrote next--that, I think, was from\nDemerara, wasn't it?'\n\n'That he thinks was from Demerara, warn't it!' said the Captain, looking\nhopelessly round.\n\n'--I said,' proceeded old Sol, 'that still there was no certain\ninformation got yet. That I found many captains and others, in that part\nof the world, who had known me for years, and who assisted me with a\npassage here and there, and for whom I was able, now and then, to do a\nlittle in return, in my own craft. That everyone was sorry for me, and\nseemed to take a sort of interest in my wanderings; and that I began\nto think it would be my fate to cruise about in search of tidings of my\nboy, until I died.'\n\n'Began to think as how he was a scientific Flying Dutchman!' said the\nCaptain, as before, and with great seriousness.\n\n'But when the news come one day, Ned,--that was to Barbados, after I got\nback there,--that a China trader home'ard bound had been spoke, that had\nmy boy aboard, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and came home;\narrived at home to-night to find it true, thank God!' said the old man,\ndevoutly.\n\nThe Captain, after bowing his head with great reverence, stared\nall round the circle, beginning with Mr Toots, and ending with the\nInstrument-maker; then gravely said:\n\n'Sol Gills! The observation as I'm a-going to make is calc'lated to blow\nevery stitch of sail as you can carry, clean out of the bolt-ropes, and\nbring you on your beam ends with a lurch. Not one of them letters was\never delivered to Ed'ard Cuttle. Not one o' them letters,' repeated the\nCaptain, to make his declaration the more solemn and impressive, 'was\never delivered unto Ed'ard Cuttle, Mariner, of England, as lives at home\nat ease, and doth improve each shining hour!'\n\n'And posted by my own hand! And directed by my own hand, Number nine\nBrig Place!' exclaimed old Sol.\n\nThe colour all went out of the Captain's face and all came back again in\na glow.\n\n'What do you mean, Sol Gills, my friend, by Number nine Brig Place?'\ninquired the Captain.\n\n'Mean? Your lodgings, Ned,' returned the old man. 'Mrs What's-her-name!\nI shall forget my own name next, but I am behind the present time--I\nalways was, you recollect--and very much confused. Mrs--'\n\n'Sol Gills!' said the Captain, as if he were putting the most improbable\ncase in the world, 'it ain't the name of MacStinger as you're a trying\nto remember?'\n\n'Of course it is!' exclaimed the Instrument-maker. 'To be sure Ned. Mrs\nMacStinger!'\n\nCaptain Cuttle, whose eyes were now as wide open as they would be, and\nthe knobs upon whose face were perfectly luminous, gave a long shrill\nwhistle of a most melancholy sound, and stood gazing at everybody in a\nstate of speechlessness.\n\n'Overhaul that there again, Sol Gills, will you be so kind?' he said at\nlast.\n\n'All these letters,' returned Uncle Sol, beating time with the\nforefinger of his right hand upon the palm of his left, with a\nsteadiness and distinctness that might have done honour, even to the\ninfallible chronometer in his pocket, 'I posted with my own hand, and\ndirected with my own hand, to Captain Cuttle, at Mrs MacStinger's,\nNumber nine Brig Place.'\n\nThe Captain took his glazed hat off his hook, looked into it, put it on,\nand sat down.\n\n'Why, friends all,' said the Captain, staring round in the last state of\ndiscomfiture, 'I cut and run from there!'\n\n'And no one knew where you were gone, Captain Cuttle?' cried Walter\nhastily.\n\n'Bless your heart, Wal'r,' said the Captain, shaking his head, 'she'd\nnever have allowed o' my coming to take charge o' this here property.\nNothing could be done but cut and run. Lord love you, Wal'r!' said the\nCaptain, 'you've only seen her in a calm! But see her when her angry\npassions rise--and make a note on!'\n\n'I'd give it her!' remarked the Nipper, softly.\n\n'Would you, do you think, my dear?' returned the Captain, with feeble\nadmiration. 'Well, my dear, it does you credit. But there ain't no wild\nanimal I wouldn't sooner face myself. I only got my chest away by means\nof a friend as nobody's a match for. It was no good sending any letter\nthere. She wouldn't take in any letter, bless you,' said the Captain,\n'under them circumstances! Why, you could hardly make it worth a man's\nwhile to be the postman!'\n\n'Then it's pretty clear, Captain Cuttle, that all of us, and you and\nUncle Sol especially,' said Walter, 'may thank Mrs MacStinger for no\nsmall anxiety.'\n\nThe general obligation in this wise to the determined relict of the late\nMr MacStinger, was so apparent, that the Captain did not contest the\npoint; but being in some measure ashamed of his position, though nobody\ndwelt upon the subject, and Walter especially avoided it, remembering\nthe last conversation he and the Captain had held together respecting\nit, he remained under a cloud for nearly five minutes--an extraordinary\nperiod for him when that sun, his face, broke out once more, shining on\nall beholders with extraordinary brilliancy; and he fell into a fit of\nshaking hands with everybody over and over again.\n\nAt an early hour, but not before Uncle Sol and Walter had questioned\neach other at some length about their voyages and dangers, they all,\nexcept Walter, vacated Florence's room, and went down to the parlour.\nHere they were soon afterwards joined by Walter, who told them Florence\nwas a little sorrowful and heavy-hearted, and had gone to bed. Though\nthey could not have disturbed her with their voices down there, they all\nspoke in a whisper after this: and each, in his different way, felt\nvery lovingly and gently towards Walter's fair young bride: and a\nlong explanation there was of everything relating to her, for the\nsatisfaction of Uncle Sol; and very sensible Mr Toots was of the\ndelicacy with which Walter made his name and services important, and his\npresence necessary to their little council.\n\n'Mr Toots,' said Walter, on parting with him at the house door, 'we\nshall see each other to-morrow morning?'\n\n'Lieutenant Walters,' returned Mr Toots, grasping his hand fervently, 'I\nshall certainly be present.'\n\n'This is the last night we shall meet for a long time--the last night we\nmay ever meet,' said Walter. 'Such a noble heart as yours, must feel, I\nthink, when another heart is bound to it. I hope you know that I am very\ngrateful to you?'\n\n'Walters,' replied Mr Toots, quite touched, 'I should be glad to feel\nthat you had reason to be so.'\n\n'Florence,' said Walter, 'on this last night of her bearing her own\nname, has made me promise--it was only just now, when you left us\ntogether--that I would tell you--with her dear love--'\n\nMr Toots laid his hand upon the doorpost, and his eyes upon his\nhand.\n\n'--With her dear love,' said Walter, 'that she can never have a friend\nwhom she will value above you. That the recollection of your true\nconsideration for her always, can never be forgotten by her. That she\nremembers you in her prayers to-night, and hopes that you will think of\nher when she is far away. Shall I say anything for you?'\n\n'Say, Walter,' replied Mr Toots indistinctly, 'that I shall think of her\nevery day, but never without feeling happy to know that she is married\nto the man she loves, and who loves her. Say, if you please, that I\nam sure her husband deserves her--even her!--and that I am glad of her\nchoice.'\n\nMr Toots got more distinct as he came to these last words, and raising\nhis eyes from the doorpost, said them stoutly. He then shook Walter's\nhand again with a fervour that Walter was not slow to return and started\nhomeward.\n\nMr Toots was accompanied by the Chicken, whom he had of late brought\nwith him every evening, and left in the shop, with an idea that\nunforeseen circumstances might arise from without, in which the prowess\nof that distinguished character would be of service to the Midshipman.\nThe Chicken did not appear to be in a particularly good humour on this\noccasion. Either the gas-lamps were treacherous, or he cocked his eye\nin a hideous manner, and likewise distorted his nose, when Mr Toots,\ncrossing the road, looked back over his shoulder at the room where\nFlorence slept. On the road home, he was more demonstrative of\naggressive intentions against the other foot-passengers, than comported\nwith a professor of the peaceful art of self-defence. Arrived at home,\ninstead of leaving Mr Toots in his apartments when he had escorted him\nthither, he remained before him weighing his white hat in both hands by\nthe brim, and twitching his head and nose (both of which had been many\ntimes broken, and but indifferently repaired), with an air of decided\ndisrespect.\n\nHis patron being much engaged with his own thoughts, did not observe\nthis for some time, nor indeed until the Chicken, determined not to be\noverlooked, had made divers clicking sounds with his tongue and teeth,\nto attract attention.\n\n'Now, Master,' said the Chicken, doggedly, when he, at length, caught Mr\nToots's eye, 'I want to know whether this here gammon is to finish it,\nor whether you're a going in to win?'\n\n'Chicken,' returned Mr Toots, 'explain yourself.'\n\n'Why then, here's all about it, Master,' said the Chicken. 'I ain't\na cove to chuck a word away. Here's wot it is. Are any on 'em to be\ndoubled up?'\n\nWhen the Chicken put this question he dropped his hat, made a dodge and\na feint with his left hand, hit a supposed enemy a violent blow with his\nright, shook his head smartly, and recovered himself.\n\n'Come, Master,' said the Chicken. 'Is it to be gammon or pluck? Which?'\n\n'Chicken,' returned Mr Toots, 'your expressions are coarse, and your\nmeaning is obscure.'\n\n'Why, then, I tell you what, Master,' said the Chicken. 'This is where\nit is. It's mean.'\n\n'What is mean, Chicken?' asked Mr Toots.\n\n'It is,' said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his broken\nnose. 'There! Now, Master! Wot! When you could go and blow on this here\nmatch to the stiff'un;' by which depreciatory appellation it has been\nsince supposed that the Game One intended to signify Mr Dombey; 'and\nwhen you could knock the winner and all the kit of 'em dead out o' wind\nand time, are you going to give in? To give in?' said the Chicken, with\ncontemptuous emphasis. 'Wy, it's mean!'\n\n'Chicken,' said Mr Toots, severely, 'you're a perfect Vulture! Your\nsentiments are atrocious.'\n\n'My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master,' returned the Chicken. 'That's\nwot my sentiments is. I can't abear a meanness. I'm afore the public,\nI'm to be heerd on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no Gov'ner\no' mine mustn't go and do what's mean. Wy, it's mean,' said the Chicken,\nwith increased expression. 'That's where it is. It's mean.'\n\n'Chicken,' said Mr Toots, 'you disgust me.'\n\n'Master,' returned the Chicken, putting on his hat, 'there's a pair on\nus, then. Come! Here's a offer! You've spoke to me more than once't\nor twice't about the public line. Never mind! Give me a fi'typunnote\nto-morrow, and let me go.'\n\n'Chicken,' returned Mr Toots, 'after the odious sentiments you have\nexpressed, I shall be glad to part on such terms.'\n\n'Done then,' said the Chicken. 'It's a bargain. This here conduct of\nyourn won't suit my book, Master. Wy, it's mean,' said the Chicken; who\nseemed equally unable to get beyond that point, and to stop short of it.\n'That's where it is; it's mean!'\n\nSo Mr Toots and the Chicken agreed to part on this incompatibility of\nmoral perception; and Mr Toots lying down to sleep, dreamed happily of\nFlorence, who had thought of him as her friend upon the last night of\nher maiden life, and who had sent him her dear love.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 57. Another Wedding\n\n\nMr Sownds the beadle, and Mrs Miff the pew-opener, are early at their\nposts in the fine church where Mr Dombey was married. A yellow-faced old\ngentleman from India, is going to take unto himself a young wife this\nmorning, and six carriages full of company are expected, and Mrs Miff\nhas been informed that the yellow-faced old gentleman could pave\nthe road to church with diamonds and hardly miss them.\n\nThe nuptial benediction is to be a superior one, proceeding from a very\nreverend, a dean, and the lady is to be given away, as an extraordinary\npresent, by somebody who comes express from the Horse Guards.\n\nMrs Miff is more intolerant of common people this morning, than she\ngenerally is; and she his always strong opinions on that subject, for it\nis associated with free sittings. Mrs Miff is not a student of political\neconomy (she thinks the science is connected with dissenters; 'Baptists\nor Wesleyans, or some o' them,' she says), but she can never understand\nwhat business your common folks have to be married. 'Drat 'em,' says Mrs\nMiff 'you read the same things over 'em and instead of sovereigns get\nsixpences!'\n\nMr Sownds the beadle is more liberal than Mrs Miff--but then he is not\na pew-opener. 'It must be done, Ma'am,' he says. 'We must marry 'em. We\nmust have our national schools to walk at the head of, and we must have\nour standing armies. We must marry 'em, Ma'am,' says Mr Sownds, 'and\nkeep the country going.'\n\nMr Sownds is sitting on the steps and Mrs Miff is dusting in the church,\nwhen a young couple, plainly dressed, come in. The mortified bonnet of\nMrs Miff is sharply turned towards them, for she espies in this\nearly visit indications of a runaway match. But they don't want to be\nmarried--'Only,' says the gentleman, 'to walk round the church.' And as\nhe slips a genteel compliment into the palm of Mrs Miff, her vinegary\nface relaxes, and her mortified bonnet and her spare dry figure dip and\ncrackle.\n\nMrs Miff resumes her dusting and plumps up her cushions--for the\nyellow-faced old gentleman is reported to have tender knees--but keeps\nher glazed, pew-opening eye on the young couple who are walking round\nthe church. 'Ahem,' coughs Mrs Miff whose cough is drier than the hay in\nany hassock in her charge, 'you'll come to us one of these mornings, my\ndears, unless I'm much mistaken!'\n\nThey are looking at a tablet on the wall, erected to the memory of\nsomeone dead. They are a long way off from Mrs Miff, but Mrs Miff can\nsee with half an eye how she is leaning on his arm, and how his head is\nbent down over her. 'Well, well,' says Mrs Miff, 'you might do worse.\nFor you're a tidy pair!'\n\nThere is nothing personal in Mrs Miff's remark. She merely speaks of\nstock-in-trade. She is hardly more curious in couples than in coffins.\nShe is such a spare, straight, dry old lady--such a pew of a woman--that\nyou should find as many individual sympathies in a chip. Mr Sownds,\nnow, who is fleshy, and has scarlet in his coat, is of a different\ntemperament. He says, as they stand upon the steps watching the young\ncouple away, that she has a pretty figure, hasn't she, and as well as\nhe could see (for she held her head down coming out), an uncommon pretty\nface. 'Altogether, Mrs Miff,' says Mr Sownds with a relish, 'she is what\nyou may call a rose-bud.'\n\nMrs Miff assents with a spare nod of her mortified bonnet; but approves\nof this so little, that she inwardly resolves she wouldn't be the wife\nof Mr Sownds for any money he could give her, Beadle as he is.\n\nAnd what are the young couple saying as they leave the church, and go\nout at the gate?\n\n'Dear Walter, thank you! I can go away, now, happy.'\n\n'And when we come back, Florence, we will come and see his grave again.'\n\nFlorence lifts her eyes, so bright with tears, to his kind face; and\nclasps her disengaged hand on that other modest little hand which clasps\nhis arm.\n\n'It is very early, Walter, and the streets are almost empty yet. Let us\nwalk.'\n\n'But you will be so tired, my love.'\n\n'Oh no! I was very tired the first time that we ever walked together,\nbut I shall not be so to-day.'\n\nAnd thus--not much changed--she, as innocent and earnest-hearted--he, as\nfrank, as hopeful, and more proud of her--Florence and Walter, on their\nbridal morning, walk through the streets together.\n\nNot even in that childish walk of long ago, were they so far removed\nfrom all the world about them as to-day. The childish feet of long ago,\ndid not tread such enchanted ground as theirs do now. The confidence\nand love of children may be given many times, and will spring up in many\nplaces; but the woman's heart of Florence, with its undivided treasure,\ncan be yielded only once, and under slight or change, can only droop and\ndie.\n\nThey take the streets that are the quietest, and do not go near that in\nwhich her old home stands. It is a fair, warm summer morning, and\nthe sun shines on them, as they walk towards the darkening mist that\noverspreads the City. Riches are uncovering in shops; jewels, gold, and\nsilver flash in the goldsmith's sunny windows; and great houses cast a\nstately shade upon them as they pass. But through the light, and through\nthe shade, they go on lovingly together, lost to everything around;\nthinking of no other riches, and no prouder home, than they have now in\none another.\n\nGradually they come into the darker, narrower streets, where the sun,\nnow yellow, and now red, is seen through the mist, only at street\ncorners, and in small open spaces where there is a tree, or one of the\ninnumerable churches, or a paved way and a flight of steps, or a curious\nlittle patch of garden, or a burying-ground, where the few tombs and\ntombstones are almost black. Lovingly and trustfully, through all the\nnarrow yards and alleys and the shady streets, Florence goes, clinging\nto his arm, to be his wife.\n\nHer heart beats quicker now, for Walter tells her that their church is\nvery near. They pass a few great stacks of warehouses, with waggons at\nthe doors, and busy carmen stopping up the way--but Florence does not\nsee or hear them--and then the air is quiet, and the day is darkened,\nand she is trembling in a church which has a strange smell like a\ncellar.\n\nThe shabby little old man, ringer of the disappointed bell, is standing\nin the porch, and has put his hat in the font--for he is quite at home\nthere, being sexton. He ushers them into an old brown, panelled, dusty\nvestry, like a corner-cupboard with the shelves taken out; where the\nwormy registers diffuse a smell like faded snuff, which has set the\ntearful Nipper sneezing.\n\nYouthful, and how beautiful, the young bride looks, in this old dusty\nplace, with no kindred object near her but her husband. There is a\ndusty old clerk, who keeps a sort of evaporated news shop underneath an\narchway opposite, behind a perfect fortification of posts. There is a\ndusty old pew-opener who only keeps herself, and finds that quite enough\nto do. There is a dusty old beadle (these are Mr Toots's beadle and\npew-opener of last Sunday), who has something to do with a Worshipful\nCompany who have got a Hall in the next yard, with a stained-glass\nwindow in it that no mortal ever saw. There are dusty wooden ledges and\ncornices poked in and out over the altar, and over the screen and round\nthe gallery, and over the inscription about what the Master and\nWardens of the Worshipful Company did in one thousand six hundred and\nninety-four. There are dusty old sounding-boards over the pulpit and\nreading-desk, looking like lids to be let down on the officiating\nministers in case of their giving offence. There is every possible\nprovision for the accommodation of dust, except in the churchyard, where\nthe facilities in that respect are very limited.\n\nThe Captain, Uncle Sol, and Mr Toots are come; the clergyman is putting\non his surplice in the vestry, while the clerk walks round him, blowing\nthe dust off it; and the bride and bridegroom stand before the altar.\nThere is no bridesmaid, unless Susan Nipper is one; and no better father\nthan Captain Cuttle. A man with a wooden leg, chewing a faint apple and\ncarrying a blue bag in has hand, looks in to see what is going on; but\nfinding it nothing entertaining, stumps off again, and pegs his way among\nthe echoes out of doors.\n\nNo gracious ray of light is seen to fall on Florence, kneeling at the\naltar with her timid head bowed down. The morning luminary is built\nout, and don't shine there. There is a meagre tree outside, where\nthe sparrows are chirping a little; and there is a blackbird in an\neyelet-hole of sun in a dyer's garret, over against the window, who\nwhistles loudly whilst the service is performing; and there is the man\nwith the wooden leg stumping away. The amens of the dusty clerk appear,\nlike Macbeth's, to stick in his throat a little; but Captain Cuttle\nhelps him out, and does it with so much goodwill that he interpolates\nthree entirely new responses of that word, never introduced into the\nservice before.\n\nThey are married, and have signed their names in one of the old sneezy\nregisters, and the clergyman's surplice is restored to the dust, and the\nclergyman is gone home. In a dark corner of the dark church, Florence\nhas turned to Susan Nipper, and is weeping in her arms. Mr Toots's eyes\nare red. The Captain lubricates his nose. Uncle Sol has pulled down his\nspectacles from his forehead, and walked out to the door.\n\n'God bless you, Susan; dearest Susan! If you ever can bear witness to\nthe love I have for Walter, and the reason that I have to love him, do\nit for his sake. Good-bye! Good-bye!'\n\nThey have thought it better not to go back to the Midshipman, but to\npart so; a coach is waiting for them, near at hand.\n\nMiss Nipper cannot speak; she only sobs and chokes, and hugs her\nmistress. Mr Toots advances, urges her to cheer up, and takes charge\nof her. Florence gives him her hand--gives him, in the fulness of her\nheart, her lips--kisses Uncle Sol, and Captain Cuttle, and is borne away\nby her young husband.\n\nBut Susan cannot bear that Florence should go away with a mournful\nrecollection of her. She had meant to be so different, that she\nreproaches herself bitterly. Intent on making one last effort to redeem\nher character, she breaks from Mr Toots and runs away to find the coach,\nand show a parting smile. The Captain, divining her object, sets off\nafter her; for he feels it his duty also to dismiss them with a cheer,\nif possible. Uncle Sol and Mr Toots are left behind together, outside\nthe church, to wait for them.\n\nThe coach is gone, but the street is steep, and narrow, and blocked\nup, and Susan can see it at a stand-still in the distance, she is sure.\nCaptain Cuttle follows her as she flies down the hill, and waves his\nglazed hat as a general signal, which may attract the right coach and\nwhich may not.\n\nSusan outstrips the Captain, and comes up with it. She looks in at the\nwindow, sees Walter, with the gentle face beside him, and claps her\nhands and screams:\n\n'Miss Floy, my darling! look at me! We are all so happy now, dear! One\nmore good-bye, my precious, one more!'\n\nHow Susan does it, she don't know, but she reaches to the window, kisses\nher, and has her arms about her neck, in a moment.\n\n'We are all so--so happy now, my dear Miss Floy!' says Susan, with a\nsuspicious catching in her breath. 'You, you won't be angry with me now.\nNow will you?'\n\n'Angry, Susan!'\n\n'No, no; I am sure you won't. I say you won't, my pet, my dearest!'\nexclaims Susan; 'and here's the Captain too--your friend the Captain,\nyou know--to say good-bye once more!'\n\n'Hooroar, my Heart's Delight!' vociferates the Captain, with a\ncountenance of strong emotion. 'Hooroar, Wal'r my lad. Hooroar!\nHooroar!'\n\nWhat with the young husband at one window, and the young wife at the\nother; the Captain hanging on at this door, and Susan Nipper holding\nfast by that; the coach obliged to go on whether it will or no, and all\nthe other carts and coaches turbulent because it hesitates; there\nnever was so much confusion on four wheels. But Susan Nipper gallantly\nmaintains her point. She keeps a smiling face upon her mistress, smiling\nthrough her tears, until the last. Even when she is left behind, the\nCaptain continues to appear and disappear at the door, crying 'Hooroar,\nmy lad! Hooroar, my Heart's Delight!' with his shirt-collar in a violent\nstate of agitation, until it is hopeless to attempt to keep up with the\ncoach any longer. Finally, when the coach is gone, Susan Nipper, being\nrejoined by the Captain, falls into a state of insensibility, and is\ntaken into a baker's shop to recover.\n\nUncle Sol and Mr Toots wait patiently in the churchyard, sitting on the\ncoping-stone of the railings, until Captain Cuttle and Susan come back,\nNeither being at all desirous to speak, or to be spoken to, they are\nexcellent company, and quite satisfied. When they all arrive again at\nthe little Midshipman, and sit down to breakfast, nobody can touch a\nmorsel. Captain Cuttle makes a feint of being voracious about toast, but\ngives it up as a swindle. Mr Toots says, after breakfast, he will come\nback in the evening; and goes wandering about the town all day, with a\nvague sensation upon him as if he hadn't been to bed for a fortnight.\n\nThere is a strange charm in the house, and in the room, in which they\nhave been used to be together, and out of which so much is gone. It\naggravates, and yet it soothes, the sorrow of the separation. Mr Toots\ntells Susan Nipper when he comes at night, that he hasn't been so\nwretched all day long, and yet he likes it. He confides in Susan Nipper,\nbeing alone with her, and tells her what his feelings were when she\ngave him that candid opinion as to the probability of Miss Dombey's\never loving him. In the vein of confidence engendered by these common\nrecollections, and their tears, Mr Toots proposes that they shall go out\ntogether, and buy something for supper. Miss Nipper assenting, they buy\na good many little things; and, with the aid of Mrs Richards, set the\nsupper out quite showily before the Captain and old Sol came home.\n\nThe Captain and old Sol have been on board the ship, and have\nestablished Di there, and have seen the chests put aboard. They have\nmuch to tell about the popularity of Walter, and the comforts he will\nhave about him, and the quiet way in which it seems he has been working\nearly and late, to make his cabin what the Captain calls 'a picter,'\nto surprise his little wife. 'A admiral's cabin, mind you,' says the\nCaptain, 'ain't more trim.'\n\nBut one of the Captain's chief delights is, that he knows the big watch,\nand the sugar-tongs, and tea-spoons, are on board: and again and again\nhe murmurs to himself, 'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better\ncourse in your life than when you made that there little property over\njintly. You see how the land bore, Ed'ard,' says the Captain, 'and it\ndoes you credit, my lad.'\n\nThe old Instrument-maker is more distraught and misty than he used to\nbe, and takes the marriage and the parting very much to heart. But he is\ngreatly comforted by having his old ally, Ned Cuttle, at his side; and\nhe sits down to supper with a grateful and contented face.\n\n'My boy has been preserved and thrives,' says old Sol Gills, rubbing his\nhands. 'What right have I to be otherwise than thankful and happy!'\n\nThe Captain, who has not yet taken his seat at the table, but who has\nbeen fidgeting about for some time, and now stands hesitating in his\nplace, looks doubtfully at Mr Gills, and says:\n\n'Sol! There's the last bottle of the old Madeira down below. Would you\nwish to have it up to-night, my boy, and drink to Wal'r and his wife?'\n\nThe Instrument-maker, looking wistfully at the Captain, puts his hand\ninto the breast-pocket of his coffee-coloured coat, brings forth his\npocket-book, and takes a letter out.\n\n'To Mr Dombey,' says the old man. 'From Walter. To be sent in three\nweeks' time. I'll read it.'\n\n'\"Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone with me upon a distant\nvoyage. To be devoted to her is to have no claim on her or you, but God\nknows that I am.\n\n'\"Why, loving her beyond all earthly things, I have yet, without\nremorse, united her to the uncertainties and dangers of my life, I will\nnot say to you. You know why, and you are her father.\n\n'\"Do not reproach her. She has never reproached you.\n\n'\"I do not think or hope that you will ever forgive me. There is nothing\nI expect less. But if an hour should come when it will comfort you to\nbelieve that Florence has someone ever near her, the great charge of\nwhose life is to cancel her remembrance of past sorrow, I solemnly\nassure you, you may, in that hour, rest in that belief.\"'\n\nSolomon puts back the letter carefully in his pocket-book, and puts back\nhis pocket-book in his coat.\n\n'We won't drink the last bottle of the old Madeira yet, Ned,' says the\nold man thoughtfully. 'Not yet.\n\n'Not yet,' assents the Captain. 'No. Not yet.'\n\nSusan and Mr Toots are of the same opinion. After a silence they all\nsit down to supper, and drink to the young husband and wife in something\nelse; and the last bottle of the old Madeira still remains among its\ndust and cobwebs, undisturbed.\n\n\nA few days have elapsed, and a stately ship is out at sea, spreading its\nwhite wings to the favouring wind.\n\nUpon the deck, image to the roughest man on board of something that\nis graceful, beautiful, and harmless--something that it is good and\npleasant to have there, and that should make the voyage prosperous--is\nFlorence. It is night, and she and Walter sit alone, watching the solemn\npath of light upon the sea between them and the moon.\n\nAt length she cannot see it plainly, for the tears that fill her eyes;\nand then she lays her head down on his breast, and puts her arms around\nhis neck, saying, 'Oh Walter, dearest love, I am so happy!'\n\nHer husband holds her to his heart, and they are very quiet, and the\nstately ship goes on serenely.\n\n'As I hear the sea,' says Florence, 'and sit watching it, it brings so\nmany days into my mind. It makes me think so much--'\n\n'Of Paul, my love. I know it does.'\n\nOf Paul and Walter. And the voices in the waves are always whispering\nto Florence, in their ceaseless murmuring, of love--of love, eternal and\nillimitable, not bounded by the confines of this world, or by the end\nof time, but ranging still, beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the\ninvisible country far away!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 58. After a Lapse\n\n\nThe sea had ebbed and flowed, through a whole year. Through a whole\nyear, the winds and clouds had come and gone; the ceaseless work of Time\nhad been performed, in storm and sunshine. Through a whole year, the\ntides of human chance and change had set in their allotted courses.\nThrough a whole year, the famous House of Dombey and Son had fought a\nfight for life, against cross accidents, doubtful rumours, unsuccessful\nventures, unpropitious times, and most of all, against the infatuation\nof its head, who would not contract its enterprises by a hair's breadth,\nand would not listen to a word of warning that the ship he strained so\nhard against the storm, was weak, and could not bear it.\n\nThe year was out, and the great House was down.\n\nOne summer afternoon; a year, wanting some odd days, after the marriage\nin the City church; there was a buzz and whisper upon 'Change of a great\nfailure. A certain cold proud man, well known there, was not there, nor\nwas he represented there. Next day it was noised abroad that Dombey and\nSon had stopped, and next night there was a List of Bankrupts published,\nheaded by that name.\n\nThe world was very busy now, in sooth, and had a deal to say. It was an\ninnocently credulous and a much ill-used world. It was a world in\nwhich there was no other sort of bankruptcy whatever. There were\nno conspicuous people in it, trading far and wide on rotten banks\nof religion, patriotism, virtue, honour. There was no amount worth\nmentioning of mere paper in circulation, on which anybody lived pretty\nhandsomely, promising to pay great sums of goodness with no effects.\nThere were no shortcomings anywhere, in anything but money. The world\nwas very angry indeed; and the people especially, who, in a worse world,\nmight have been supposed to be apt traders themselves in shows and\npretences, were observed to be mightily indignant.\n\nHere was a new inducement to dissipation, presented to that sport of\ncircumstances, Mr Perch the Messenger! It was apparently the fate of\nMr Perch to be always waking up, and finding himself famous. He had\nbut yesterday, as one might say, subsided into private life from the\ncelebrity of the elopement and the events that followed it; and now he\nwas made a more important man than ever, by the bankruptcy. Gliding from\nhis bracket in the outer office where he now sat, watching the strange\nfaces of accountants and others, who quickly superseded nearly all the\nold clerks, Mr Perch had but to show himself in the court outside, or,\nat farthest, in the bar of the King's Arms, to be asked a multitude of\nquestions, almost certain to include that interesting question, what\nwould he take to drink? Then would Mr Perch descant upon the hours of\nacute uneasiness he and Mrs Perch had suffered out at Balls Pond, when\nthey first suspected 'things was going wrong.' Then would Mr Perch\nrelate to gaping listeners, in a low voice, as if the corpse of the\ndeceased House were lying unburied in the next room, how Mrs Perch had\nfirst come to surmise that things was going wrong by hearing him (Perch)\nmoaning in his sleep, 'twelve and ninepence in the pound, twelve and\nninepence in the pound!' Which act of somnambulism he supposed to have\noriginated in the impression made upon him by the change in Mr Dombey's\nface. Then would he inform them how he had once said, 'Might I make so\nbold as ask, Sir, are you unhappy in your mind?' and how Mr Dombey had\nreplied, 'My faithful Perch--but no, it cannot be!' and with that had\nstruck his hand upon his forehead, and said, 'Leave me, Perch!' Then,\nin short, would Mr Perch, a victim to his position, tell all manner of\nlies; affecting himself to tears by those that were of a moving\nnature, and really believing that the inventions of yesterday had, on\nrepetition, a sort of truth about them to-day.\n\nMr Perch always closed these conferences by meekly remarking, That, of\ncourse, whatever his suspicions might have been (as if he had ever had\nany!) it wasn't for him to betray his trust, was it? Which sentiment\n(there never being any creditors present) was received as doing great\nhonour to his feelings. Thus, he generally brought away a soothed\nconscience and left an agreeable impression behind him, when he\nreturned to his bracket: again to sit watching the strange faces of the\naccountants and others, making so free with the great mysteries, the\nBooks; or now and then to go on tiptoe into Mr Dombey's empty room, and\nstir the fire; or to take an airing at the door, and have a little more\ndoleful chat with any straggler whom he knew; or to propitiate, with\nvarious small attentions, the head accountant: from whom Mr Perch had\nexpectations of a messengership in a Fire Office, when the affairs of\nthe House should be wound up.\n\nTo Major Bagstock, the bankruptcy was quite a calamity. The Major was\nnot a sympathetic character--his attention being wholly concentrated\non J. B.--nor was he a man subject to lively emotions, except in the\nphysical regards of gasping and choking. But he had so paraded his\nfriend Dombey at the club; had so flourished him at the heads of the\nmembers in general, and so put them down by continual assertion of his\nriches; that the club, being but human, was delighted to retort upon\nthe Major, by asking him, with a show of great concern, whether this\ntremendous smash had been at all expected, and how his friend Dombey\nbore it. To such questions, the Major, waxing very purple, would reply\nthat it was a bad world, Sir, altogether; that Joey knew a thing or two,\nbut had been done, Sir, done like an infant; that if you had foretold\nthis, Sir, to J. Bagstock, when he went abroad with Dombey and was\nchasing that vagabond up and down France, J. Bagstock would have\npooh-pooh'd you--would have pooh-pooh'd you, Sir, by the Lord! That Joe\nhad been deceived, Sir, taken in, hoodwinked, blindfolded, but was broad\nawake again and staring; insomuch, Sir, that if Joe's father were to\nrise up from the grave to-morrow, he wouldn't trust the old blade with a\npenny piece, but would tell him that his son Josh was too old a soldier\nto be done again, Sir. That he was a suspicious, crabbed, cranky,\nused-up, J. B. infidel, Sir; and that if it were consistent with the\ndignity of a rough and tough old Major, of the old school, who had had\nthe honour of being personally known to, and commended by, their late\nRoyal Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and York, to retire to a tub and live\nin it, by Gad! Sir, he'd have a tub in Pall Mall to-morrow, to show his\ncontempt for mankind!\n\nOf all this, and many variations of the same tune, the Major would\ndeliver himself with so many apoplectic symptoms, such rollings of his\nhead, and such violent growls of ill usage and resentment, that the\nyounger members of the club surmised he had invested money in his friend\nDombey's House, and lost it; though the older soldiers and deeper dogs,\nwho knew Joe better, wouldn't hear of such a thing. The unfortunate\nNative, expressing no opinion, suffered dreadfully; not merely in his\nmoral feelings, which were regularly fusilladed by the Major every hour\nin the day, and riddled through and through, but in his sensitiveness to\nbodily knocks and bumps, which was kept continually on the stretch. For\nsix entire weeks after the bankruptcy, this miserable foreigner lived in\na rainy season of boot-jacks and brushes.\n\nMrs Chick had three ideas upon the subject of the terrible reverse. The\nfirst was that she could not understand it. The second, that her brother\nhad not made an effort. The third, that if she had been invited to\ndinner on the day of that first party, it never would have happened; and\nthat she had said so, at the time.\n\nNobody's opinion stayed the misfortune, lightened it, or made it\nheavier. It was understood that the affairs of the House were to\nbe wound up as they best could be; that Mr Dombey freely resigned\neverything he had, and asked for no favour from anyone. That any\nresumption of the business was out of the question, as he would listen\nto no friendly negotiation having that compromise in view; that he had\nrelinquished every post of trust or distinction he had held, as a man\nrespected among merchants; that he was dying, according to some; that he\nwas going melancholy mad, according to others; that he was a broken man,\naccording to all.\n\nThe clerks dispersed after holding a little dinner of condolence\namong themselves, which was enlivened by comic singing, and went off\nadmirably. Some took places abroad, and some engaged in other Houses at\nhome; some looked up relations in the country, for whom they suddenly\nremembered they had a particular affection; and some advertised for\nemployment in the newspapers. Mr Perch alone remained of all the late\nestablishment, sitting on his bracket looking at the accountants, or\nstarting off it, to propitiate the head accountant, who was to get\nhim into the Fire Office. The Counting House soon got to be dirty and\nneglected. The principal slipper and dogs' collar seller, at the corner\nof the court, would have doubted the propriety of throwing up his\nforefinger to the brim of his hat, any more, if Mr Dombey had appeared\nthere now; and the ticket porter, with his hands under his white apron,\nmoralised good sound morality about ambition, which (he observed) was\nnot, in his opinion, made to rhyme to perdition, for nothing.\n\nMr Morfin, the hazel-eyed bachelor, with the hair and whiskers sprinkled\nwith grey, was perhaps the only person within the atmosphere of the\nHouse--its head, of course, excepted--who was heartily and deeply\naffected by the disaster that had befallen it. He had treated Mr Dombey\nwith due respect and deference through many years, but he had never\ndisguised his natural character, or meanly truckled to him, or pampered\nhis master passion for the advancement of his own purposes. He had,\ntherefore, no self-disrespect to avenge; no long-tightened springs\nto release with a quick recoil. He worked early and late to unravel\nwhatever was complicated or difficult in the records of the transactions\nof the House; was always in attendance to explain whatever required\nexplanation; sat in his old room sometimes very late at night, studying\npoints by his mastery of which he could spare Mr Dombey the pain of\nbeing personally referred to; and then would go home to Islington, and\ncalm his mind by producing the most dismal and forlorn sounds out of his\nvioloncello before going to bed.\n\nHe was solacing himself with this melodious grumbler one evening, and,\nhaving been much dispirited by the proceedings of the day, was scraping\nconsolation out of its deepest notes, when his landlady (who was\nfortunately deaf, and had no other consciousness of these performances\nthan a sensation of something rumbling in her bones) announced a lady.\n\n'In mourning,' she said.\n\nThe violoncello stopped immediately; and the performer, laying it on the\nsofa with great tenderness and care, made a sign that the lady was to\ncome in. He followed directly, and met Harriet Carker on the stair.\n\n'Alone!' he said, 'and John here this morning! Is there anything the\nmatter, my dear? But no,' he added, 'your face tells quite another\nstory.'\n\n'I am afraid it is a selfish revelation that you see there, then,' she\nanswered.\n\n'It is a very pleasant one,' said he; 'and, if selfish, a novelty too,\nworth seeing in you. But I don't believe that.'\n\nHe had placed a chair for her by this time, and sat down opposite; the\nvioloncello lying snugly on the sofa between them.\n\n'You will not be surprised at my coming alone, or at John's not having\ntold you I was coming,' said Harriet; 'and you will believe that, when I\ntell you why I have come. May I do so now?'\n\n'You can do nothing better.'\n\n'You were not busy?'\n\nHe pointed to the violoncello lying on the sofa, and said 'I have been,\nall day. Here's my witness. I have been confiding all my cares to it. I\nwish I had none but my own to tell.'\n\n'Is the House at an end?' said Harriet, earnestly.\n\n'Completely at an end.'\n\n'Will it never be resumed?'\n\n'Never.'\n\nThe bright expression of her face was not overshadowed as her lips\nsilently repeated the word. He seemed to observe this with some little\ninvoluntary surprise: and said again:\n\n'Never. You remember what I told you. It has been, all along, impossible\nto convince him; impossible to reason with him; sometimes, impossible\neven to approach him. The worst has happened; and the House has fallen,\nnever to be built up any more.'\n\n'And Mr Dombey, is he personally ruined?'\n\n'Ruined.'\n\n'Will he have no private fortune left? Nothing?'\n\nA certain eagerness in her voice, and something that was almost joyful\nin her look, seemed to surprise him more and more; to disappoint him\ntoo, and jar discordantly against his own emotions. He drummed with the\nfingers of one hand on the table, looking wistfully at her, and shaking\nhis head, said, after a pause:\n\n'The extent of Mr Dombey's resources is not accurately within my\nknowledge; but though they are doubtless very large, his obligations are\nenormous. He is a gentleman of high honour and integrity. Any man in\nhis position could, and many a man in his position would, have saved\nhimself, by making terms which would have very slightly, almost\ninsensibly, increased the losses of those who had had dealings with him,\nand left him a remnant to live upon. But he is resolved on payment to\nthe last farthing of his means. His own words are, that they will clear,\nor nearly clear, the House, and that no one can lose much. Ah, Miss\nHarriet, it would do us no harm to remember oftener than we do, that\nvices are sometimes only virtues carried to excess! His pride shows well\nin this.'\n\nShe heard him with little or no change in her expression, and with a\ndivided attention that showed her to be busy with something in her own\nmind. When he was silent, she asked him hurriedly:\n\n'Have you seen him lately?'\n\n'No one sees him. When this crisis of his affairs renders it necessary\nfor him to come out of his house, he comes out for the occasion, and\nagain goes home, and shuts himself up, and will see no one. He has\nwritten me a letter, acknowledging our past connexion in higher terms\nthan it deserved, and parting from me. I am delicate of obtruding myself\nupon him now, never having had much intercourse with him in better\ntimes; but I have tried to do so. I have written, gone there, entreated.\nQuite in vain.'\n\nHe watched her, as in the hope that she would testify some greater\nconcern than she had yet shown; and spoke gravely and feelingly, as if\nto impress her the more; but there was no change in her.\n\n'Well, well, Miss Harriet,' he said, with a disappointed air, 'this is\nnot to the purpose. You have not come here to hear this. Some other and\npleasanter theme is in your mind. Let it be in mine, too, and we shall\ntalk upon more equal terms. Come!'\n\n'No, it is the same theme,' returned Harriet, with frank and quick\nsurprise. 'Is it not likely that it should be? Is it not natural that\nJohn and I should have been thinking and speaking very much of late of\nthese great changes? Mr Dombey, whom he served so many years--you know\nupon what terms--reduced, as you describe; and we quite rich!'\n\nGood, true face, as that face of hers was, and pleasant as it had been\nto him, Mr Morfin, the hazel-eyed bachelor, since the first time he had\never looked upon it, it pleased him less at that moment, lighted with a\nray of exultation, than it had ever pleased him before.\n\n'I need not remind you,' said Harriet, casting down her eyes upon her\nblack dress, 'through what means our circumstances changed. You have not\nforgotten that our brother James, upon that dreadful day, left no will,\nno relations but ourselves.'\n\nThe face was pleasanter to him now, though it was pale and melancholy,\nthan it had been a moment since. He seemed to breathe more cheerily.\n\n'You know,' she said, 'our history, the history of both my brothers,\nin connexion with the unfortunate, unhappy gentleman, of whom you have\nspoken so truly. You know how few our wants are--John's and mine--and\nwhat little use we have for money, after the life we have led together\nfor so many years; and now that he is earning an income that is ample\nfor us, through your kindness. You are not unprepared to hear what\nfavour I have come to ask of you?'\n\n'I hardly know. I was, a minute ago. Now, I think, I am not.'\n\n'Of my dead brother I say nothing. If the dead know what we do--but you\nunderstand me. Of my living brother I could say much; but what need I\nsay more, than that this act of duty, in which I have come to ask your\nindispensable assistance, is his own, and that he cannot rest until it\nis performed!'\n\nShe raised her eyes again; and the light of exultation in her face began\nto appear beautiful, in the observant eyes that watched her.\n\n'Dear Sir,' she went on to say, 'it must be done very quietly and\nsecretly. Your experience and knowledge will point out a way of doing\nit. Mr Dombey may, perhaps, be led to believe that it is something\nsaved, unexpectedly, from the wreck of his fortunes; or that it is a\nvoluntary tribute to his honourable and upright character, from some of\nthose with whom he has had great dealings; or that it is some old lost\ndebt repaid. There must be many ways of doing it. I know you will choose\nthe best. The favour I have come to ask is, that you will do it for\nus in your own kind, generous, considerate manner. That you will never\nspeak of it to John, whose chief happiness in this act of restitution\nis to do it secretly, unknown, and unapproved of: that only a very small\npart of the inheritance may be reserved to us, until Mr Dombey shall\nhave possessed the interest of the rest for the remainder of his life;\nthat you will keep our secret, faithfully--but that I am sure you will;\nand that, from this time, it may seldom be whispered, even between\nyou and me, but may live in my thoughts only as a new reason for\nthankfulness to Heaven, and joy and pride in my brother.'\n\nSuch a look of exultation there may be on Angels' faces when the one\nrepentant sinner enters Heaven, among ninety-nine just men. It was not\ndimmed or tarnished by the joyful tears that filled her eyes, but was\nthe brighter for them.\n\n'My dear Harriet,' said Mr Morfin, after a silence, 'I was not prepared\nfor this. Do I understand you that you wish to make your own part in the\ninheritance available for your good purpose, as well as John's?'\n\n'Oh, yes,' she returned 'When we have shared everything together for so\nlong a time, and have had no care, hope, or purpose apart, could I bear\nto be excluded from my share in this? May I not urge a claim to be my\nbrother's partner and companion to the last?'\n\n'Heaven forbid that I should dispute it!' he replied.\n\n'We may rely on your friendly help?' she said. 'I knew we might!'\n\n'I should be a worse man than,--than I hope I am, or would willingly\nbelieve myself, if I could not give you that assurance from my heart and\nsoul. You may, implicitly. Upon my honour, I will keep your secret. And\nif it should be found that Mr Dombey is so reduced as I fear he will be,\nacting on a determination that there seem to be no means of influencing,\nI will assist you to accomplish the design, on which you and John are\njointly resolved.'\n\nShe gave him her hand, and thanked him with a cordial, happy face.\n\n'Harriet,' he said, detaining it in his. 'To speak to you of the worth\nof any sacrifice that you can make now--above all, of any sacrifice of\nmere money--would be idle and presumptuous. To put before you any appeal\nto reconsider your purpose or to set narrow limits to it, would be,\nI feel, not less so. I have no right to mar the great end of a great\nhistory, by any obtrusion of my own weak self. I have every right to\nbend my head before what you confide to me, satisfied that it comes\nfrom a higher and better source of inspiration than my poor worldly\nknowledge. I will say only this: I am your faithful steward; and I would\nrather be so, and your chosen friend, than I would be anybody in the\nworld, except yourself.'\n\nShe thanked him again, cordially, and wished him good-night.\n\n'Are you going home?' he said. 'Let me go with you.'\n\n'Not to-night. I am not going home now; I have a visit to make alone.\nWill you come to-morrow?'\n\n'Well, well,' said he, 'I'll come to-morrow. In the meantime, I'll think\nof this, and how we can best proceed. And perhaps I'll think of it, dear\nHarriet, and--and--think of me a little in connexion with it.'\n\nHe handed her down to a coach she had in waiting at the door; and if\nhis landlady had not been deaf, she would have heard him muttering as\nhe went back upstairs, when the coach had driven off, that we were\ncreatures of habit, and it was a sorrowful habit to be an old bachelor.\n\nThe violoncello lying on the sofa between the two chairs, he took it up,\nwithout putting away the vacant chair, and sat droning on it, and\nslowly shaking his head at the vacant chair, for a long, long time.\nThe expression he communicated to the instrument at first, though\nmonstrously pathetic and bland, was nothing to the expression he\ncommunicated to his own face, and bestowed upon the empty chair: which\nwas so sincere, that he was obliged to have recourse to Captain Cuttle's\nremedy more than once, and to rub his face with his sleeve. By degrees,\nhowever, the violoncello, in unison with his own frame of mind, glided\nmelodiously into the Harmonious Blacksmith, which he played over and\nover again, until his ruddy and serene face gleamed like true metal on\nthe anvil of a veritable blacksmith. In fine, the violoncello and\nthe empty chair were the companions of his bachelorhood until nearly\nmidnight; and when he took his supper, the violoncello set up on end in\nthe sofa corner, big with the latent harmony of a whole foundry full\nof harmonious blacksmiths, seemed to ogle the empty chair out of its\ncrooked eyes, with unutterable intelligence.\n\nWhen Harriet left the house, the driver of her hired coach, taking\na course that was evidently no new one to him, went in and out by\nbye-ways, through that part of the suburbs, until he arrived at some\nopen ground, where there were a few quiet little old houses standing\namong gardens. At the garden-gate of one of these he stopped, and\nHarriet alighted.\n\nHer gentle ringing at the bell was responded to by a dolorous-looking\nwoman, of light complexion, with raised eyebrows, and head drooping on\none side, who curtseyed at sight of her, and conducted her across the\ngarden to the house.\n\n'How is your patient, nurse, to-night?' said Harriet.\n\n'In a poor way, Miss, I am afraid. Oh how she do remind me, sometimes,\nof my Uncle's Betsey Jane!' returned the woman of the light complexion,\nin a sort of doleful rapture.\n\n'In what respect?' asked Harriet.\n\n'Miss, in all respects,' replied the other, 'except that she's grown up,\nand Betsey Jane, when at death's door, was but a child.'\n\n'But you have told me she recovered,' observed Harriet mildly; 'so there\nis the more reason for hope, Mrs Wickam.'\n\n'Ah, Miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has the spirits to\nbear it!' said Mrs Wickam, shaking her head. 'My own spirits is not\nequal to it, but I don't owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so\nblest!'\n\n'You should try to be more cheerful,' remarked Harriet.\n\n'Thank you, Miss, I'm sure,' said Mrs Wickam grimly. 'If I was so\ninclined, the loneliness of this situation--you'll excuse my speaking\nso free--would put it out of my power, in four and twenty hours; but I\nain't at all. I'd rather not. The little spirits that I ever had, I was\nbereaved of at Brighton some few years ago, and I think I feel myself\nthe better for it.'\n\nIn truth, this was the very Mrs Wickam who had superseded Mrs Richards\nas the nurse of little Paul, and who considered herself to have gained\nthe loss in question, under the roof of the amiable Pipchin. The\nexcellent and thoughtful old system, hallowed by long prescription,\nwhich has usually picked out from the rest of mankind the most dreary\nand uncomfortable people that could possibly be laid hold of, to act as\ninstructors of youth, finger-posts to the virtues, matrons, monitors,\nattendants on sick beds, and the like, had established Mrs Wickam in\nvery good business as a nurse, and had led to her serious qualities\nbeing particularly commended by an admiring and numerous connexion.\n\nMrs Wickam, with her eyebrows elevated, and her head on one side,\nlighted the way upstairs to a clean, neat chamber, opening on another\nchamber dimly lighted, where there was a bed. In the first room, an old\nwoman sat mechanically staring out at the open window, on the darkness.\nIn the second, stretched upon the bed, lay the shadow of a figure that\nhad spurned the wind and rain, one wintry night; hardly to be recognised\nnow, but by the long black hair that showed so very black against the\ncolourless face, and all the white things about it.\n\nOh, the strong eyes, and the weak frame! The eyes that turned so eagerly\nand brightly to the door when Harriet came in; the feeble head that\ncould not raise itself, and moved so slowly round upon its pillow!\n\n'Alice!' said the visitor's mild voice, 'am I late to-night?'\n\n'You always seem late, but are always early.'\n\nHarriet had sat down by the bedside now, and put her hand upon the thin\nhand lying there.\n\n'You are better?'\n\nMrs Wickam, standing at the foot of the bed, like a disconsolate\nspectre, most decidedly and forcibly shook her head to negative this\nposition.\n\n'It matters very little!' said Alice, with a faint smile. 'Better or\nworse to-day, is but a day's difference--perhaps not so much.'\n\nMrs Wickam, as a serious character, expressed her approval with a groan;\nand having made some cold dabs at the bottom of the bedclothes, as\nfeeling for the patient's feet and expecting to find them stony; went\nclinking among the medicine bottles on the table, as who should say,\n'while we are here, let us repeat the mixture as before.'\n\n'No,' said Alice, whispering to her visitor, 'evil courses, and remorse,\ntravel, want, and weather, storm within, and storm without, have worn my\nlife away. It will not last much longer.\n\nShe drew the hand up as she spoke, and laid her face against it.\n\n'I lie here, sometimes, thinking I should like to live until I had had\na little time to show you how grateful I could be! It is a weakness, and\nsoon passes. Better for you as it is. Better for me!'\n\nHow different her hold upon the hand, from what it had been when she\ntook it by the fireside on the bleak winter evening! Scorn, rage,\ndefiance, recklessness, look here! This is the end.\n\nMrs Wickam having clinked sufficiently among the bottles, now produced\nthe mixture. Mrs Wickam looked hard at her patient in the act of\ndrinking, screwed her mouth up tight, her eyebrows also, and shook her\nhead, expressing that tortures shouldn't make her say it was a hopeless\ncase. Mrs Wickam then sprinkled a little cooling-stuff about the room,\nwith the air of a female grave-digger, who was strewing ashes on ashes,\ndust on dust--for she was a serious character--and withdrew to partake\nof certain funeral baked meats downstairs.\n\n'How long is it,' asked Alice, 'since I went to you and told you what\nI had done, and when you were advised it was too late for anyone to\nfollow?'\n\n'It is a year and more,' said Harriet.\n\n'A year and more,' said Alice, thoughtfully intent upon her face.\n'Months upon months since you brought me here!'\n\nHarriet answered 'Yes.'\n\n'Brought me here, by force of gentleness and kindness. Me!' said Alice,\nshrinking with her face behind her hand, 'and made me human by woman's\nlooks and words, and angel's deeds!'\n\nHarriet bending over her, composed and soothed her. By and bye, Alice\nlying as before, with the hand against her face, asked to have her\nmother called.\n\nHarriet called to her more than once, but the old woman was so absorbed\nlooking out at the open window on the darkness, that she did not hear.\nIt was not until Harriet went to her and touched her, that she rose up,\nand came.\n\n'Mother,' said Alice, taking the hand again, and fixing her lustrous\neyes lovingly upon her visitor, while she merely addressed a motion of\nher finger to the old woman, 'tell her what you know.'\n\n'To-night, my deary?'\n\n'Ay, mother,' answered Alice, faintly and solemnly, 'to-night!'\n\nThe old woman, whose wits appeared disorderly by alarm, remorse, or\ngrief, came creeping along the side of the bed, opposite to that on\nwhich Harriet sat; and kneeling down, so as to bring her withered face\nupon a level with the coverlet, and stretching out her hand, so as to\ntouch her daughter's arm, began:\n\n'My handsome gal--'\n\nHeaven, what a cry was that, with which she stopped there, gazing at the\npoor form lying on the bed!\n\n'Changed, long ago, mother! Withered, long ago,' said Alice, without\nlooking at her. 'Don't grieve for that now.'\n\n'--My daughter,' faltered the old woman, 'my gal who'll soon get better,\nand shame 'em all with her good looks.'\n\nAlice smiled mournfully at Harriet, and fondled her hand a little\ncloser, but said nothing.\n\n'Who'll soon get better, I say,' repeated the old woman, menacing the\nvacant air with her shrivelled fist, 'and who'll shame 'em all with her\ngood looks--she will. I say she will! she shall!'--as if she were in\npassionate contention with some unseen opponent at the bedside, who\ncontradicted her--'my daughter has been turned away from, and cast out,\nbut she could boast relationship to proud folks too, if she chose.\nAh! To proud folks! There's relationship without your clergy and\nyour wedding rings--they may make it, but they can't break it--and\nmy daughter's well related. Show me Mrs Dombey, and I'll show you my\nAlice's first cousin.'\n\nHarriet glanced from the old woman to the lustrous eyes intent upon her\nface, and derived corroboration from them.\n\n'What!' cried the old woman, her nodding head bridling with a ghastly\nvanity. 'Though I am old and ugly now,--much older by life and habit\nthan years though,--I was once as young as any. Ah! as pretty too, as\nmany! I was a fresh country wench in my time, darling,' stretching out\nher arm to Harriet, across the bed, 'and looked it, too. Down in my\ncountry, Mrs Dombey's father and his brother were the gayest gentlemen\nand the best-liked that came a visiting from London--they have long\nbeen dead, though! Lord, Lord, this long while! The brother, who was my\nAlly's father, longest of the two.'\n\nShe raised her head a little, and peered at her daughter's face; as if\nfrom the remembrance of her own youth, she had flown to the remembrance\nof her child's. Then, suddenly, she laid her face down on the bed, and\nshut her head up in her hands and arms.\n\n'They were as like,' said the old woman, without looking up, as you\ncould see two brothers, so near an age--there wasn't much more than a\nyear between them, as I recollect--and if you could have seen my gal, as\nI have seen her once, side by side with the other's daughter, you'd have\nseen, for all the difference of dress and life, that they were like each\nother. Oh! is the likeness gone, and is it my gal--only my gal--that's\nto change so!'\n\n'We shall all change, mother, in our turn,' said Alice.\n\n'Turn!' cried the old woman, 'but why not hers as soon as my gal's! The\nmother must have changed--she looked as old as me, and full as wrinkled\nthrough her paint--but she was handsome. What have I done, I, what have\nI done worse than her, that only my gal is to lie there fading!'\n\nWith another of those wild cries, she went running out into the room from\nwhich she had come; but immediately, in her uncertain mood, returned,\nand creeping up to Harriet, said:\n\n'That's what Alice bade me tell you, deary. That's all. I found it out\nwhen I began to ask who she was, and all about her, away in Warwickshire\nthere, one summer-time. Such relations was no good to me, then. They\nwouldn't have owned me, and had nothing to give me. I should have asked\n'em, maybe, for a little money, afterwards, if it hadn't been for my\nAlice; she'd a'most have killed me, if I had, I think She was as proud\nas t'other in her way,' said the old woman, touching the face of her\ndaughter fearfully, and withdrawing her hand, 'for all she's so quiet\nnow; but she'll shame 'em with her good looks yet. Ha, ha! She'll shame\n'em, will my handsome daughter!'\n\nHer laugh, as she retreated, was worse than her cry; worse than the\nburst of imbecile lamentation in which it ended; worse than the doting\nair with which she sat down in her old seat, and stared out at the\ndarkness.\n\nThe eyes of Alice had all this time been fixed on Harriet, whose hand\nshe had never released. She said now:\n\n'I have felt, lying here, that I should like you to know this. It might\nexplain, I have thought, something that used to help to harden me. I had\nheard so much, in my wrongdoing, of my neglected duty, that I took up\nwith the belief that duty had not been done to me, and that as the seed\nwas sown, the harvest grew. I somehow made it out that when ladies had\nbad homes and mothers, they went wrong in their way, too; but that their\nway was not so foul a one as mine, and they had need to bless God for\nit. That is all past. It is like a dream, now, which I cannot quite\nremember or understand. It has been more and more like a dream, every\nday, since you began to sit here, and to read to me. I only tell it you,\nas I can recollect it. Will you read to me a little more?'\n\nHarriet was withdrawing her hand to open the book, when Alice detained\nit for a moment.\n\n'You will not forget my mother? I forgive her, if I have any cause.\nI know that she forgives me, and is sorry in her heart. You will not\nforget her?'\n\n'Never, Alice!'\n\n'A moment yet. Lay your head so, dear, that as you read I may see the\nwords in your kind face.'\n\nHarriet complied and read--read the eternal book for all the weary, and\nthe heavy-laden; for all the wretched, fallen, and neglected of this\nearth--read the blessed history, in which the blind lame palsied beggar,\nthe criminal, the woman stained with shame, the shunned of all our\ndainty clay, has each a portion, that no human pride, indifference, or\nsophistry, through all the ages that this world shall last, can take\naway, or by the thousandth atom of a grain reduce--read the ministry of\nHim who, through the round of human life, and all its hopes and griefs,\nfrom birth to death, from infancy to age, had sweet compassion for, and\ninterest in, its every scene and stage, its every suffering and sorrow.\n\n'I shall come,' said Harriet, when she shut the book, 'very early in the\nmorning.'\n\nThe lustrous eyes, yet fixed upon her face, closed for a moment, then\nopened; and Alice kissed and blest her.\n\nThe same eyes followed her to the door; and in their light, and on the\ntranquil face, there was a smile when it was closed.\n\nThey never turned away. She laid her hand upon her breast, murmuring the\nsacred name that had been read to her; and life passed from her face,\nlike light removed.\n\nNothing lay there, any longer, but the ruin of the mortal house on which\nthe rain had beaten, and the black hair that had fluttered in the wintry\nwind.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 59. Retribution\n\n\nChanges have come again upon the great house in the long dull street,\nonce the scene of Florence's childhood and loneliness. It is a great\nhouse still, proof against wind and weather, without breaches in the\nroof, or shattered windows, or dilapidated walls; but it is a ruin none\nthe less, and the rats fly from it.\n\nMr Towlinson and company are, at first, incredulous in respect of the\nshapeless rumours that they hear. Cook says our people's credit ain't so\neasy shook as that comes to, thank God; and Mr Towlinson expects to hear\nit reported next, that the Bank of England's a-going to break, or the\njewels in the Tower to be sold up. But, next come the Gazette, and Mr\nPerch; and Mr Perch brings Mrs Perch to talk it over in the kitchen, and\nto spend a pleasant evening.\n\nAs soon as there is no doubt about it, Mr Towlinson's main anxiety is\nthat the failure should be a good round one--not less than a hundred\nthousand pound. Mr Perch don't think himself that a hundred thousand\npound will nearly cover it. The women, led by Mrs Perch and Cook, often\nrepeat 'a hun-dred thou-sand pound!' with awful satisfaction--as if\nhandling the words were like handling the money; and the housemaid, who\nhas her eye on Mr Towlinson, wishes she had only a hundredth part of the\nsum to bestow on the man of her choice. Mr Towlinson, still mindful of\nhis old wrong, opines that a foreigner would hardly know what to do with\nso much money, unless he spent it on his whiskers; which bitter sarcasm\ncauses the housemaid to withdraw in tears.\n\nBut not to remain long absent; for Cook, who has the reputation of being\nextremely good-hearted, says, whatever they do, let 'em stand by one\nanother now, Towlinson, for there's no telling how soon they may be\ndivided. They have been in that house (says Cook) through a funeral, a\nwedding, and a running-away; and let it not be said that they couldn't\nagree among themselves at such a time as the present. Mrs Perch is\nimmensely affected by this moving address, and openly remarks that Cook\nis an angel. Mr Towlinson replies to Cook, far be it from him to\nstand in the way of that good feeling which he could wish to see; and\nadjourning in quest of the housemaid, and presently returning with that\nyoung lady on his arm, informs the kitchen that foreigners is only his\nfun, and that him and Anne have now resolved to take one another\nfor better for worse, and to settle in Oxford Market in the general\ngreengrocery and herb and leech line, where your kind favours is\nparticular requested. This announcement is received with acclamation;\nand Mrs Perch, projecting her soul into futurity, says, 'girls,' in\nCook's ear, in a solemn whisper.\n\nMisfortune in the family without feasting, in these lower regions,\ncouldn't be. Therefore Cook tosses up a hot dish or two for supper,\nand Mr Towlinson compounds a lobster salad to be devoted to the same\nhospitable purpose. Even Mrs Pipchin, agitated by the occasion, rings\nher bell, and sends down word that she requests to have that little bit\nof sweetbread that was left, warmed up for her supper, and sent to her\non a tray with about a quarter of a tumbler-full of mulled sherry; for\nshe feels poorly.\n\nThere is a little talk about Mr Dombey, but very little. It is chiefly\nspeculation as to how long he has known that this was going to happen.\nCook says shrewdly, 'Oh a long time, bless you! Take your oath of that.'\nAnd reference being made to Mr Perch, he confirms her view of the\ncase. Somebody wonders what he'll do, and whether he'll go out in any\nsituation. Mr Towlinson thinks not, and hints at a refuge in one of them\ngenteel almshouses of the better kind. 'Ah, where he'll have his little\ngarden, you know,' says Cook plaintively, 'and bring up sweet peas\nin the spring.' 'Exactly so,' says Mr Towlinson, 'and be one of the\nBrethren of something or another.' 'We are all brethren,' says Mrs\nPerch, in a pause of her drink. 'Except the sisters,' says Mr Perch.\n'How are the mighty fallen!' remarks Cook. 'Pride shall have a fall, and\nit always was and will be so!' observes the housemaid.\n\nIt is wonderful how good they feel, in making these reflections; and\nwhat a Christian unanimity they are sensible of, in bearing the common\nshock with resignation. There is only one interruption to this excellent\nstate of mind, which is occasioned by a young kitchen-maid of inferior\nrank--in black stockings--who, having sat with her mouth open for a long\ntime, unexpectedly discharges from it words to this effect, 'Suppose the\nwages shouldn't be paid!' The company sit for a moment speechless; but\nCook recovering first, turns upon the young woman, and requests to\nknow how she dares insult the family, whose bread she eats, by such a\ndishonest supposition, and whether she thinks that anybody, with a scrap\nof honour left, could deprive poor servants of their pittance? 'Because\nif that is your religious feelings, Mary Daws,' says Cook warmly, 'I\ndon't know where you mean to go to.'\n\nMr Towlinson don't know either; nor anybody; and the young kitchen-maid,\nappearing not to know exactly, herself, and scouted by the general\nvoice, is covered with confusion, as with a garment.\n\nAfter a few days, strange people begin to call at the house, and to\nmake appointments with one another in the dining-room, as if they lived\nthere. Especially, there is a gentleman, of a Mosaic Arabian cast\nof countenance, with a very massive watch-guard, who whistles in the\ndrawing-room, and, while he is waiting for the other gentleman, who\nalways has pen and ink in his pocket, asks Mr Towlinson (by the easy\nname of 'Old Cock,') if he happens to know what the figure of them\ncrimson and gold hangings might have been, when new bought. The callers\nand appointments in the dining-room become more numerous every day, and\nevery gentleman seems to have pen and ink in his pocket, and to have\nsome occasion to use it. At last it is said that there is going to be\na Sale; and then more people arrive, with pen and ink in their pockets,\ncommanding a detachment of men with carpet caps, who immediately begin\nto pull up the carpets, and knock the furniture about, and to print off\nthousands of impressions of their shoes upon the hall and staircase.\n\nThe council downstairs are in full conclave all this time, and, having\nnothing to do, perform perfect feats of eating. At length, they are one\nday summoned in a body to Mrs Pipchin's room, and thus addressed by the\nfair Peruvian:\n\n'Your master's in difficulties,' says Mrs Pipchin, tartly. 'You know\nthat, I suppose?'\n\nMr Towlinson, as spokesman, admits a general knowledge of the fact.\n\n'And you're all on the look-out for yourselves, I warrant you,' says Mrs\nPipchin, shaking her head at them.\n\nA shrill voice from the rear exclaims, 'No more than yourself!'\n\n'That's your opinion, Mrs Impudence, is it?' says the ireful Pipchin,\nlooking with a fiery eye over the intermediate heads.\n\n'Yes, Mrs Pipchin, it is,' replies Cook, advancing. 'And what then,\npray?'\n\n'Why, then you may go as soon as you like,' says Mrs Pipchin. 'The\nsooner the better; and I hope I shall never see your face again.'\n\nWith this the doughty Pipchin produces a canvas bag; and tells her wages\nout to that day, and a month beyond it; and clutches the money tight,\nuntil a receipt for the same is duly signed, to the last upstroke; when\nshe grudgingly lets it go. This form of proceeding Mrs Pipchin repeats\nwith every member of the household, until all are paid.\n\n'Now those that choose, can go about their business,' says Mrs Pipchin,\n'and those that choose can stay here on board wages for a week or so,\nand make themselves useful. Except,' says the inflammable Pipchin, 'that\nslut of a cook, who'll go immediately.'\n\n'That,' says Cook, 'she certainly will! I wish you good day, Mrs\nPipchin, and sincerely wish I could compliment you on the sweetness of\nyour appearance!'\n\n'Get along with you,' says Mrs Pipchin, stamping her foot.\n\nCook sails off with an air of beneficent dignity, highly exasperating\nto Mrs Pipchin, and is shortly joined below stairs by the rest of the\nconfederation.\n\nMr Towlinson then says that, in the first place, he would beg to propose\na little snack of something to eat; and over that snack would desire to\noffer a suggestion which he thinks will meet the position in which\nthey find themselves. The refreshment being produced, and very heartily\npartaken of, Mr Towlinson's suggestion is, in effect, that Cook is\ngoing, and that if we are not true to ourselves, nobody will be true\nto us. That they have lived in that house a long time, and exerted\nthemselves very much to be sociable together. (At this, Cook says, with\nemotion, 'Hear, hear!' and Mrs Perch, who is there again, and full to\nthe throat, sheds tears.) And that he thinks, at the present time, the\nfeeling ought to be 'Go one, go all!' The housemaid is much affected by\nthis generous sentiment, and warmly seconds it. Cook says she feels it's\nright, and only hopes it's not done as a compliment to her, but from a\nsense of duty. Mr Towlinson replies, from a sense of duty; and that now\nhe is driven to express his opinions, he will openly say, that he does\nnot think it over-respectable to remain in a house where Sales and\nsuch-like are carrying forwards. The housemaid is sure of it; and\nrelates, in confirmation, that a strange man, in a carpet cap, offered,\nthis very morning, to kiss her on the stairs. Hereupon, Mr Towlinson is\nstarting from his chair, to seek and 'smash' the offender; when he is\nlaid hold on by the ladies, who beseech him to calm himself, and\nto reflect that it is easier and wiser to leave the scene of such\nindecencies at once. Mrs Perch, presenting the case in a new light,\neven shows that delicacy towards Mr Dombey, shut up in his own rooms,\nimperatively demands precipitate retreat. 'For what,' says the good\nwoman, 'must his feelings be, if he was to come upon any of the poor\nservants that he once deceived into thinking him immensely rich!' Cook\nis so struck by this moral consideration, that Mrs Perch improves it\nwith several pious axioms, original and selected. It becomes a clear\ncase that they must all go. Boxes are packed, cabs fetched, and at dusk\nthat evening there is not one member of the party left.\n\nThe house stands, large and weather-proof, in the long dull street; but\nit is a ruin, and the rats fly from it.\n\nThe men in the carpet caps go on tumbling the furniture about; and the\ngentlemen with the pens and ink make out inventories of it, and sit upon\npieces of furniture never made to be sat upon, and eat bread and cheese\nfrom the public-house on other pieces of furniture never made to be\neaten on, and seem to have a delight in appropriating precious articles\nto strange uses. Chaotic combinations of furniture also take place.\nMattresses and bedding appear in the dining-room; the glass and china\nget into the conservatory; the great dinner service is set out in heaps\non the long divan in the large drawing-room; and the stair-wires, made\ninto fasces, decorate the marble chimneypieces. Finally, a rug, with\na printed bill upon it, is hung out from the balcony; and a similar\nappendage graces either side of the hall door.\n\nThen, all day long, there is a retinue of mouldy gigs and chaise-carts\nin the street; and herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian, over-run\nthe house, sounding the plate-glass mirrors with their knuckles, striking\ndiscordant octaves on the Grand Piano, drawing wet forefingers over the\npictures, breathing on the blades of the best dinner-knives, punching\nthe squabs of chairs and sofas with their dirty fists, touzling the\nfeather beds, opening and shutting all the drawers, balancing the silver\nspoons and forks, looking into the very threads of the drapery and\nlinen, and disparaging everything. There is not a secret place in the\nwhole house. Fluffy and snuffy strangers stare into the kitchen-range as\ncuriously as into the attic clothes-press. Stout men with napless hats\non, look out of the bedroom windows, and cut jokes with friends in the\nstreet. Quiet, calculating spirits withdraw into the dressing-rooms with\ncatalogues, and make marginal notes thereon, with stumps of pencils. Two\nbrokers invade the very fire-escape, and take a panoramic survey of the\nneighbourhood from the top of the house. The swarm and buzz, and going\nup and down, endure for days. The Capital Modern Household Furniture,\n&c., is on view.\n\nThen there is a palisade of tables made in the best drawing-room; and\non the capital, french-polished, extending, telescopic range of Spanish\nmahogany dining-tables with turned legs, the pulpit of the Auctioneer\nis erected; and the herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian, the\nstrangers fluffy and snuffy, and the stout men with the napless hats,\ncongregate about it and sit upon everything within reach, mantel-pieces\nincluded, and begin to bid. Hot, humming, and dusty are the rooms all\nday; and--high above the heat, hum, and dust--the head and shoulders,\nvoice and hammer, of the Auctioneer, are ever at work. The men in the\ncarpet caps get flustered and vicious with tumbling the Lots about, and\nstill the Lots are going, going, gone; still coming on. Sometimes\nthere is joking and a general roar. This lasts all day and three days\nfollowing. The Capital Modern Household Furniture, &c., is on sale.\n\nThen the mouldy gigs and chaise-carts reappear; and with them come\nspring-vans and waggons, and an army of porters with knots. All day\nlong, the men with carpet caps are screwing at screw-drivers and\nbed-winches, or staggering by the dozen together on the staircase under\nheavy burdens, or upheaving perfect rocks of Spanish mahogany, best\nrose-wood, or plate-glass, into the gigs and chaise-carts, vans and\nwaggons. All sorts of vehicles of burden are in attendance, from a\ntilted waggon to a wheelbarrow. Poor Paul's little bedstead is carried\noff in a donkey-tandem. For nearly a whole week, the Capital Modern\nHousehold Furniture, & c., is in course of removal.\n\nAt last it is all gone. Nothing is left about the house but scattered\nleaves of catalogues, littered scraps of straw and hay, and a battery of\npewter pots behind the hall-door. The men with the carpet-caps gather up\ntheir screw-drivers and bed-winches into bags, shoulder them, and walk\noff. One of the pen-and-ink gentlemen goes over the house as a last\nattention; sticking up bills in the windows respecting the lease of\nthis desirable family mansion, and shutting the shutters. At length he\nfollows the men with the carpet caps. None of the invaders remain. The\nhouse is a ruin, and the rats fly from it.\n\nMrs Pipchin's apartments, together with those locked rooms on the\nground-floor where the window-blinds are drawn down close, have been\nspared the general devastation. Mrs Pipchin has remained austere and\nstony during the proceedings, in her own room; or has occasionally\nlooked in at the sale to see what the goods are fetching, and to bid for\none particular easy chair. Mrs Pipchin has been the highest bidder for\nthe easy chair, and sits upon her property when Mrs Chick comes to see\nher.\n\n'How is my brother, Mrs Pipchin?' says Mrs Chick.\n\n'I don't know any more than the deuce,' says Mrs Pipchin. 'He never does\nme the honour to speak to me. He has his meat and drink put in the next\nroom to his own; and what he takes, he comes out and takes when there's\nnobody there. It's no use asking me. I know no more about him than the\nman in the south who burnt his mouth by eating cold plum porridge.'\n\nThis the acrimonious Pipchin says with a flounce.\n\n'But good gracious me!' cries Mrs Chick blandly. 'How long is this to\nlast! If my brother will not make an effort, Mrs Pipchin, what is to\nbecome of him? I am sure I should have thought he had seen enough of the\nconsequences of not making an effort, by this time, to be warned against\nthat fatal error.'\n\n'Hoity toity!' says Mrs Pipchin, rubbing her nose. 'There's a great\nfuss, I think, about it. It ain't so wonderful a case. People have had\nmisfortunes before now, and been obliged to part with their furniture.\nI'm sure I have!'\n\n'My brother,' pursues Mrs Chick profoundly, 'is so peculiar--so strange\na man. He is the most peculiar man I ever saw. Would anyone believe that\nwhen he received news of the marriage and emigration of that unnatural\nchild--it's a comfort to me, now, to remember that I always said there\nwas something extraordinary about that child: but nobody minds me--would\nanybody believe, I say, that he should then turn round upon me and say\nhe had supposed, from my manner, that she had come to my house? Why,\nmy gracious! And would anybody believe that when I merely say to him,\n\"Paul, I may be very foolish, and I have no doubt I am, but I cannot\nunderstand how your affairs can have got into this state,\" he should\nactually fly at me, and request that I will come to see him no more\nuntil he asks me! Why, my goodness!'\n\n'Ah!' says Mrs Pipchin. 'It's a pity he hadn't a little more to do with\nmines. They'd have tried his temper for him.'\n\n'And what,' resumes Mrs Chick, quite regardless of Mrs Pipchin's\nobservations, 'is it to end in? That's what I want to know. What does my\nbrother mean to do? He must do something. It's of no use remaining shut\nup in his own rooms. Business won't come to him. No. He must go to it.\nThen why don't he go? He knows where to go, I suppose, having been a man\nof business all his life. Very good. Then why not go there?'\n\nMrs Chick, after forging this powerful chain of reasoning, remains\nsilent for a minute to admire it.\n\n'Besides,' says the discreet lady, with an argumentative air, 'who ever\nheard of such obstinacy as his staying shut up here through all these\ndreadful disagreeables? It's not as if there was no place for him to go\nto. Of course he could have come to our house. He knows he is at home\nthere, I suppose? Mr Chick has perfectly bored about it, and I said\nwith my own lips, \"Why surely, Paul, you don't imagine that because your\naffairs have got into this state, you are the less at home to such near\nrelatives as ourselves? You don't imagine that we are like the rest of\nthe world?\" But no; here he stays all through, and here he is. Why, good\ngracious me, suppose the house was to be let! What would he do then? He\ncouldn't remain here then. If he attempted to do so, there would be an\nejectment, an action for Doe, and all sorts of things; and then he must\ngo. Then why not go at first instead of at last? And that brings me back\nto what I said just now, and I naturally ask what is to be the end of\nit?'\n\n'I know what's to be the end of it, as far as I am concerned,' replies\nMrs Pipchin, 'and that's enough for me. I'm going to take myself off in\na jiffy.'\n\n'In a which, Mrs Pipchin,' says Mrs Chick.\n\n'In a jiffy,' retorts Mrs Pipchin sharply.\n\n'Ah, well! really I can't blame you, Mrs Pipchin,' says Mrs Chick, with\nfrankness.\n\n'It would be pretty much the same to me, if you could,' replies the\nsardonic Pipchin. 'At any rate I'm going. I can't stop here. I should\nbe dead in a week. I had to cook my own pork chop yesterday, and I'm not\nused to it. My constitution will be giving way next. Besides, I had a\nvery fair connexion at Brighton when I came here--little Pankey's folks\nalone were worth a good eighty pounds a-year to me--and I can't afford\nto throw it away. I've written to my niece, and she expects me by this\ntime.'\n\n'Have you spoken to my brother?' inquires Mrs Chick\n\n'Oh, yes, it's very easy to say speak to him,' retorts Mrs Pipchin. 'How\nis it done? I called out to him yesterday, that I was no use here, and\nthat he had better let me send for Mrs Richards. He grunted something\nor other that meant yes, and I sent. Grunt indeed! If he had been Mr\nPipchin, he'd have had some reason to grunt. Yah! I've no patience with\nit!'\n\nHere this exemplary female, who has pumped up so much fortitude and\nvirtue from the depths of the Peruvian mines, rises from her cushioned\nproperty to see Mrs Chick to the door. Mrs Chick, deploring to the\nlast the peculiar character of her brother, noiselessly retires, much\noccupied with her own sagacity and clearness of head.\n\nIn the dusk of the evening Mr Toodle, being off duty, arrives with Polly\nand a box, and leaves them, with a sounding kiss, in the hall of the\nempty house, the retired character of which affects Mr Toodle's spirits\nstrongly.\n\n'I tell you what, Polly, me dear,' says Mr Toodle, 'being now an\ningine-driver, and well to do in the world, I shouldn't allow of your\ncoming here, to be made dull-like, if it warn't for favours past.\nBut favours past, Polly, is never to be forgot. To them which is in\nadversity, besides, your face is a cord'l. So let's have another kiss on\nit, my dear. You wish no better than to do a right act, I know; and my\nviews is, that it's right and dutiful to do this. Good-night, Polly!'\n\nMrs Pipchin by this time looms dark in her black bombazeen skirts, black\nbonnet, and shawl; and has her personal property packed up; and has her\nchair (late a favourite chair of Mr Dombey's and the dead bargain of\nthe sale) ready near the street door; and is only waiting for a fly-van,\ngoing to-night to Brighton on private service, which is to call for her,\nby private contract, and convey her home.\n\nPresently it comes. Mrs Pipchin's wardrobe being handed in and stowed\naway, Mrs Pipchin's chair is next handed in, and placed in a convenient\ncorner among certain trusses of hay; it being the intention of the\namiable woman to occupy the chair during her journey. Mrs Pipchin\nherself is next handed in, and grimly takes her seat. There is a snaky\ngleam in her hard grey eye, as of anticipated rounds of buttered toast,\nrelays of hot chops, worryings and quellings of young children, sharp\nsnappings at poor Berry, and all the other delights of her Ogress's\ncastle. Mrs Pipchin almost laughs as the fly-van drives off, and she\ncomposes her black bombazeen skirts, and settles herself among the\ncushions of her easy chair.\n\nThe house is such a ruin that the rats have fled, and there is not one\nleft.\n\nBut Polly, though alone in the deserted mansion--for there is no\ncompanionship in the shut-up rooms in which its late master hides his\nhead--is not alone long. It is night; and she is sitting at work in the\nhousekeeper's room, trying to forget what a lonely house it is, and what\na history belongs to it; when there is a knock at the hall door, as loud\nsounding as any knock can be, striking into such an empty place. Opening\nit, she returns across the echoing hall, accompanied by a female figure\nin a close black bonnet. It is Miss Tox, and Miss Tox's eyes are red.\n\n'Oh, Polly,' says Miss Tox, 'when I looked in to have a little lesson\nwith the children just now, I got the message that you left for me; and\nas soon as I could recover my spirits at all, I came on after you. Is\nthere no one here but you?'\n\n'Ah! not a soul,' says Polly.\n\n'Have you seen him?' whispers Miss Tox.\n\n'Bless you,' returns Polly, 'no; he has not been seen this many a day.\nThey tell me he never leaves his room.'\n\n'Is he said to be ill?' inquires Miss Tox.\n\n'No, Ma'am, not that I know of,' returns Polly, 'except in his mind. He\nmust be very bad there, poor gentleman!'\n\nMiss Tox's sympathy is such that she can scarcely speak. She is no\nchicken, but she has not grown tough with age and celibacy. Her heart is\nvery tender, her compassion very genuine, her homage very real. Beneath\nthe locket with the fishy eye in it, Miss Tox bears better qualities\nthan many a less whimsical outside; such qualities as will outlive, by\nmany courses of the sun, the best outsides and brightest husks that fall\nin the harvest of the great reaper.\n\nIt is long before Miss Tox goes away, and before Polly, with a candle\nflaring on the blank stairs, looks after her, for company, down the\nstreet, and feels unwilling to go back into the dreary house, and jar\nits emptiness with the heavy fastenings of the door, and glide away to\nbed. But all this Polly does; and in the morning sets in one of those\ndarkened rooms such matters as she has been advised to prepare, and then\nretires and enters them no more until next morning at the same hour.\nThere are bells there, but they never ring; and though she can sometimes\nhear a footfall going to and fro, it never comes out.\n\nMiss Tox returns early in the day. It then begins to be Miss Tox's\noccupation to prepare little dainties--or what are such to her--to be\ncarried into these rooms next morning. She derives so much satisfaction\nfrom the pursuit, that she enters on it regularly from that time; and\nbrings daily in her little basket, various choice condiments selected\nfrom the scanty stores of the deceased owner of the powdered head and\npigtail. She likewise brings, in sheets of curl-paper, morsels of\ncold meats, tongues of sheep, halves of fowls, for her own dinner; and\nsharing these collations with Polly, passes the greater part of her time\nin the ruined house that the rats have fled from: hiding, in a fright\nat every sound, stealing in and out like a criminal; only desiring to be\ntrue to the fallen object of her admiration, unknown to him, unknown to\nall the world but one poor simple woman.\n\nThe Major knows it; but no one is the wiser for that, though the Major\nis much the merrier. The Major, in a fit of curiosity, has charged\nthe Native to watch the house sometimes, and find out what becomes of\nDombey. The Native has reported Miss Tox's fidelity, and the Major has\nnearly choked himself dead with laughter. He is permanently bluer from\nthat hour, and constantly wheezes to himself, his lobster eyes starting\nout of his head, 'Damme, Sir, the woman's a born idiot!'\n\nAnd the ruined man. How does he pass the hours, alone?\n\n'Let him remember it in that room, years to come!' He did remember it.\nIt was heavy on his mind now; heavier than all the rest.\n\n'Let him remember it in that room, years to come! The rain that\nfalls upon the roof, the wind that mourns outside the door, may have\nforeknowledge in their melancholy sound. Let him remember it in that\nroom, years to come!'\n\nHe did remember it. In the miserable night he thought of it; in the\ndreary day, the wretched dawn, the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight.\nHe did remember it. In agony, in sorrow, in remorse, in despair! 'Papa!\nPapa! Speak to me, dear Papa!' He heard the words again, and saw\nthe face. He saw it fall upon the trembling hands, and heard the one\nprolonged low cry go upward.\n\nHe was fallen, never to be raised up any more. For the night of his\nworldly ruin there was no to-morrow's sun; for the stain of his domestic\nshame there was no purification; nothing, thank Heaven, could bring his\ndead child back to life. But that which he might have made so different\nin all the Past--which might have made the Past itself so different,\nthough this he hardly thought of now--that which was his own work,\nthat which he could so easily have wrought into a blessing, and had set\nhimself so steadily for years to form into a curse: that was the sharp\ngrief of his soul.\n\nOh! He did remember it! The rain that fell upon the roof, the wind that\nmourned outside the door that night, had had foreknowledge in their\nmelancholy sound. He knew, now, what he had done. He knew, now, that\nhe had called down that upon his head, which bowed it lower than the\nheaviest stroke of fortune. He knew, now, what it was to be rejected and\ndeserted; now, when every loving blossom he had withered in his innocent\ndaughter's heart was snowing down in ashes on him.\n\nHe thought of her, as she had been that night when he and his bride came\nhome. He thought of her as she had been, in all the home-events of the\nabandoned house. He thought, now, that of all around him, she alone had\nnever changed. His boy had faded into dust, his proud wife had sunk into\na polluted creature, his flatterer and friend had been transformed into\nthe worst of villains, his riches had melted away, the very walls that\nsheltered him looked on him as a stranger; she alone had turned the same\nmild gentle look upon him always. Yes, to the latest and the last. She\nhad never changed to him--nor had he ever changed to her--and she was\nlost.\n\nAs, one by one, they fell away before his mind--his baby--hope, his\nwife, his friend, his fortune--oh how the mist, through which he had\nseen her, cleared, and showed him her true self! Oh, how much better\nthan this that he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he\nhad his boy, and laid them in their early grave together!\n\nIn his pride--for he was proud yet--he let the world go from him freely.\nAs it fell away, he shook it off. Whether he imagined its face as\nexpressing pity for him, or indifference to him, he shunned it alike. It\nwas in the same degree to be avoided, in either aspect. He had no idea\nof any one companion in his misery, but the one he had driven away. What\nhe would have said to her, or what consolation submitted to receive from\nher, he never pictured to himself. But he always knew she would have\nbeen true to him, if he had suffered her. He always knew she would have\nloved him better now, than at any other time; he was as certain that it\nwas in her nature, as he was that there was a sky above him; and he sat\nthinking so, in his loneliness, from hour to hour. Day after day uttered\nthis speech; night after night showed him this knowledge.\n\nIt began, beyond all doubt (however slow it advanced for some time), in\nthe receipt of her young husband's letter, and the certainty that she\nwas gone. And yet--so proud he was in his ruin, or so reminiscent of\nher only as something that might have been his, but was lost beyond\nredemption--that if he could have heard her voice in an adjoining room,\nhe would not have gone to her. If he could have seen her in the street,\nand she had done no more than look at him as she had been used to look,\nhe would have passed on with his old cold unforgiving face, and not\naddressed her, or relaxed it, though his heart should have broken soon\nafterwards. However turbulent his thoughts, or harsh his anger had been,\nat first, concerning her marriage, or her husband, that was all past\nnow. He chiefly thought of what might have been, and what was not. What\nwas, was all summed up in this: that she was lost, and he bowed down\nwith sorrow and remorse.\n\nAnd now he felt that he had had two children born to him in that house,\nand that between him and the bare wide empty walls there was a tie,\nmournful, but hard to rend asunder, connected with a double childhood,\nand a double loss. He had thought to leave the house--knowing he must\ngo, not knowing whither--upon the evening of the day on which this\nfeeling first struck root in his breast; but he resolved to stay another\nnight, and in the night to ramble through the rooms once more.\n\nHe came out of his solitude when it was the dead of night, and with\na candle in his hand went softly up the stairs. Of all the footmarks\nthere, making them as common as the common street, there was not one, he\nthought, but had seemed at the time to set itself upon his brain while\nhe had kept close, listening. He looked at their number, and their\nhurry, and contention--foot treading foot out, and upward track and\ndownward jostling one another--and thought, with absolute dread and\nwonder, how much he must have suffered during that trial, and what\na changed man he had cause to be. He thought, besides, oh was there,\nsomewhere in the world, a light footstep that might have worn out in a\nmoment half those marks!--and bent his head, and wept as he went up.\n\nHe almost saw it, going on before. He stopped, looking up towards the\nskylight; and a figure, childish itself, but carrying a child, and\nsinging as it went, seemed to be there again. Anon, it was the same\nfigure, alone, stopping for an instant, with suspended breath; the\nbright hair clustering loosely round its tearful face; and looking back\nat him.\n\nHe wandered through the rooms: lately so luxurious; now so bare and\ndismal and so changed, apparently, even in their shape and size. The\npress of footsteps was as thick here; and the same consideration of the\nsuffering he had had, perplexed and terrified him. He began to fear\nthat all this intricacy in his brain would drive him mad; and that his\nthoughts already lost coherence as the footprints did, and were pieced\non to one another, with the same trackless involutions, and varieties of\nindistinct shapes.\n\nHe did not so much as know in which of these rooms she had lived, when\nshe was alone. He was glad to leave them, and go wandering higher up.\nAbundance of associations were here, connected with his false wife, his\nfalse friend and servant, his false grounds of pride; but he put\nthem all by now, and only recalled miserably, weakly, fondly, his two\nchildren.\n\nEverywhere, the footsteps! They had had no respect for the old room high\nup, where the little bed had been; he could hardly find a clear space\nthere, to throw himself down, on the floor, against the wall, poor\nbroken man, and let his tears flow as they would. He had shed so many\ntears here, long ago, that he was less ashamed of his weakness in this\nplace than in any other--perhaps, with that consciousness, had made\nexcuses to himself for coming here. Here, with stooping shoulders, and\nhis chin dropped on his breast, he had come. Here, thrown upon the bare\nboards, in the dead of night, he wept, alone--a proud man, even then;\nwho, if a kind hand could have been stretched out, or a kind face could\nhave looked in, would have risen up, and turned away, and gone down to\nhis cell.\n\nWhen the day broke he was shut up in his rooms again. He had meant to\ngo away to-day, but clung to this tie in the house as the last and only\nthing left to him. He would go to-morrow. To-morrow came. He would go\nto-morrow. Every night, within the knowledge of no human creature, he\ncame forth, and wandered through the despoiled house like a ghost. Many\na morning when the day broke, his altered face, drooping behind the\nclosed blind in his window, imperfectly transparent to the light as yet,\npondered on the loss of his two children. It was one child no more. He\nreunited them in his thoughts, and they were never asunder. Oh, that he\ncould have united them in his past love, and in death, and that one had\nnot been so much worse than dead!\n\nStrong mental agitation and disturbance was no novelty to him, even\nbefore his late sufferings. It never is, to obstinate and sullen\nnatures; for they struggle hard to be such. Ground, long undermined,\nwill often fall down in a moment; what was undermined here in so many\nways, weakened, and crumbled, little by little, more and more, as the\nhand moved on the dial.\n\nAt last he began to think he need not go at all. He might yet give up\nwhat his creditors had spared him (that they had not spared him more,\nwas his own act), and only sever the tie between him and the ruined\nhouse, by severing that other link--\n\nIt was then that his footfall was audible in the late housekeeper's\nroom, as he walked to and fro; but not audible in its true meaning, or\nit would have had an appalling sound.\n\nThe world was very busy and restless about him. He became aware of that\nagain. It was whispering and babbling. It was never quiet. This, and\nthe intricacy and complication of the footsteps, harassed him to death.\nObjects began to take a bleared and russet colour in his eyes. Dombey\nand Son was no more--his children no more. This must be thought of,\nwell, to-morrow.\n\nHe thought of it to-morrow; and sitting thinking in his chair, saw in\nthe glass, from time to time, this picture:\n\nA spectral, haggard, wasted likeness of himself, brooded and brooded\nover the empty fireplace. Now it lifted up its head, examining the lines\nand hollows in its face; now hung it down again, and brooded afresh. Now\nit rose and walked about; now passed into the next room, and came\nback with something from the dressing-table in its breast. Now, it was\nlooking at the bottom of the door, and thinking.\n\n--Hush! what?\n\nIt was thinking that if blood were to trickle that way, and to leak out\ninto the hall, it must be a long time going so far. It would move so\nstealthily and slowly, creeping on, with here a lazy little pool, and\nthere a start, and then another little pool, that a desperately wounded\nman could only be discovered through its means, either dead or dying.\nWhen it had thought of this a long while, it got up again, and walked to\nand fro with its hand in its breast. He glanced at it occasionally, very\ncurious to watch its motions, and he marked how wicked and murderous that\nhand looked.\n\nNow it was thinking again! What was it thinking?\n\nWhether they would tread in the blood when it crept so far, and carry\nit about the house among those many prints of feet, or even out into the\nstreet.\n\nIt sat down, with its eyes upon the empty fireplace, and as it lost\nitself in thought there shone into the room a gleam of light; a ray of\nsun. It was quite unmindful, and sat thinking. Suddenly it rose, with\na terrible face, and that guilty hand grasping what was in its breast.\nThen it was arrested by a cry--a wild, loud, piercing, loving, rapturous\ncry--and he only saw his own reflection in the glass, and at his knees,\nhis daughter!\n\nYes. His daughter! Look at her! Look here! Down upon the ground,\nclinging to him, calling to him, folding her hands, praying to him.\n\n'Papa! Dearest Papa! Pardon me, forgive me! I have come back to ask\nforgiveness on my knees. I never can be happy more, without it!'\n\nUnchanged still. Of all the world, unchanged. Raising the same face to\nhis, as on that miserable night. Asking his forgiveness!\n\n'Dear Papa, oh don't look strangely on me! I never meant to leave you. I\nnever thought of it, before or afterwards. I was frightened when I went\naway, and could not think. Papa, dear, I am changed. I am penitent. I\nknow my fault. I know my duty better now. Papa, don't cast me off, or I\nshall die!'\n\nHe tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms about her neck; he\nfelt her put her own round his; he felt her kisses on his face; he felt\nher wet cheek laid against his own; he felt--oh, how deeply!--all that\nhe had done.\n\nUpon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart that he had\nalmost broken, she laid his face, now covered with his hands, and said,\nsobbing:\n\n'Papa, love, I am a mother. I have a child who will soon call Walter by\nthe name by which I call you. When it was born, and when I knew how\nmuch I loved it, I knew what I had done in leaving you. Forgive me, dear\nPapa! oh say God bless me, and my little child!'\n\nHe would have said it, if he could. He would have raised his hands and\nbesought her for pardon, but she caught them in her own, and put them\ndown, hurriedly.\n\n'My little child was born at sea, Papa I prayed to God (and so did\nWalter for me) to spare me, that I might come home. The moment I could\nland, I came back to you. Never let us be parted any more, Papa. Never\nlet us be parted any more!'\n\nHis head, now grey, was encircled by her arm; and he groaned to think\nthat never, never, had it rested so before.\n\n'You will come home with me, Papa, and see my baby. A boy, Papa. His\nname is Paul. I think--I hope--he's like--'\n\nHer tears stopped her.\n\n'Dear Papa, for the sake of my child, for the sake of the name we have\ngiven him, for my sake, pardon Walter. He is so kind and tender to me. I\nam so happy with him. It was not his fault that we were married. It was\nmine. I loved him so much.'\n\nShe clung closer to him, more endearing and more earnest.\n\n'He is the darling of my heart, Papa I would die for him. He will love\nand honour you as I will. We will teach our little child to love and\nhonour you; and we will tell him, when he can understand, that you had\na son of that name once, and that he died, and you were very sorry; but\nthat he is gone to Heaven, where we all hope to see him when our\ntime for resting comes. Kiss me, Papa, as a promise that you will be\nreconciled to Walter--to my dearest husband--to the father of the little\nchild who taught me to come back, Papa Who taught me to come back!'\n\nAs she clung closer to him, in another burst of tears, he kissed her on\nher lips, and, lifting up his eyes, said, 'Oh my God, forgive me, for I\nneed it very much!'\n\nWith that he dropped his head again, lamenting over and caressing her,\nand there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long time; they\nremaining clasped in one another's arms, in the glorious sunshine that\nhad crept in with Florence.\n\nHe dressed himself for going out, with a docile submission to her\nentreaty; and walking with a feeble gait, and looking back, with a\ntremble, at the room in which he had been so long shut up, and where he\nhad seen the picture in the glass, passed out with her into the hall.\nFlorence, hardly glancing round her, lest she should remind him freshly\nof their last parting--for their feet were on the very stones where he\nhad struck her in his madness--and keeping close to him, with her eyes\nupon his face, and his arm about her, led him out to a coach that was\nwaiting at the door, and carried him away.\n\nThen, Miss Tox and Polly came out of their concealment, and exulted\ntearfully. And then they packed his clothes, and books, and so forth,\nwith great care; and consigned them in due course to certain persons\nsent by Florence, in the evening, to fetch them. And then they took a\nlast cup of tea in the lonely house.\n\n'And so Dombey and Son, as I observed upon a certain sad occasion,' said\nMiss Tox, winding up a host of recollections, 'is indeed a daughter,\nPolly, after all.'\n\n'And a good one!' exclaimed Polly.\n\n'You are right,' said Miss Tox; 'and it's a credit to you, Polly, that\nyou were always her friend when she was a little child. You were her\nfriend long before I was, Polly,' said Miss Tox; 'and you're a good\ncreature. Robin!'\n\nMiss Tox addressed herself to a bullet-headed young man, who appeared to\nbe in but indifferent circumstances, and in depressed spirits, and who\nwas sitting in a remote corner. Rising, he disclosed to view the form\nand features of the Grinder.\n\n'Robin,' said Miss Tox, 'I have just observed to your mother, as you may\nhave heard, that she is a good creature.'\n\n'And so she is, Miss,' quoth the Grinder, with some feeling.\n\n'Very well, Robin,' said Miss Tox, 'I am glad to hear you say so. Now,\nRobin, as I am going to give you a trial, at your urgent request, as my\ndomestic, with a view to your restoration to respectability, I will take\nthis impressive occasion of remarking that I hope you will never forget\nthat you have, and have always had, a good mother, and that you will\nendeavour so to conduct yourself as to be a comfort to her.'\n\n'Upon my soul I will, Miss,' returned the Grinder. 'I have come through\na good deal, and my intentions is now as straightfor'ard, Miss, as a\ncove's--'\n\n'I must get you to break yourself of that word, Robin, if you please,'\ninterposed Miss Tox, politely.\n\n'If you please, Miss, as a chap's--'\n\n'Thankee, Robin, no,' returned Miss Tox, 'I should prefer individual.'\n\n'As a indiwiddle's--,' said the Grinder.\n\n'Much better,' remarked Miss Tox, complacently; 'infinitely more\nexpressive!'\n\n'--can be,' pursued Rob. 'If I hadn't been and got made a Grinder on,\nMiss and Mother, which was a most unfortunate circumstance for a young\nco--indiwiddle--'\n\n'Very good indeed,' observed Miss Tox, approvingly.\n\n'--and if I hadn't been led away by birds, and then fallen into a bad\nservice,' said the Grinder, 'I hope I might have done better. But it's\nnever too late for a--'\n\n'Indi--' suggested Miss Tox.\n\n'--widdle,' said the Grinder, 'to mend; and I hope to mend, Miss, with\nyour kind trial; and wishing, Mother, my love to father, and brothers\nand sisters, and saying of it.'\n\n'I am very glad indeed to hear it,' observed Miss Tox. 'Will you take a\nlittle bread and butter, and a cup of tea, before we go, Robin?'\n\n'Thankee, Miss,' returned the Grinder; who immediately began to use his\nown personal grinders in a most remarkable manner, as if he had been on\nvery short allowance for a considerable period.\n\nMiss Tox, being, in good time, bonneted and shawled, and Polly too, Rob\nhugged his mother, and followed his new mistress away; so much to the\nhopeful admiration of Polly, that something in her eyes made luminous\nrings round the gas-lamps as she looked after him. Polly then put out\nher light, locked the house-door, delivered the key at an agent's hard\nby, and went home as fast as she could go; rejoicing in the shrill\ndelight that her unexpected arrival would occasion there. The great\nhouse, dumb as to all that had been suffered in it, and the changes it\nhad witnessed, stood frowning like a dark mute on the street; baulking\nany nearer inquiries with the staring announcement that the lease of\nthis desirable Family Mansion was to be disposed of.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 60. Chiefly Matrimonial\n\n\nThe grand half-yearly festival holden by Doctor and Mrs Blimber, on\nwhich occasion they requested the pleasure of the company of every young\ngentleman pursuing his studies in that genteel establishment, at an\nearly party, when the hour was half-past seven o'clock, and when the\nobject was quadrilles, had duly taken place, about this time; and\nthe young gentlemen, with no unbecoming demonstrations of levity, had\nbetaken themselves, in a state of scholastic repletion, to their\nown homes. Mr Skettles had repaired abroad, permanently to grace the\nestablishment of his father Sir Barnet Skettles, whose popular manners\nhad obtained him a diplomatic appointment, the honours of which were\ndischarged by himself and Lady Skettles, to the satisfaction even of\ntheir own countrymen and countrywomen: which was considered almost\nmiraculous. Mr Tozer, now a young man of lofty stature, in Wellington\nboots, was so extremely full of antiquity as to be nearly on a par with\na genuine ancient Roman in his knowledge of English: a triumph that\naffected his good parents with the tenderest emotions, and caused\nthe father and mother of Mr Briggs (whose learning, like ill-arranged\nluggage, was so tightly packed that he couldn't get at anything he\nwanted) to hide their diminished heads. The fruit laboriously gathered\nfrom the tree of knowledge by this latter young gentleman, in fact,\nhad been subjected to so much pressure, that it had become a kind of\nintellectual Norfolk Biffin, and had nothing of its original form or\nflavour remaining. Master Bitherstone now, on whom the forcing system\nhad the happier and not uncommon effect of leaving no impression\nwhatever, when the forcing apparatus ceased to work, was in a much more\ncomfortable plight; and being then on shipboard, bound for Bengal, found\nhimself forgetting, with such admirable rapidity, that it was doubtful\nwhether his declensions of noun-substantives would hold out to the end\nof the voyage.\n\nWhen Doctor Blimber, in pursuance of the usual course, would have said\nto the young gentlemen, on the morning of the party, 'Gentlemen, we will\nresume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next month,' he departed from\nthe usual course, and said, 'Gentlemen, when our friend Cincinnatus\nretired to his farm, he did not present to the senate any Roman who he\nsought to nominate as his successor. But there is a Roman here,' said\nDoctor Blimber, laying his hand on the shoulder of Mr Feeder, B.A.,\n'adolescens imprimis gravis et doctus, gentlemen, whom I, a retiring\nCincinnatus, wish to present to my little senate, as their future\nDictator. Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of\nnext month, under the auspices of Mr Feeder, B.A.' At this (which\nDoctor Blimber had previously called upon all the parents, and urbanely\nexplained), the young gentlemen cheered; and Mr Tozer, on behalf of the\nrest, instantly presented the Doctor with a silver inkstand, in a speech\ncontaining very little of the mother-tongue, but fifteen quotations\nfrom the Latin, and seven from the Greek, which moved the younger of the\nyoung gentlemen to discontent and envy: they remarking, 'Oh, ah. It was\nall very well for old Tozer, but they didn't subscribe money for old\nTozer to show off with, they supposed; did they? What business was it\nof old Tozer's more than anybody else's? It wasn't his inkstand.\nWhy couldn't he leave the boys' property alone?' and murmuring other\nexpressions of their dissatisfaction, which seemed to find a greater\nrelief in calling him old Tozer, than in any other available vent.\n\nNot a word had been said to the young gentlemen, nor a hint dropped, of\nanything like a contemplated marriage between Mr Feeder, B.A., and the\nfair Cornelia Blimber. Doctor Blimber, especially, seemed to take pains\nto look as if nothing would surprise him more; but it was perfectly well\nknown to all the young gentlemen nevertheless, and when they departed\nfor the society of their relations and friends, they took leave of Mr\nFeeder with awe.\n\nMr Feeder's most romantic visions were fulfilled. The Doctor had\ndetermined to paint the house outside, and put it in thorough repair;\nand to give up the business, and to give up Cornelia. The painting and\nrepairing began upon the very day of the young gentlemen's departure,\nand now behold! the wedding morning was come, and Cornelia, in a new\npair of spectacles, was waiting to be led to the hymeneal altar.\n\nThe Doctor with his learned legs, and Mrs Blimber in a lilac bonnet, and\nMr Feeder, B.A., with his long knuckles and his bristly head of hair,\nand Mr Feeder's brother, the Reverend Alfred Feeder, M.A., who was\nto perform the ceremony, were all assembled in the drawing-room, and\nCornelia with her orange-flowers and bridesmaids had just come down, and\nlooked, as of old, a little squeezed in appearance, but very charming,\nwhen the door opened, and the weak-eyed young man, in a loud voice, made\nthe following proclamation:\n\n'MR AND MRS TOOTS!'\n\nUpon which there entered Mr Toots, grown extremely stout, and on his arm\na lady very handsomely and becomingly dressed, with very bright black\neyes.\n\n'Mrs Blimber,' said Mr Toots, 'allow me to present my wife.'\n\nMrs Blimber was delighted to receive her. Mrs Blimber was a little\ncondescending, but extremely kind.\n\n'And as you've known me for a long time, you know,' said Mr Toots, 'let\nme assure you that she is one of the most remarkable women that ever\nlived.'\n\n'My dear!' remonstrated Mrs Toots.\n\n'Upon my word and honour she is,' said Mr Toots. 'I--I assure you, Mrs\nBlimber, she's a most extraordinary woman.'\n\nMrs Toots laughed merrily, and Mrs Blimber led her to Cornelia. Mr Toots\nhaving paid his respects in that direction and having saluted his old\npreceptor, who said, in allusion to his conjugal state, 'Well, Toots,\nwell, Toots! So you are one of us, are you, Toots?'--retired with Mr\nFeeder, B.A., into a window.\n\nMr Feeder, B.A., being in great spirits, made a spar at Mr Toots, and\ntapped him skilfully with the back of his hand on the breastbone.\n\n'Well, old Buck!' said Mr Feeder with a laugh. 'Well! Here we are! Taken\nin and done for. Eh?'\n\n'Feeder,' returned Mr Toots. 'I give you joy. If you're as--as--as\nperfectly blissful in a matrimonial life, as I am myself, you'll have\nnothing to desire.'\n\n'I don't forget my old friends, you see,' said Mr Feeder. 'I ask em to\nmy wedding, Toots.'\n\n'Feeder,' replied Mr Toots gravely, 'the fact is, that there were\nseveral circumstances which prevented me from communicating with you\nuntil after my marriage had been solemnised. In the first place, I had\nmade a perfect brute of myself to you, on the subject of Miss Dombey;\nand I felt that if you were asked to any wedding of mine, you\nwould naturally expect that it was with Miss Dombey, which involved\nexplanations, that upon my word and honour, at that crisis, would\nhave knocked me completely over. In the second place, our wedding was\nstrictly private; there being nobody present but one friend of myself\nand Mrs Toots's, who is a Captain in--I don't exactly know in what,'\nsaid Mr Toots, 'but it's of no consequence. I hope, Feeder, that in\nwriting a statement of what had occurred before Mrs Toots and myself\nwent abroad upon our foreign tour, I fully discharged the offices of\nfriendship.'\n\n'Toots, my boy,' said Mr Feeder, shaking his hands, 'I was joking.'\n\n'And now, Feeder,' said Mr Toots, 'I should be glad to know what you\nthink of my union.'\n\n'Capital!' returned Mr Feeder.\n\n'You think it's capital, do you, Feeder?' said Mr Toots solemnly.\n'Then how capital must it be to Me! For you can never know what an\nextraordinary woman that is.'\n\nMr Feeder was willing to take it for granted. But Mr Toots shook his\nhead, and wouldn't hear of that being possible.\n\n'You see,' said Mr Toots, 'what I wanted in a wife was--in short, was\nsense. Money, Feeder, I had. Sense I--I had not, particularly.'\n\nMr Feeder murmured, 'Oh, yes, you had, Toots!' But Mr Toots said:\n\n'No, Feeder, I had not. Why should I disguise it? I had not. I knew that\nsense was There,' said Mr Toots, stretching out his hand towards his\nwife, 'in perfect heaps. I had no relation to object or be offended, on\nthe score of station; for I had no relation. I have never had anybody\nbelonging to me but my guardian, and him, Feeder, I have always\nconsidered as a Pirate and a Corsair. Therefore, you know it was not\nlikely,' said Mr Toots, 'that I should take his opinion.'\n\n'No,' said Mr Feeder.\n\n'Accordingly,' resumed Mr Toots, 'I acted on my own. Bright was the day\non which I did so! Feeder! Nobody but myself can tell what the capacity\nof that woman's mind is. If ever the Rights of Women, and all that kind\nof thing, are properly attended to, it will be through her powerful\nintellect--Susan, my dear!' said Mr Toots, looking abruptly out of the\nwindows 'pray do not exert yourself!'\n\n'My dear,' said Mrs Toots, 'I was only talking.'\n\n'But, my love,' said Mr Toots, 'pray do not exert yourself. You really\nmust be careful. Do not, my dear Susan, exert yourself. She's so easily\nexcited,' said Mr Toots, apart to Mrs Blimber, 'and then she forgets the\nmedical man altogether.'\n\nMrs Blimber was impressing on Mrs Toots the necessity of caution, when\nMr Feeder, B.A., offered her his arm, and led her down to the carriages\nthat were waiting to go to church. Doctor Blimber escorted Mrs Toots. Mr\nToots escorted the fair bride, around whose lambent spectacles two gauzy\nlittle bridesmaids fluttered like moths. Mr Feeder's brother, Mr Alfred\nFeeder, M.A., had already gone on, in advance, to assume his official\nfunctions.\n\nThe ceremony was performed in an admirable manner. Cornelia, with her\ncrisp little curls, 'went in,' as the Chicken might have said, with\ngreat composure; and Doctor Blimber gave her away, like a man who had\nquite made up his mind to it. The gauzy little bridesmaids appeared\nto suffer most. Mrs Blimber was affected, but gently so; and told the\nReverend Mr Alfred Feeder, M.A., on the way home, that if she could only\nhave seen Cicero in his retirement at Tusculum, she would not have had a\nwish, now, ungratified.\n\nThere was a breakfast afterwards, limited to the same small party;\nat which the spirits of Mr Feeder, B.A., were tremendous, and so\ncommunicated themselves to Mrs Toots that Mr Toots was several times\nheard to observe, across the table, 'My dear Susan, don't exert\nyourself!' The best of it was, that Mr Toots felt it incumbent on him to\nmake a speech; and in spite of a whole code of telegraphic dissuasions\nfrom Mrs Toots, appeared on his legs for the first time in his life.\n\n'I really,' said Mr Toots, 'in this house, where whatever was done to\nme in the way of--of any mental confusion sometimes--which is of no\nconsequence and I impute to nobody--I was always treated like one of\nDoctor Blimber's family, and had a desk to myself for a considerable\nperiod--can--not--allow--my friend Feeder to be--'\n\nMrs Toots suggested 'married.'\n\n'It may not be inappropriate to the occasion, or altogether\nuninteresting,' said Mr Toots with a delighted face, 'to observe that my\nwife is a most extraordinary woman, and would do this much better than\nmyself--allow my friend Feeder to be married--especially to--'\n\nMrs Toots suggested 'to Miss Blimber.'\n\n'To Mrs Feeder, my love!' said Mr Toots, in a subdued tone of private\ndiscussion: \"'whom God hath joined,\" you know, \"let no man\"--don't you\nknow? I cannot allow my friend Feeder to be married--especially to Mrs\nFeeder--without proposing their--their--Toasts; and may,' said Mr Toots,\nfixing his eyes on his wife, as if for inspiration in a high flight,\n'may the torch of Hymen be the beacon of joy, and may the flowers\nwe have this day strewed in their path, be the--the banishers of--of\ngloom!'\n\nDoctor Blimber, who had a taste for metaphor, was pleased with this, and\nsaid, 'Very good, Toots! Very well said, indeed, Toots!' and nodded\nhis head and patted his hands. Mr Feeder made in reply, a comic speech\nchequered with sentiment. Mr Alfred Feeder, M.A., was afterwards very\nhappy on Doctor and Mrs Blimber; Mr Feeder, B.A., scarcely less so, on\nthe gauzy little bridesmaids. Doctor Blimber then, in a sonorous voice,\ndelivered a few thoughts in the pastoral style, relative to the rushes\namong which it was the intention of himself and Mrs Blimber to dwell,\nand the bee that would hum around their cot. Shortly after which, as the\nDoctor's eyes were twinkling in a remarkable manner, and his son-in-law\nhad already observed that time was made for slaves, and had inquired\nwhether Mrs Toots sang, the discreet Mrs Blimber dissolved the sitting,\nand sent Cornelia away, very cool and comfortable, in a post-chaise,\nwith the man of her heart.\n\nMr and Mrs Toots withdrew to the Bedford (Mrs Toots had been there\nbefore in old times, under her maiden name of Nipper), and there found\na letter, which it took Mr Toots such an enormous time to read, that Mrs\nToots was frightened.\n\n'My dear Susan,' said Mr Toots, 'fright is worse than exertion. Pray be\ncalm!'\n\n'Who is it from?' asked Mrs Toots.\n\n'Why, my love,' said Mr Toots, 'it's from Captain Gills. Do not excite\nyourself. Walters and Miss Dombey are expected home!'\n\n'My dear,' said Mrs Toots, raising herself quickly from the sofa, very\npale, 'don't try to deceive me, for it's no use, they're come home--I\nsee it plainly in your face!'\n\n'She's a most extraordinary woman!' exclaimed Mr Toots, in rapturous\nadmiration. 'You're perfectly right, my love, they have come home. Miss\nDombey has seen her father, and they are reconciled!'\n\n'Reconciled!' cried Mrs Toots, clapping her hands.\n\n'My dear,' said Mr Toots; 'pray do not exert yourself. Do remember the\nmedical man! Captain Gills says--at least he don't say, but I imagine,\nfrom what I can make out, he means--that Miss Dombey has brought her\nunfortunate father away from his old house, to one where she and Walters\nare living; that he is lying very ill there--supposed to be dying; and\nthat she attends upon him night and day.'\n\nMrs Toots began to cry quite bitterly.\n\n'My dearest Susan,' replied Mr Toots, 'do, do, if you possibly can,\nremember the medical man! If you can't, it's of no consequence--but do\nendeavour to!'\n\nHis wife, with her old manner suddenly restored, so pathetically\nentreated him to take her to her precious pet, her little mistress, her\nown darling, and the like, that Mr Toots, whose sympathy and admiration\nwere of the strongest kind, consented from his very heart of hearts; and\nthey agreed to depart immediately, and present themselves in answer to\nthe Captain's letter.\n\nNow some hidden sympathies of things, or some coincidences, had that\nday brought the Captain himself (toward whom Mr and Mrs Toots were soon\njourneying) into the flowery train of wedlock; not as a principal, but\nas an accessory. It happened accidentally, and thus:\n\nThe Captain, having seen Florence and her baby for a moment, to his\nunbounded content, and having had a long talk with Walter, turned out\nfor a walk; feeling it necessary to have some solitary meditation on the\nchanges of human affairs, and to shake his glazed hat profoundly over\nthe fall of Mr Dombey, for whom the generosity and simplicity of his\nnature were awakened in a lively manner. The Captain would have been\nvery low, indeed, on the unhappy gentleman's account, but for the\nrecollection of the baby; which afforded him such intense satisfaction\nwhenever it arose, that he laughed aloud as he went along the street,\nand, indeed, more than once, in a sudden impulse of joy, threw up his\nglazed hat and caught it again; much to the amazement of the spectators.\nThe rapid alternations of light and shade to which these two conflicting\nsubjects of reflection exposed the Captain, were so very trying to his\nspirits, that he felt a long walk necessary to his composure; and as\nthere is a great deal in the influence of harmonious associations, he\nchose, for the scene of this walk, his old neighbourhood, down among\nthe mast, oar, and block makers, ship-biscuit bakers, coal-whippers,\npitch-kettles, sailors, canals, docks, swing-bridges, and other soothing\nobjects.\n\nThese peaceful scenes, and particularly the region of Limehouse Hole and\nthereabouts, were so influential in calming the Captain, that he walked\non with restored tranquillity, and was, in fact, regaling himself, under\nhis breath, with the ballad of Lovely Peg, when, on turning a corner,\nhe was suddenly transfixed and rendered speechless by a triumphant\nprocession that he beheld advancing towards him.\n\nThis awful demonstration was headed by that determined woman Mrs\nMacStinger, who, preserving a countenance of inexorable resolution, and\nwearing conspicuously attached to her obdurate bosom a stupendous watch\nand appendages, which the Captain recognised at a glance as the property\nof Bunsby, conducted under her arm no other than that sagacious mariner;\nhe, with the distraught and melancholy visage of a captive borne into a\nforeign land, meekly resigning himself to her will. Behind them appeared\nthe young MacStingers, in a body, exulting. Behind them, two ladies\nof a terrible and steadfast aspect, leading between them a short\ngentleman in a tall hat, who likewise exulted. In the wake, appeared\nBunsby's boy, bearing umbrellas. The whole were in good marching order;\nand a dreadful smartness that pervaded the party would have sufficiently\nannounced, if the intrepid countenances of the ladies had been wanting,\nthat it was a procession of sacrifice, and that the victim was Bunsby.\n\nThe first impulse of the Captain was to run away. This also appeared\nto be the first impulse of Bunsby, hopeless as its execution must\nhave proved. But a cry of recognition proceeding from the party, and\nAlexander MacStinger running up to the Captain with open arms, the\nCaptain struck.\n\n'Well, Cap'en Cuttle!' said Mrs MacStinger. 'This is indeed a meeting! I\nbear no malice now, Cap'en Cuttle--you needn't fear that I'm a going to\ncast any reflections. I hope to go to the altar in another spirit.' Here\nMrs MacStinger paused, and drawing herself up, and inflating her bosom\nwith a long breath, said, in allusion to the victim, 'My 'usband, Cap'en\nCuttle!'\n\nThe abject Bunsby looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor at\nhis bride, nor at his friend, but straight before him at nothing. The\nCaptain putting out his hand, Bunsby put out his; but, in answer to the\nCaptain's greeting, spake no word.\n\n'Cap'en Cuttle,' said Mrs MacStinger, 'if you would wish to heal up past\nanimosities, and to see the last of your friend, my 'usband, as a single\nperson, we should be 'appy of your company to chapel. Here is a lady\nhere,' said Mrs MacStinger, turning round to the more intrepid of\nthe two, 'my bridesmaid, that will be glad of your protection, Cap'en\nCuttle.'\n\nThe short gentleman in the tall hat, who it appeared was the husband of\nthe other lady, and who evidently exulted at the reduction of a fellow\ncreature to his own condition, gave place at this, and resigned the lady\nto Captain Cuttle. The lady immediately seized him, and, observing that\nthere was no time to lose, gave the word, in a strong voice, to advance.\n\nThe Captain's concern for his friend, not unmingled, at first, with some\nconcern for himself--for a shadowy terror that he might be married by\nviolence, possessed him, until his knowledge of the service came to his\nrelief, and remembering the legal obligation of saying, 'I will,'\nhe felt himself personally safe so long as he resolved, if asked\nany question, distinctly to reply 'I won't'--threw him into a profuse\nperspiration; and rendered him, for a time, insensible to the movements\nof the procession, of which he now formed a feature, and to the\nconversation of his fair companion. But as he became less agitated, he\nlearnt from this lady that she was the widow of a Mr Bokum, who had held\nan employment in the Custom House; that she was the dearest friend of\nMrs MacStinger, whom she considered a pattern for her sex; that she had\noften heard of the Captain, and now hoped he had repented of his past\nlife; that she trusted Mr Bunsby knew what a blessing he had gained, but\nthat she feared men seldom did know what such blessings were, until they\nhad lost them; with more to the same purpose.\n\nAll this time, the Captain could not but observe that Mrs Bokum kept\nher eyes steadily on the bridegroom, and that whenever they came near a\ncourt or other narrow turning which appeared favourable for flight, she\nwas on the alert to cut him off if he attempted escape. The other lady,\ntoo, as well as her husband, the short gentleman with the tall hat, were\nplainly on guard, according to a preconcerted plan; and the wretched man\nwas so secured by Mrs MacStinger, that any effort at self-preservation\nby flight was rendered futile. This, indeed, was apparent to the mere\npopulace, who expressed their perception of the fact by jeers and cries;\nto all of which, the dread MacStinger was inflexibly indifferent, while\nBunsby himself appeared in a state of unconsciousness.\n\nThe Captain made many attempts to accost the philosopher, if only in\na monosyllable or a signal; but always failed, in consequence of the\nvigilance of the guard, and the difficulty, at all times peculiar to\nBunsby's constitution, of having his attention aroused by any outward\nand visible sign whatever. Thus they approached the chapel, a neat\nwhitewashed edifice, recently engaged by the Reverend Melchisedech\nHowler, who had consented, on very urgent solicitation, to give the\nworld another two years of existence, but had informed his followers\nthat, then, it must positively go.\n\nWhile the Reverend Melchisedech was offering up some extemporary\norisons, the Captain found an opportunity of growling in the\nbridegroom's ear:\n\n'What cheer, my lad, what cheer?'\n\nTo which Bunsby replied, with a forgetfulness of the Reverend\nMelchisedech, which nothing but his desperate circumstances could have\nexcused:\n\n'D----d bad,'\n\n'Jack Bunsby,' whispered the Captain, 'do you do this here, of your own\nfree will?'\n\nMr Bunsby answered 'No.'\n\n'Why do you do it, then, my lad?' inquired the Captain, not unnaturally.\n\nBunsby, still looking, and always looking with an immovable countenance,\nat the opposite side of the world, made no reply.\n\n'Why not sheer off?' said the Captain. 'Eh?' whispered Bunsby, with a\nmomentary gleam of hope.\n\n'Sheer off,' said the Captain.\n\n'Where's the good?' retorted the forlorn sage. 'She'd capter me agen.'\n\n'Try!' replied the Captain. 'Cheer up! Come! Now's your time. Sheer off,\nJack Bunsby!'\n\nJack Bunsby, however, instead of profiting by the advice, said in a\ndoleful whisper:\n\n'It all began in that there chest o' yourn. Why did I ever conwoy her\ninto port that night?'\n\n'My lad,' faltered the Captain, 'I thought as you had come over her; not\nas she had come over you. A man as has got such opinions as you have!'\n\nMr Bunsby merely uttered a suppressed groan.\n\n'Come!' said the Captain, nudging him with his elbow, 'now's your time!\nSheer off! I'll cover your retreat. The time's a flying. Bunsby! It's\nfor liberty. Will you once?'\n\nBunsby was immovable.\n\n'Bunsby!' whispered the Captain, 'will you twice?'\n\nBunsby wouldn't twice.\n\n'Bunsby!' urged the Captain, 'it's for liberty; will you three times?\nNow or never!'\n\nBunsby didn't then, and didn't ever; for Mrs MacStinger immediately\nafterwards married him.\n\nOne of the most frightful circumstances of the ceremony to the Captain,\nwas the deadly interest exhibited therein by Juliana MacStinger; and the\nfatal concentration of her faculties, with which that promising child,\nalready the image of her parent, observed the whole proceedings. The\nCaptain saw in this a succession of man-traps stretching out infinitely;\na series of ages of oppression and coercion, through which the seafaring\nline was doomed. It was a more memorable sight than the unflinching\nsteadiness of Mrs Bokum and the other lady, the exultation of the\nshort gentleman in the tall hat, or even the fell inflexibility of Mrs\nMacStinger. The Master MacStingers understood little of what was going\non, and cared less; being chiefly engaged, during the ceremony, in\ntreading on one another's half-boots; but the contrast afforded by\nthose wretched infants only set off and adorned the precocious woman in\nJuliana. Another year or two, the Captain thought, and to lodge where\nthat child was, would be destruction.\n\nThe ceremony was concluded by a general spring of the young family on Mr\nBunsby, whom they hailed by the endearing name of father, and from\nwhom they solicited half-pence. These gushes of affection over, the\nprocession was about to issue forth again, when it was delayed for\nsome little time by an unexpected transport on the part of Alexander\nMacStinger. That dear child, it seemed, connecting a chapel with\ntombstones, when it was entered for any purpose apart from the ordinary\nreligious exercises, could not be persuaded but that his mother was now\nto be decently interred, and lost to him for ever. In the anguish of\nthis conviction, he screamed with astonishing force, and turned black in\nthe face. However touching these marks of a tender disposition were\nto his mother, it was not in the character of that remarkable woman to\npermit her recognition of them to degenerate into weakness. Therefore,\nafter vainly endeavouring to convince his reason by shakes, pokes,\nbawlings-out, and similar applications to his head, she led him into\nthe air, and tried another method; which was manifested to the marriage\nparty by a quick succession of sharp sounds, resembling applause, and\nsubsequently, by their seeing Alexander in contact with the coolest\npaving-stone in the court, greatly flushed, and loudly lamenting.\n\nThe procession being then in a condition to form itself once more, and\nrepair to Brig Place, where a marriage feast was in readiness, returned\nas it had come; not without the receipt, by Bunsby, of many humorous\ncongratulations from the populace on his recently-acquired happiness.\nThe Captain accompanied it as far as the house-door, but, being made\nuneasy by the gentler manner of Mrs Bokum, who, now that she was\nrelieved from her engrossing duty--for the watchfulness and alacrity\nof the ladies sensibly diminished when the bridegroom was safely\nmarried--had greater leisure to show an interest in his behalf, there\nleft it and the captive; faintly pleading an appointment, and promising\nto return presently. The Captain had another cause for uneasiness, in\nremorsefully reflecting that he had been the first means of Bunsby's\nentrapment, though certainly without intending it, and through his\nunbounded faith in the resources of that philosopher.\n\nTo go back to old Sol Gills at the wooden Midshipman's, and not first go\nround to ask how Mr Dombey was--albeit the house where he lay was out of\nLondon, and away on the borders of a fresh heath--was quite out of the\nCaptain's course. So he got a lift when he was tired, and made out the\njourney gaily.\n\nThe blinds were pulled down, and the house so quiet, that the Captain\nwas almost afraid to knock; but listening at the door, he heard low\nvoices within, very near it, and, knocking softly, was admitted by Mr\nToots. Mr Toots and his wife had, in fact, just arrived there; having\nbeen at the Midshipman's to seek him, and having there obtained the\naddress.\n\nThey were not so recently arrived, but that Mrs Toots had caught the\nbaby from somebody, taken it in her arms, and sat down on the stairs,\nhugging and fondling it. Florence was stooping down beside her; and no\none could have said which Mrs Toots was hugging and fondling most, the\nmother or the child, or which was the tenderer, Florence of Mrs Toots,\nor Mrs Toots of her, or both of the baby; it was such a little group of\nlove and agitation.\n\n'And is your Pa very ill, my darling dear Miss Floy?' asked Susan.\n\n'He is very, very ill,' said Florence. 'But, Susan, dear, you must\nnot speak to me as you used to speak. And what's this?' said Florence,\ntouching her clothes, in amazement. 'Your old dress, dear? Your old cap,\ncurls, and all?'\n\nSusan burst into tears, and showered kisses on the little hand that had\ntouched her so wonderingly.\n\n'My dear Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, stepping forward, 'I'll explain.\nShe's the most extraordinary woman. There are not many to equal her! She\nhas always said--she said before we were married, and has said to this\nday--that whenever you came home, she'd come to you in no dress but the\ndress she used to serve you in, for fear she might seem strange to you,\nand you might like her less. I admire the dress myself,' said Mr Toots,\n'of all things. I adore her in it! My dear Miss Dombey, she'll be your\nmaid again, your nurse, all that she ever was, and more. There's no\nchange in her. But, Susan, my dear,' said Mr Toots, who had spoken with\ngreat feeling and high admiration, 'all I ask is, that you'll remember\nthe medical man, and not exert yourself too much!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 61. Relenting\n\n\nFlorence had need of help. Her father's need of it was sore, and made\nthe aid of her old friend invaluable. Death stood at his pillow. A\nshade, already, of what he had been, shattered in mind, and perilously\nsick in body, he laid his weary head down on the bed his daughter's\nhands prepared for him, and had never raised it since.\n\nShe was always with him. He knew her, generally; though, in the\nwandering of his brain, he often confused the circumstances under which\nhe spoke to her. Thus he would address her, sometimes, as if his boy\nwere newly dead; and would tell her, that although he had said nothing\nof her ministering at the little bedside, yet he had seen it--he had\nseen it; and then would hide his face and sob, and put out his worn\nhand. Sometimes he would ask her for herself. 'Where is Florence?' 'I am\nhere, Papa, I am here.' 'I don't know her!' he would cry. 'We have been\nparted so long, that I don't know her!' and then a staring dread would\nbe upon him, until she could soothe his perturbation; and recall the\ntears she tried so hard, at other times, to dry.\n\nHe rambled through the scenes of his old pursuits--through many where\nFlorence lost him as she listened--sometimes for hours. He would repeat\nthat childish question, 'What is money?' and ponder on it, and think\nabout it, and reason with himself, more or less connectedly, for a good\nanswer; as if it had never been proposed to him until that moment. He\nwould go on with a musing repetition of the title of his old firm twenty\nthousand times, and at every one of them, would turn his head upon his\npillow. He would count his children--one--two--stop, and go back, and\nbegin again in the same way.\n\nBut this was when his mind was in its most distracted state. In all the\nother phases of its illness, and in those to which it was most constant,\nit always turned on Florence. What he would oftenest do was this: he\nwould recall that night he had so recently remembered, the night on\nwhich she came down to his room, and would imagine that his heart smote\nhim, and that he went out after her, and up the stairs to seek her.\nThen, confounding that time with the later days of the many footsteps,\nhe would be amazed at their number, and begin to count them as he\nfollowed her. Here, of a sudden, was a bloody footstep going on among\nthe others; and after it there began to be, at intervals, doors standing\nopen, through which certain terrible pictures were seen, in mirrors,\nof haggard men, concealing something in their breasts. Still, among the\nmany footsteps and the bloody footsteps here and there, was the step of\nFlorence. Still she was going on before. Still the restless mind went,\nfollowing and counting, ever farther, ever higher, as to the summit of a\nmighty tower that it took years to climb.\n\nOne day he inquired if that were not Susan who had spoken a long while\nago.\n\nFlorence said 'Yes, dear Papa;' and asked him would he like to see her?\n\nHe said 'very much.' And Susan, with no little trepidation, showed\nherself at his bedside.\n\nIt seemed a great relief to him. He begged her not to go; to understand\nthat he forgave her what she had said; and that she was to stay.\nFlorence and he were very different now, he said, and very happy. Let\nher look at this! He meant his drawing the gentle head down to his\npillow, and laying it beside him.\n\nHe remained like this for days and weeks. At length, lying, the faint\nfeeble semblance of a man, upon his bed, and speaking in a voice so low\nthat they could only hear him by listening very near to his lips, he\nbecame quiet. It was dimly pleasant to him now, to lie there, with the\nwindow open, looking out at the summer sky and the trees: and, in the\nevening, at the sunset. To watch the shadows of the clouds and leaves,\nand seem to feel a sympathy with shadows. It was natural that he should.\nTo him, life and the world were nothing else.\n\nHe began to show now that he thought of Florence's fatigue: and often\ntaxed his weakness to whisper to her, 'Go and walk, my dearest, in the\nsweet air. Go to your good husband!' One time when Walter was in his\nroom, he beckoned him to come near, and to stoop down; and pressing his\nhand, whispered an assurance to him that he knew he could trust him with\nhis child when he was dead.\n\nIt chanced one evening, towards sunset, when Florence and Walter were\nsitting in his room together, as he liked to see them, that Florence,\nhaving her baby in her arms, began in a low voice to sing to the little\nfellow, and sang the old tune she had so often sung to the dead child:\nHe could not bear it at the time; he held up his trembling hand,\nimploring her to stop; but next day he asked her to repeat it, and to\ndo so often of an evening: which she did. He listening, with his face\nturned away.\n\nFlorence was sitting on a certain time by his window, with her\nwork-basket between her and her old attendant, who was still her\nfaithful companion. He had fallen into a doze. It was a beautiful\nevening, with two hours of light to come yet; and the tranquillity and\nquiet made Florence very thoughtful. She was lost to everything for the\nmoment, but the occasion when the so altered figure on the bed had first\npresented her to her beautiful Mama; when a touch from Walter leaning on\nthe back of her chair, made her start.\n\n'My dear,' said Walter, 'there is someone downstairs who wishes to speak\nto you.'\n\nShe fancied Walter looked grave, and asked him if anything had happened.\n\n'No, no, my love!' said Walter. 'I have seen the gentleman myself, and\nspoken with him. Nothing has happened. Will you come?'\n\nFlorence put her arm through his; and confiding her father to the\nblack-eyed Mrs Toots, who sat as brisk and smart at her work as\nblack-eyed woman could, accompanied her husband downstairs. In the\npleasant little parlour opening on the garden, sat a gentleman, who rose\nto advance towards her when she came in, but turned off, by reason of\nsome peculiarity in his legs, and was only stopped by the table.\n\nFlorence then remembered Cousin Feenix, whom she had not at first\nrecognised in the shade of the leaves. Cousin Feenix took her hand, and\ncongratulated her upon her marriage.\n\n'I could have wished, I am sure,' said Cousin Feenix, sitting down\nas Florence sat, 'to have had an earlier opportunity of offering my\ncongratulations; but, in point of fact, so many painful occurrences have\nhappened, treading, as a man may say, on one another's heels, that I\nhave been in a devil of a state myself, and perfectly unfit for every\ndescription of society. The only description of society I have kept, has\nbeen my own; and it certainly is anything but flattering to a man's good\nopinion of his own sources, to know that, in point of fact, he has the\ncapacity of boring himself to a perfectly unlimited extent.'\n\nFlorence divined, from some indefinable constraint and anxiety in this\ngentleman's manner--which was always a gentleman's, in spite of the\nharmless little eccentricities that attached to it--and from Walter's\nmanner no less, that something more immediately tending to some object\nwas to follow this.\n\n'I have been mentioning to my friend Mr Gay, if I may be allowed to have\nthe honour of calling him so,' said Cousin Feenix, 'that I am rejoiced\nto hear that my friend Dombey is very decidedly mending. I trust my\nfriend Dombey will not allow his mind to be too much preyed upon, by any\nmere loss of fortune. I cannot say that I have ever experienced any very\ngreat loss of fortune myself: never having had, in point of fact, any\ngreat amount of fortune to lose. But as much as I could lose, I have\nlost; and I don't find that I particularly care about it. I know my\nfriend Dombey to be a devilish honourable man; and it's calculated to\nconsole my friend Dombey very much, to know, that this is the universal\nsentiment. Even Tommy Screwzer,--a man of an extremely bilious habit,\nwith whom my friend Gay is probably acquainted--cannot say a syllable in\ndisputation of the fact.'\n\nFlorence felt, more than ever, that there was something to come; and\nlooked earnestly for it. So earnestly, that Cousin Feenix answered, as\nif she had spoken.\n\n'The fact is,' said Cousin Feenix, 'that my friend Gay and myself have\nbeen discussing the propriety of entreating a favour at your hands;\nand that I have the consent of my friend Gay--who has met me in an\nexceedingly kind and open manner, for which I am very much indebted to\nhim--to solicit it. I am sensible that so amiable a lady as the lovely\nand accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey will not require much\nurging; but I am happy to know, that I am supported by my friend Gay's\ninfluence and approval. As in my parliamentary time, when a man had a\nmotion to make of any sort--which happened seldom in those days, for we\nwere kept very tight in hand, the leaders on both sides being regular\nMartinets, which was a devilish good thing for the rank and file, like\nmyself, and prevented our exposing ourselves continually, as a great\nmany of us had a feverish anxiety to do--as, in my parliamentary time,\nI was about to say, when a man had leave to let off any little private\npopgun, it was always considered a great point for him to say that he\nhad the happiness of believing that his sentiments were not without\nan echo in the breast of Mr Pitt; the pilot, in point of fact, who had\nweathered the storm. Upon which, a devilish large number of fellows\nimmediately cheered, and put him in spirits. Though the fact is, that\nthese fellows, being under orders to cheer most excessively whenever Mr\nPitt's name was mentioned, became so proficient that it always woke 'em.\nAnd they were so entirely innocent of what was going on, otherwise, that\nit used to be commonly said by Conversation Brown--four-bottle man at\nthe Treasury Board, with whom the father of my friend Gay was probably\nacquainted, for it was before my friend Gay's time--that if a man had\nrisen in his place, and said that he regretted to inform the house that\nthere was an Honourable Member in the last stage of convulsions in the\nLobby, and that the Honourable Member's name was Pitt, the approbation\nwould have been vociferous.'\n\nThis postponement of the point, put Florence in a flutter; and she\nlooked from Cousin Feenix to Walter, in increasing agitation.\n\n'My love,' said Walter, 'there is nothing the matter.'\n\n'There is nothing the matter, upon my honour,' said Cousin Feenix; 'and\nI am deeply distressed at being the means of causing you a moment's\nuneasiness. I beg to assure you that there is nothing the matter.\nThe favour that I have to ask is, simply--but it really does seem so\nexceedingly singular, that I should be in the last degree obliged to my\nfriend Gay if he would have the goodness to break the--in point of fact,\nthe ice,' said Cousin Feenix.\n\nWalter thus appealed to, and appealed to no less in the look that\nFlorence turned towards him, said:\n\n'My dearest, it is no more than this. That you will ride to London with\nthis gentleman, whom you know.'\n\n'And my friend Gay, also--I beg your pardon!' interrupted Cousin Feenix.\n\n'--And with me--and make a visit somewhere.'\n\n'To whom?' asked Florence, looking from one to the other.\n\n'If I might entreat,' said Cousin Feenix, 'that you would not press\nfor an answer to that question, I would venture to take the liberty of\nmaking the request.'\n\n'Do you know, Walter?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'And think it right?'\n\n'Yes. Only because I am sure that you would too. Though there may be\nreasons I very well understand, which make it better that nothing more\nshould be said beforehand.'\n\n'If Papa is still asleep, or can spare me if he is awake, I will go\nimmediately,' said Florence. And rising quietly, and glancing at them\nwith a look that was a little alarmed but perfectly confiding, left the\nroom.\n\nWhen she came back, ready to bear them company, they were talking\ntogether, gravely, at the window; and Florence could not but wonder what\nthe topic was, that had made them so well acquainted in so short a time.\nShe did not wonder at the look of pride and love with which her husband\nbroke off as she entered; for she never saw him, but that rested on her.\n\n'I will leave,' said Cousin Feenix, 'a card for my friend Dombey,\nsincerely trusting that he will pick up health and strength with every\nreturning hour. And I hope my friend Dombey will do me the favour to\nconsider me a man who has a devilish warm admiration of his character,\nas, in point of fact, a British merchant and a devilish upright\ngentleman. My place in the country is in a most confounded state of\ndilapidation, but if my friend Dombey should require a change of air,\nand would take up his quarters there, he would find it a remarkably\nhealthy spot--as it need be, for it's amazingly dull. If my friend\nDombey suffers from bodily weakness, and would allow me to recommend\nwhat has frequently done myself good, as a man who has been extremely\nqueer at times, and who lived pretty freely in the days when men lived\nvery freely, I should say, let it be in point of fact the yolk of an\negg, beat up with sugar and nutmeg, in a glass of sherry, and taken\nin the morning with a slice of dry toast. Jackson, who kept the\nboxing-rooms in Bond Street--man of very superior qualifications, with\nwhose reputation my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted--used to mention\nthat in training for the ring they substituted rum for sherry. I should\nrecommend sherry in this case, on account of my friend Dombey being in\nan invalided condition; which might occasion rum to fly--in point of\nfact to his head--and throw him into a devil of a state.'\n\nOf all this, Cousin Feenix delivered himself with an obviously nervous\nand discomposed air. Then, giving his arm to Florence, and putting\nthe strongest possible constraint upon his wilful legs, which seemed\ndetermined to go out into the garden, he led her to the door, and handed\nher into a carriage that was ready for her reception.\n\nWalter entered after him, and they drove away.\n\nTheir ride was six or eight miles long. When they drove through certain\ndull and stately streets, lying westward in London, it was growing dusk.\nFlorence had, by this time, put her hand in Walter's; and was looking\nvery earnestly, and with increasing agitation, into every new street\ninto which they turned.\n\nWhen the carriage stopped, at last, before that house in Brook Street,\nwhere her father's unhappy marriage had been celebrated, Florence\nsaid, 'Walter, what is this? Who is here?' Walter cheering her, and\nnot replying, she glanced up at the house-front, and saw that all the\nwindows were shut, as if it were uninhabited. Cousin Feenix had by this\ntime alighted, and was offering his hand.\n\n'Are you not coming, Walter?'\n\n'No, I will remain here. Don't tremble there is nothing to fear, dearest\nFlorence.'\n\n'I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am sure of that, but--'\n\nThe door was softly opened, without any knock, and Cousin Feenix led her\nout of the summer evening air into the close dull house. More sombre and\nbrown than ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the wedding-day,\nand to have hoarded darkness and sadness ever since.\n\nFlorence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling; and stopped, with her\nconductor, at the drawing-room door. He opened it, without speaking,\nand signed an entreaty to her to advance into the inner room, while he\nremained there. Florence, after hesitating an instant, complied.\n\nSitting by the window at a table, where she seemed to have been writing\nor drawing, was a lady, whose head, turned away towards the dying light,\nwas resting on her hand. Florence advancing, doubtfully, all at once\nstood still, as if she had lost the power of motion. The lady turned her\nhead.\n\n'Great Heaven!' she said, 'what is this?'\n\n'No, no!' cried Florence, shrinking back as she rose up and putting out\nher hands to keep her off. 'Mama!'\n\nThey stood looking at each other. Passion and pride had worn it, but it\nwas the face of Edith, and beautiful and stately yet. It was the face\nof Florence, and through all the terrified avoidance it expressed, there\nwas pity in it, sorrow, a grateful tender memory. On each face, wonder\nand fear were painted vividly; each so still and silent, looking at the\nother over the black gulf of the irrevocable past.\n\nFlorence was the first to change. Bursting into tears, she said from her\nfull heart, 'Oh, Mama, Mama! why do we meet like this? Why were you ever\nkind to me when there was no one else, that we should meet like this?'\n\nEdith stood before her, dumb and motionless. Her eyes were fixed upon\nher face.\n\n'I dare not think of that,' said Florence, 'I am come from Papa's sick\nbed. We are never asunder now; we never shall be' any more. If you would\nhave me ask his pardon, I will do it, Mama. I am almost sure he will\ngrant it now, if I ask him. May Heaven grant it to you, too, and comfort\nyou!'\n\nShe answered not a word.\n\n'Walter--I am married to him, and we have a son,' said Florence,\ntimidly--'is at the door, and has brought me here. I will tell him\nthat you are repentant; that you are changed,' said Florence, looking\nmournfully upon her; 'and he will speak to Papa with me, I know. Is\nthere anything but this that I can do?'\n\nEdith, breaking her silence, without moving eye or limb, answered\nslowly:\n\n'The stain upon your name, upon your husband's, on your child's. Will\nthat ever be forgiven, Florence?'\n\n'Will it ever be, Mama? It is! Freely, freely, both by Walter and by me.\nIf that is any consolation to you, there is nothing that you may believe\nmore certainly. You do not--you do not,' faltered Florence, 'speak of\nPapa; but I am sure you wish that I should ask him for his forgiveness.\nI am sure you do.'\n\nShe answered not a word.\n\n'I will!' said Florence. 'I will bring it you, if you will let me; and\nthen, perhaps, we may take leave of each other, more like what we\nused to be to one another. I have not,' said Florence very gently, and\ndrawing nearer to her, 'I have not shrunk back from you, Mama, because\nI fear you, or because I dread to be disgraced by you. I only wish to do\nmy duty to Papa. I am very dear to him, and he is very dear to me. But\nI never can forget that you were very good to me. Oh, pray to Heaven,'\ncried Florence, falling on her bosom, 'pray to Heaven, Mama, to forgive\nyou all this sin and shame, and to forgive me if I cannot help doing\nthis (if it is wrong), when I remember what you used to be!'\n\nEdith, as if she fell beneath her touch, sunk down on her knees, and\ncaught her round the neck.\n\n'Florence!' she cried. 'My better angel! Before I am mad again, before\nmy stubbornness comes back and strikes me dumb, believe me, upon my soul\nI am innocent!'\n\n'Mama!'\n\n'Guilty of much! Guilty of that which sets a waste between us evermore.\nGuilty of what must separate me, through the whole remainder of my life,\nfrom purity and innocence--from you, of all the earth. Guilty of a blind\nand passionate resentment, of which I do not, cannot, will not, even\nnow, repent; but not guilty with that dead man. Before God!'\n\nUpon her knees upon the ground, she held up both her hands, and swore\nit.\n\n'Florence!' she said, 'purest and best of natures,--whom I love--who\nmight have changed me long ago, and did for a time work some change even\nin the woman that I am,--believe me, I am innocent of that; and once\nmore, on my desolate heart, let me lay this dear head, for the last\ntime!'\n\nShe was moved and weeping. Had she been oftener thus in older days, she\nhad been happier now.\n\n'There is nothing else in all the world,' she said, 'that would have\nwrung denial from me. No love, no hatred, no hope, no threat. I said\nthat I would die, and make no sign. I could have done so, and I would,\nif we had never met, Florence.'\n\n'I trust,' said Cousin Feenix, ambling in at the door, and speaking,\nhalf in the room, and half out of it, 'that my lovely and accomplished\nrelative will excuse my having, by a little stratagem, effected this\nmeeting. I cannot say that I was, at first, wholly incredulous as to\nthe possibility of my lovely and accomplished relative having, very\nunfortunately, committed herself with the deceased person with white\nteeth; because in point of fact, one does see, in this world--which is\nremarkable for devilish strange arrangements, and for being decidedly\nthe most unintelligible thing within a man's experience--very odd\nconjunctions of that sort. But as I mentioned to my friend Dombey, I\ncould not admit the criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative\nuntil it was perfectly established. And feeling, when the deceased\nperson was, in point of fact, destroyed in a devilish horrible manner,\nthat her position was a very painful one--and feeling besides that our\nfamily had been a little to blame in not paying more attention to her,\nand that we are a careless family--and also that my aunt, though a\ndevilish lively woman, had perhaps not been the very best of mothers--I\ntook the liberty of seeking her in France, and offering her such\nprotection as a man very much out at elbows could offer. Upon which\noccasion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the honour to\nexpress that she believed I was, in my way, a devilish good sort of\nfellow; and that therefore she put herself under my protection. Which in\npoint of fact I understood to be a kind thing on the part of my lovely\nand accomplished relative, as I am getting extremely shaky, and have\nderived great comfort from her solicitude.'\n\nEdith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a gesture with her hand as\nif she would have begged him to say no more.\n\n'My lovely and accomplished relative,' resumed Cousin Feenix, still\nambling about at the door, 'will excuse me, if, for her satisfaction,\nand my own, and that of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished\ndaughter we so much admire, I complete the thread of my observations.\nShe will remember that, from the first, she and I never alluded to the\nsubject of her elopement. My impression, certainly, has always been,\nthat there was a mystery in the affair which she could explain if so\ninclined. But my lovely and accomplished relative being a devilish\nresolute woman, I knew that she was not, in point of fact, to be trifled\nwith, and therefore did not involve myself in any discussions. But,\nobserving lately, that her accessible point did appear to be a very\nstrong description of tenderness for the daughter of my friend Dombey,\nit occurred to me that if I could bring about a meeting, unexpected on\nboth sides, it might lead to beneficial results. Therefore, we being in\nLondon, in the present private way, before going to the South of Italy,\nthere to establish ourselves, in point of fact, until we go to our long\nhomes, which is a devilish disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied\nmyself to the discovery of the residence of my friend Gay--handsome man\nof an uncommonly frank disposition, who is probably known to my lovely\nand accomplished relative--and had the happiness of bringing his amiable\nwife to the present place. And now,' said Cousin Feenix, with a real\nand genuine earnestness shining through the levity of his manner and his\nslipshod speech, 'I do conjure my relative, not to stop half way, but to\nset right, as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong--not for\nthe honour of her family, not for her own fame, not for any of those\nconsiderations which unfortunate circumstances have induced her to\nregard as hollow, and in point of fact, as approaching to humbug--but\nbecause it is wrong, and not right.'\n\nCousin Feenix's legs consented to take him away after this; and leaving\nthem alone together, he shut the door.\n\nEdith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close\nbeside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.\n\n'I debated with myself a long time,' she said in a low voice, 'whether\nto write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and\nfeeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and\nhow to destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.'\n\n'Is it for Papa?' asked Florence.\n\n'It is for whom you will,' she answered. 'It is given to you, and is\nobtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.'\n\nAgain they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.\n\n'Mama,' said Florence, 'he has lost his fortune; he has been at the\npoint of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I\nshall say to him from you?'\n\n'Did you tell me,' asked Edith, 'that you were very dear to him?'\n\n'Yes!' said Florence, in a thrilling voice.\n\n'Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.'\n\n'No more?' said Florence after a pause.\n\n'Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done--not\nyet--for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is\na changed man---'\n\nShe stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence's hand\nthat stopped her.\n\n'--But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. Tell\nhim I wish it never had been.'\n\n'May I say,' said Florence, 'that you grieved to hear of the afflictions\nhe has suffered?'\n\n'Not,' she replied, 'if they have taught him that his daughter is very\ndear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if they have\nbrought that lesson, Florence.'\n\n'You wish well to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you would!'\nsaid Florence. 'Oh! let me be able, if I have the occasion at some\nfuture time, to say so?'\n\nEdith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly before her, and did not\nreply until Florence had repeated her entreaty; when she drew her hand\nwithin her arm, and said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night\noutside:\n\n'Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to\ncompassionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him\nthat if, in his own present, he can find a reason to think less bitterly\nof me, I asked him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one\nanother, never more to meet on this side of eternity, he knows there is\none feeling in common between us now, that there never was before.'\n\nHer sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in her dark eyes.\n\n'I trust myself to that,' she said, 'for his better thoughts of me, and\nmine of him. When he loves his Florence most, he will hate me least.\nWhen he is most proud and happy in her and her children, he will be most\nrepentant of his own part in the dark vision of our married life. At\nthat time, I will be repentant too--let him know it then--and think that\nwhen I thought so much of all the causes that had made me what I was,\nI needed to have allowed more for the causes that had made him what he\nwas. I will try, then, to forgive him his share of blame. Let him try to\nforgive me mine!'\n\n'Oh Mama!' said Florence. 'How it lightens my heart, even in such a\nstrange meeting and parting, to hear this!'\n\n'Strange words in my own ears,' said Edith, 'and foreign to the sound of\nmy own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I have\ngiven him occasion to believe me, I think I could have said them still,\nhearing that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, when\nyou are dearest, ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts of\nme--that I am most forbearing in my thoughts of him! Those are the last\nwords I send him! Now, goodbye, my life!'\n\nShe clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out all her woman's soul\nof love and tenderness at once.\n\n'This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your head! My\nown dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell!'\n\n'To meet again!' cried Florence.\n\n'Never again! Never again! When you leave me in this dark room, think\nthat you have left me in the grave. Remember only that I was once, and\nthat I loved you!'\n\nAnd Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but accompanied by her\nembraces and caresses to the last.\n\nCousin Feenix met her at the door, and took her down to Walter in the\ndingy dining room, upon whose shoulder she laid her head weeping.\n\n'I am devilish sorry,' said Cousin Feenix, lifting his wristbands to his\neyes in the simplest manner possible, and without the least concealment,\n'that the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey and\namiable wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive nature\nso very much distressed and cut up by the interview which is just\nconcluded. But I hope and trust I have acted for the best, and that my\nhonourable friend Dombey will find his mind relieved by the disclosures\nwhich have taken place. I exceedingly lament that my friend Dombey\nshould have got himself, in point of fact, into the devil's own state\nof conglomeration by an alliance with our family; but am strongly of\nopinion that if it hadn't been for the infernal scoundrel Barker--man\nwith white teeth--everything would have gone on pretty smoothly.\nIn regard to my relative who does me the honour to have formed an\nuncommonly good opinion of myself, I can assure the amiable wife of my\nfriend Gay, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a father to\nher. And in regard to the changes of human life, and the extraordinary\nmanner in which we are perpetually conducting ourselves, all I can say\nis, with my friend Shakespeare--man who wasn't for an age but for all\ntime, and with whom my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted--that its like\nthe shadow of a dream.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 62. Final\n\n\nA bottle that has been long excluded from the light of day, and is\nhoary with dust and cobwebs, has been brought into the sunshine; and the\ngolden wine within it sheds a lustre on the table.\n\nIt is the last bottle of the old Madiera.\n\n'You are quite right, Mr Gills,' says Mr Dombey. 'This is a very rare\nand most delicious wine.'\n\nThe Captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. There is a very halo\nof delight round his glowing forehead.\n\n'We always promised ourselves, Sir,' observes Mr Gills,' Ned and myself,\nI mean--'\n\nMr Dombey nods at the Captain, who shines more and more with speechless\ngratification.\n\n'--that we would drink this, one day or other, to Walter safe at home:\nthough such a home we never thought of. If you don't object to our old\nwhim, Sir, let us devote this first glass to Walter and his wife.'\n\n'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Dombey. 'Florence, my child'--and\nturns to kiss her.\n\n'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Toots.\n\n'To Wal'r and his wife!' exclaims the Captain. 'Hooroar!' and the\nCaptain exhibiting a strong desire to clink his glass against some other\nglass, Mr Dombey, with a ready hand, holds out his. The others follow;\nand there is a blithe and merry ringing, as of a little peal of marriage\nbells.\n\n\nOther buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did in its time; and\ndust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.\n\nMr Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face bears heavy marks of\ncare and suffering; but they are traces of a storm that has passed on\nfor ever, and left a clear evening in its track.\n\nAmbitious projects trouble him no more. His only pride is in his\ndaughter and her husband. He has a silent, thoughtful, quiet manner, and\nis always with his daughter. Miss Tox is not infrequently of the family\nparty, and is quite devoted to it, and a great favourite. Her admiration\nof her once stately patron is, and has been ever since the morning of\nher shock in Princess's Place, platonic, but not weakened in the least.\n\nNothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his fortunes, but a certain\nannual sum that comes he knows not how, with an earnest entreaty that he\nwill not seek to discover, and with the assurance that it is a debt, and\nan act of reparation. He has consulted with his old clerk about this,\nwho is clear it may be honourably accepted, and has no doubt it arises\nout of some forgotten transaction in the times of the old House.\n\nThat hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is married now, and to the\nsister of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief sometimes, but\nseldom. There is a reason in the greyhaired Junior's history, and yet\na stronger reason in his name, why he should keep retired from his\nold employer; and as he lives with his sister and her husband, they\nparticipate in that retirement. Walter sees them sometimes--Florence\ntoo--and the pleasant house resounds with profound duets arranged for\nthe Piano-Forte and Violoncello, and with the labours of Harmonious\nBlacksmiths.\n\nAnd how goes the wooden Midshipman in these changed days? Why, here he\nstill is, right leg foremost, hard at work upon the hackney coaches, and\nmore on the alert than ever, being newly painted from his cocked hat to\nhis buckled shoes; and up above him, in golden characters, these names\nshine refulgent, GILLS AND CUTTLE.\n\nNot another stroke of business does the Midshipman achieve beyond his\nusual easy trade. But they do say, in a circuit of some half-mile round\nthe blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr Gills's old\ninvestments are coming out wonderfully well; and that instead of being\nbehind the time in those respects, as he supposed, he was, in truth,\na little before it, and had to wait the fulness of the time and the\ndesign. The whisper is that Mr Gills's money has begun to turn itself,\nand that it is turning itself over and over pretty briskly. Certain it\nis that, standing at his shop-door, in his coffee-coloured suit, with\nhis chronometer in his pocket, and his spectacles on his forehead, he\ndon't appear to break his heart at customers not coming, but looks very\njovial and contented, though full as misty as of yore.\n\nAs to his partner, Captain Cuttle, there is a fiction of a business in\nthe Captain's mind which is better than any reality. The Captain is as\nsatisfied of the Midshipman's importance to the commerce and navigation\nof the country, as he could possibly be, if no ship left the Port of\nLondon without the Midshipman's assistance. His delight in his own name\nover the door, is inexhaustible. He crosses the street, twenty times a\nday, to look at it from the other side of the way; and invariably says,\non these occasions, 'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, if your mother could ha'\nknow'd as you would ever be a man o' science, the good old creetur would\nha' been took aback in-deed!'\n\nBut here is Mr Toots descending on the Midshipman with violent rapidity,\nand Mr Toots's face is very red as he bursts into the little parlour.\n\n'Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, 'and Mr Sols, I am happy to inform you\nthat Mrs Toots has had an increase to her family.'\n\n'And it does her credit!' cries the Captain.\n\n'I give you joy, Mr Toots!' says old Sol.\n\n'Thank'ee,' chuckles Mr Toots, 'I'm very much obliged to you. I knew\nthat you'd be glad to hear, and so I came down myself. We're positively\ngetting on, you know. There's Florence, and Susan, and now here's\nanother little stranger.'\n\n'A female stranger?' inquires the Captain.\n\n'Yes, Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, 'and I'm glad of it. The oftener we\ncan repeat that most extraordinary woman, my opinion is, the better!'\n\n'Stand by!' says the Captain, turning to the old case-bottle with no\nthroat--for it is evening, and the Midshipman's usual moderate provision\nof pipes and glasses is on the board. 'Here's to her, and may she have\never so many more!'\n\n'Thank'ee, Captain Gills,' says the delighted Mr Toots. 'I echo the\nsentiment. If you'll allow me, as my so doing cannot be unpleasant to\nanybody, under the circumstances, I think I'll take a pipe.'\n\nMr Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the openness of his heart\nis very loquacious.\n\n'Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has given of\nher excellent sense, Captain Gills and Mr Sols,' said Mr Toots, 'I\nthink none is more remarkable than the perfection with which she has\nunderstood my devotion to Miss Dombey.'\n\nBoth his auditors assent.\n\n'Because you know,' says Mr Toots, 'I have never changed my sentiments\ntowards Miss Dombey. They are the same as ever. She is the same\nbright vision to me, at present, that she was before I made Walters's\nacquaintance. When Mrs Toots and myself first began to talk of--in\nshort, of the tender passion, you know, Captain Gills.'\n\n'Ay, ay, my lad,' says the Captain, 'as makes us all slue round--for\nwhich you'll overhaul the book--'\n\n'I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, with great\nearnestness; 'when we first began to mention such subjects, I explained\nthat I was what you may call a Blighted Flower, you know.'\n\nThe Captain approves of this figure greatly; and murmurs that no flower\nas blows, is like the rose.\n\n'But Lord bless me,' pursues Mr Toots, 'she was as entirely conscious of\nthe state of my feelings as I was myself. There was nothing I could tell\nher. She was the only person who could have stood between me and the\nsilent Tomb, and she did it, in a manner to command my everlasting\nadmiration. She knows that there's nobody in the world I look up to, as\nI do to Miss Dombey. Knows that there's nothing on earth I wouldn't\ndo for Miss Dombey. She knows that I consider Miss Dombey the most\nbeautiful, the most amiable, the most angelic of her sex. What is her\nobservation upon that? The perfection of sense. \"My dear, you're right.\nI think so too.\"'\n\n'And so do I!' says the Captain.\n\n'So do I,' says Sol Gills.\n\n'Then,' resumes Mr Toots, after some contemplative pulling at his pipe,\nduring which his visage has expressed the most contented reflection,\n'what an observant woman my wife is! What sagacity she possesses! What\nremarks she makes! It was only last night, when we were sitting in\nthe enjoyment of connubial bliss--which, upon my word and honour, is a\nfeeble term to express my feelings in the society of my wife--that\nshe said how remarkable it was to consider the present position of\nour friend Walters. \"Here,\" observes my wife, \"he is, released from\nsea-going, after that first long voyage with his young bride\"--as you\nknow he was, Mr Sols.'\n\n'Quite true,' says the old Instrument-maker, rubbing his hands.\n\n'\"Here he is,\" says my wife, \"released from that, immediately; appointed\nby the same establishment to a post of great trust and confidence at\nhome; showing himself again worthy; mounting up the ladder with the\ngreatest expedition; beloved by everybody; assisted by his uncle at the\nvery best possible time of his fortunes\"--which I think is the case, Mr\nSols? My wife is always correct.'\n\n'Why yes, yes--some of our lost ships, freighted with gold, have come\nhome, truly,' returns old Sol, laughing. 'Small craft, Mr Toots, but\nserviceable to my boy!'\n\n'Exactly so,' says Mr Toots. 'You'll never find my wife wrong. \"Here he\nis,\" says that most remarkable woman, \"so situated,--and what follows?\nWhat follows?\" observed Mrs Toots. Now pray remark, Captain Gills, and\nMr Sols, the depth of my wife's penetration. \"Why that, under the very\neye of Mr Dombey, there is a foundation going on, upon which a--an\nEdifice;\" that was Mrs Toots's word,' says Mr Toots exultingly, \"'is\ngradually rising, perhaps to equal, perhaps excel, that of which he was\nonce the head, and the small beginnings of which (a common fault, but a\nbad one, Mrs Toots said) escaped his memory. Thus,\" said my wife, \"from\nhis daughter, after all, another Dombey and Son will ascend\"--no \"rise;\"\nthat was Mrs Toots's word--\"triumphant!\"'\n\nMr Toots, with the assistance of his pipe--which he is extremely glad to\ndevote to oratorical purposes, as its proper use affects him with a\nvery uncomfortable sensation--does such grand justice to this prophetic\nsentence of his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat\nin a state of the greatest excitement, cries:\n\n'Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell\nWal'r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business?\nWas it this here quotation, \"Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of\nLondon, and when you are old you will never depart from it.\" Was it them\nwords, Sol Gills?'\n\n'It certainly was, Ned,' replied the old Instrument-maker. 'I remember\nwell.'\n\n'Then I tell you what,' says the Captain, leaning back in his chair,\nand composing his chest for a prodigious roar. 'I'll give you Lovely Peg\nright through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!'\n\n\nBuried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time; and dust\nand cobwebs thicken on the bottles.\n\nAutumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there are often a young\nlady, and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are two\nchildren: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their company.\n\nThe white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him,\nhelps him in his play, attends upon him, watches him as if he were the\nobject of his life. If he be thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is\nthoughtful too; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and\nlooks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in\nhis, and holding it, forgets to answer. Then the child says:\n\n'What, grandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again?'\n\n'Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.'\n\n'Oh yes, I am very strong.'\n\n'And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.'\n\nAnd so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired gentleman\nlikes best to see the child free and stirring; and as they go about\ntogether, the story of the bond between them goes about, and follows\nthem.\n\nBut no one, except Florence, knows the measure of the white-haired\ngentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The\nchild herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He\nhoards her in his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face.\nHe cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a slight,\nwhen there is none. He steals away to look at her, in her sleep. It\npleases him to have her come, and wake him in the morning. He is fondest\nof her and most loving to her, when there is no creature by. The child\nsays then, sometimes:\n\n'Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?'\n\nHe only answers, 'Little Florence! little Florence!' and smooths away\nthe curls that shade her earnest eyes.\n\nThe voices in the waves speak low to him of Florence, day and\nnight--plainest when he, his blooming daughter, and her husband, beside\nthem in the evening, or sit at an open window, listening to their roar.\nThey speak to him of Florence and his altered heart; of Florence and\ntheir ceaseless murmuring to her of the love, eternal and illimitable,\nextending still, beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible\ncountry far away.\n\nNever from the mighty sea may voices rise too late, to come between us\nand the unseen region on the other shore! Better, far better, that\nthey whispered of that region in our childish ears, and the swift river\nhurried us away!\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE OF 1848\n\nI cannot forego my usual opportunity of saying farewell to my readers\nin this greeting-place, though I have only to acknowledge the unbounded\nwarmth and earnestness of their sympathy in every stage of the journey\nwe have just concluded.\n\nIf any of them have felt a sorrow in one of the principal incidents on\nwhich this fiction turns, I hope it may be a sorrow of that sort which\nendears the sharers in it, one to another. This is not unselfish in me.\nI may claim to have felt it, at least as much as anybody else; and I\nwould fain be remembered kindly for my part in the experience.\n\n\nDEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Twenty-Fourth March, 1848.\n\n\nPREFACE OF 1867\n\nI make so bold as to believe that the faculty (or the habit) of\ncorrectly observing the characters of men, is a rare one. I have not\neven found, within my experience, that the faculty (or the habit) of\ncorrectly observing so much as the faces of men, is a general one by any\nmeans. The two commonest mistakes in judgement that I suppose to\narise from the former default, are, the confounding of shyness with\narrogance--a very common mistake indeed--and the not understanding that\nan obstinate nature exists in a perpetual struggle with itself.\n\nMr Dombey undergoes no violent change, either in this book, or in real\nlife. A sense of his injustice is within him, all along. The more he\nrepresses it, the more unjust he necessarily is. Internal shame and\nexternal circumstances may bring the contest to a close in a week, or a\nday; but, it has been a contest for years, and is only fought out after\na long balance of victory.\n\nI began this book by the Lake of Geneva, and went on with it for some\nmonths in France, before pursuing it in England. The association between\nthe writing and the place of writing is so curiously strong in my mind,\nthat at this day, although I know, in my fancy, every stair in the\nlittle midshipman's house, and could swear to every pew in the church\nin which Florence was married, or to every young gentleman's bedstead in\nDoctor Blimber's establishment, I yet confusedly imagine Captain\nCuttle as secluding himself from Mrs MacStinger among the mountains of\nSwitzerland. Similarly, when I am reminded by any chance of what it was\nthat the waves were always saying, my remembrance wanders for a whole\nwinter night about the streets of Paris--as I restlessly did with a\nheavy heart, on the night when I had written the chapter in which my\nlittle friend and I parted company."