"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