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Dombey and Son

by Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

1. Dombey and Son
2. In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that
will sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families
3. In which Mr Dombeyas a Man and a Fatheris seen at the
Head of the Home-Department
4. In which some more First Appearances are made on the
Stage of these Adventures
5. Paul's Progress and Christening
6. Paul's Second Deprivation
7. A Bird's-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox's Dwelling-place; also
of the State of Miss Tox's Affections
8. Paul's further ProgressGrowthand Character
9. In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble
10. Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman's Disaster
11. Paul's Introduction to a New Scene
12. Paul's Education
13. Shipping Intelligence and Office Business
14. Paul grows more and more Old-fashionedand goes Home
for the holidays
15. Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttleand a new Pursuit
for Walter Gay
16. What the Waves were always saying
17. Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young people
18. Father and Daughter
19. Walter goes away
20. Mr Dombey goes upon a journey
21. New Faces
22. A Trifle of Management by Mr Carker the Manager
23. Florence solitaryand the Midshipman mysterious
24. The Study of a Loving Heart
25. Strange News of Uncle Sol
26. Shadows of the Past and Future
27. Deeper shadows
28. Alterations
29. The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick
30. The Interval before the Marriage
31. The Wedding
32. The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces
33. Contrasts
34. Another Mother and Daughter
35. The Happy Pair
36. Housewarming
37. More Warnings than One
38. Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance
39. Further Adventures of Captain Edward CuttleMariner

40. Domestic Relations
41. New Voices in the Waves
42. Confidential and Accidental
43. The Watches of the Night
44. A Separation
45. The Trusty Agent
46. Recognizant and Reflective
47. The Thunderbolt
48. The Flight of Florence
49. The Midshipman makes a Discovery
50. Mr Toots's Complaint
51. Mr Dombey and the World
52. Secret Intelligence
53. More Intelligence
54. The Fugitives
55. Rob the Grinder loses his Place
56. Several People delightedand the Game Chicken disgusted
57. Another Wedding
58. After a Lapse
59. Retribution
60. Chiefly Matrimonial
61. Relenting
62. Final
CHAPTER 1.

Dombey and Son

Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great
arm-chair by the bedsideand Son lay tucked up warm in a little
basket bedsteadcarefully disposed on a low settee immediately in
front of the fire and close to itas if his constitution were
analogous to that of a muffinand it was essential to toast him brown
while he was very new.

Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about
eight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather baldrather redand
though a handsome well-made mantoo stern and pompous in appearance
to be prepossessing. Son was very baldand very redand though (of
course) an undeniably fine infantsomewhat crushed and spotty in his
general effectas yet. On the brow of DombeyTime and his brother
Care had set some marksas on a tree that was to come down in good
time - remorseless twins they are for striding through their human
forestsnotching as they go - while the countenance of Son was
crossed with a thousand little creaseswhich the same deceitful Time
would take delight in smoothing out and wearing away with the flat
part of his scytheas a preparation of the surface for his deeper
operations.

Dombeyexulting in the long-looked-for eventjingled and jingled
the heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue
coatwhereof the buttons sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays
of the distant fire. Sonwith his little fists curled up and
clenchedseemedin his feeble wayto be squaring at existence for
having come upon him so unexpectedly.

'The House will once againMrs Dombey' said Mr Dombey'be not
only in name but in fact Dombey and Son;' and he addedin a tone of
luxurious satisfactionwith his eyes half-closed as if he were


reading the name in a device of flowersand inhaling their fragrance
at the same time; 'Dom-bey and Son!'

The words had such a softening influencethat he appended a term
of endearment to Mrs Dombey's name (though not without some
hesitationas being a man but little used to that form of address):
and said'Mrs Dombeymy - my dear.'

A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady's face
as she raised her eyes towards him.

'He will be christened Paulmy - Mrs Dombey - of course.'

She feebly echoed'Of course' or rather expressed it by the
motion of her lipsand closed her eyes again.

'His father's nameMrs Dombeyand his grandfather's! I wish his
grandfather were alive this day! There is some inconvenience in the
necessity of writing Junior' said Mr Dombeymaking a fictitious
autograph on his knee; 'but it is merely of a private and personal
complexion. It doesn't enter into the correspondence of the House. Its
signature remains the same.' And again he said 'Dombey and Sonin
exactly the same tone as before.

Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr Dombey's life. The
earth was made for Dombey and Son to trade inand the sun and moon
were made to give them light. Rivers and seas were formed to float
their ships; rainbows gave them promise of fair weather; winds blew
for or against their enterprises; stars and planets circled in their
orbitsto preserve inviolate a system of which they were the centre.
Common abbreviations took new meanings in his eyesand had sole
reference to them. A. D. had no concern with Anno Dominibut stood
for anno Dombey - and Son.

He had risenas his father had before himin the course of life
and deathfrom Son to Dombeyand for nearly twenty years had been
the sole representative of the Firm. Of those years he had been
marriedten - marriedas some saidto a lady with no heart to give
him; whose happiness was in the pastand who was content to bind her
broken spirit to the dutiful and meek endurance of the present. Such
idle talk was little likely to reach the ears of Mr Dombeywhom it
nearly concerned; and probably no one in the world would have received
it with such utter incredulity as heif it had reached him. Dombey
and Son had often dealt in hidesbut never in hearts. They left that
fancy ware to boys and girlsand boarding-schools and books. Mr
Dombey would have reasoned: That a matrimonial alliance with himself
mustin the nature of thingsbe gratifying and honourable to any
woman of common sense. That the hope of giving birth to a new partner
in such a Housecould not fail to awaken a glorious and stirring
ambition in the breast of the least ambitious of her sex. That Mrs
Dombey had entered on that social contract of matrimony: almost
necessarily part of a genteel and wealthy stationeven without
reference to the perpetuation of family Firms: with her eyes fully
open to these advantages. That Mrs Dombey had had daily practical
knowledge of his position in society. That Mrs Dombey had always sat
at the head of his tableand done the honours of his house in a
remarkably lady-like and becoming manner. That Mrs Dombey must have
been happy. That she couldn't help it.

Orat all eventswith one drawback. Yes. That he would have
allowed. With only one; but that one certainly involving much. With
the drawback of hope deferred. That hope deferredwhich(as the
Scripture very correctly tells usMr Dombey would have added in a
patronising way; for his highest distinct idea even of Scriptureif


examinedwould have been found to be; that as forming part of a
general wholeof which Dombey and Son formed another partit was
therefore to be commended and upheld) maketh the heart sick. They had
been married ten yearsand until this present day on which Mr Dombey
sat jingling and jingling his heavy gold watch-chain in the great
arm-chair by the side of the bedhad had no issue.

-To speak of; none worth mentioning. There had been a girl some
six years beforeand the childwho had stolen into the chamber
unobservedwas now crouching timidlyin a corner whence she could
see her mother's face. But what was a girl to Dombey and Son! In the
capital of the House's name and dignitysuch a child was merely a
piece of base coin that couldn't be invested - a bad Boy - nothing
more.
Mr Dombey's cup of satisfaction was so full at this moment
howeverthat he felt he could afford a drop or two of its contents
even to sprinkle on the dust in the by-path of his little daughter.

So he said'Florenceyou may go and look at your pretty brother
if you lIkeI daresay. Don't touch him!'

The child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff white cravat
whichwith a pair of creaking boots and a very loud ticking watch
embodied her idea of a father; but her eyes returned to her mother's
face immediatelyand she neither moved nor answered.

'Her insensibility is as proof against a brother as against every
thing else' said Mr Dombey to himself He seemed so confirmed in a
previous opinion by the discoveryas to be quite glad of it'

Next momentthe lady had opened her eyes and seen the child; and
the child had run towards her; andstanding on tiptoethe better to
hide her face in her embracehad clung about her with a desperate
affection very much at variance with her years.

'Oh Lord bless me!' said Mr Dombeyrising testily. 'A very
illadvised and feverish proceeding thisI am sure. Please to ring
there for Miss Florence's nurse. Really the person should be more
care-'

'Wait! I - had better ask Doctor Peps if he'll have the goodness to
step upstairs again perhaps. I'll go down. I'll go down. I needn't beg
you' he addedpausing for a moment at the settee before the fire
'to take particular care of this young gentlemanMrs - '

'BlockittSir?' suggested the nursea simpering piece of faded
gentilitywho did not presume to state her name as a factbut merely
offered it as a mild suggestion.

'Of this young gentlemanMrs Blockitt.'

'NoSirindeed. I remember when Miss Florence was born - '

'Ayayay' said Mr Dombeybending over the basket bedsteadand
slightly bending his brows at the same time. 'Miss Florence was all
very wellbut this is another matter. This young gentleman has to
accomplish a destiny. A destinylittle fellow!' As he thus
apostrophised the infant he raised one of his hands to his lipsand
kissed it; thenseeming to fear that the action involved some
compromise of his dignitywentawkwardly enoughaway.

Doctor Parker Pepsone of the Court Physiciansand a man of
immense reputation for assisting at the increase of great families


was walking up and down the drawing-room with his hands behind himto
the unspeakable admiration of the family Surgeonwho had regularly
puffed the case for the last six weeksamong all his patients
friendsand acquaintancesas one to which he was in hourly
expectation day and night of being summonedin conjunction with
Doctor Parker Pep.

'WellSir' said Doctor Parker Peps in a rounddeepsonorous
voicemuffled for the occasionlike the knocker; 'do you find that
your dear lady is at all roused by your visit?'

'Stimulated as it were?' said the family practitioner faintly:
bowing at the same time to the Doctoras much as to say'Excuse my
putting in a wordbut this is a valuable connexion.'

Mr Dombey was quite discomfited by the question. He had thought so
little of the patientthat he was not in a condition to answer it. He
said that it would be a satisfaction to himif Doctor Parker Peps
would walk upstairs again.

'Good! We must not disguise from youSir' said Doctor Parker
Peps'that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess - I beg
your pardon; I confound names; I should sayin your amiable lady.
That there is a certain degree of languorand a general absence of
elasticitywhich we would rather - not


'See' interposed the family practitioner with another inclination
of the head.

'Quite so' said Doctor Parker Peps' which we would rather not
see. It would appear that the system of Lady Cankaby - excuse me: I
should say of Mrs Dombey: I confuse the names of cases - '

'So very numerous' murmured the family practitioner - 'can't be
expected I'm sure - quite wonderful if otherwise - Doctor Parker
Peps's West-End practice - '

'Thank you' said the Doctor'quite so. It would appearI was
observingthat the system of our patient has sustained a shockfrom
which it can only hope to rally by a great and strong - '

'And vigorous' murmured the family practitioner.

'Quite so' assented the Doctor - 'and vigorous effort. Mr Pilkins
herewho from his position of medical adviser in this family - no one
better qualified to fill that positionI am sure.'

'Oh!' murmured the family practitioner. '"Praise from Sir Hubert
Stanley!"'

'You are good enough' returned Doctor Parker Peps'to say so. Mr
Pilkins whofrom his positionis best acquainted with the patient's
constitution in its normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us
in forming our opinions in these occasions)is of opinionwith me
that Nature must be called upon to make a vigorous effort in this
instance; and that if our interesting friend the Countess of Dombey I
beg your pardon; Mrs Dombey - should not be - '

'Able' said the family practitioner.

'To make' said Doctor Parker Peps.

'That effort' said the family practitioner.


'Successfully' said they both together.

'Then' added Doctor Parker Pepsalone and very gravelya crisis
might arisewhich we should both sincerely deplore.'

With thatthey stood for a few seconds looking at the ground.
Thenon the motion - made in dumb show - of Doctor Parker Pepsthey
went upstairs; the family practitioner opening the room door for that
distinguished professionaland following him outwith most
obsequious politeness.

To record of Mr Dombey that he was not in his way affected by this
intelligencewould be to do him an injustice. He was not a man of
whom it could properly be said that he was ever startledor shocked;
but he certainly had a sense within himthat if his wife should
sicken and decayhe would be very sorryand that he would find a
something gone from among his plate and furnitureand other household
possessionswhich was well worth the havingand could not be lost
without sincere regret. Though it would be a cool. business-like
gentlemanlyself-possessed regretno doubt.

His meditations on the subject were soon interruptedfirst by the
rustling of garments on the staircaseand then by the sudden whisking
into the room of a lady rather past the middle age than otherwise but
dressed in a very juvenile mannerparticularly as to the tightness of
her bodicewhorunning up to him with a kind of screw in her face
and carriageexpressive of suppressed emotionflung her arms around
his neckand saidin a choking voice

'My dear Paul! He's quite a Dombey!'

'Wellwell!' returned her brother - for Mr Dombey was her brother

-'I think he is like the family. Don't agitate yourselfLouisa.'
'It's very foolish of me' said Louisasitting downand taking
out her pocket~handkerchief'but he's - he's such a perfect Dombey!'

Mr Dombey coughed.

'It's so extraordinary' said Louisa; smiling through her tears
which indeed were not overpowering'as to be perfectly ridiculous. So
completely our family. I never saw anything like it in my life!'

'But what is this about Fannyherself?' said Mr Dombey. 'How is
Fanny?'

'My dear Paul' returned Louisa'it's nothing whatever. Take my
wordit's nothing whatever. There is exhaustioncertainlybut
nothing like what I underwent myselfeither with George or Frederick.
An effort is necessary. That's all. If dear Fanny were a Dombey! - But
I daresay she'll make it; I have no doubt she'll make it. Knowing it
to be required of heras a dutyof course she'll make it. My dear
Paulit's very weak and silly of meI knowto be so trembly and
shaky from head to foot; but I am so very queer that I must ask you
for a glass of wine and a morsel of that cake.'

Mr Dombey promptly supplied her with these refreshments from a tray
on the table.

'I shall not drink my love to youPaul' said Louisa: 'I shall
drink to the little Dombey. Good gracious me! - it's the most
astonishing thing I ever knew in all my dayshe's such a perfect
Dombey.'


Quenching this expression of opinion in a short hysterical laugh
which terminated in tearsLouisa cast up her eyesand emptied her
glass.

'I know it's very weak and silly of me' she repeated'to be so
trembly and shaky from head to footand to allow my feelings so
completely to get the better of mebut I cannot help it. I thought I
should have fallen out of the staircase window as I came down from
seeing dear Fannyand that tiddy ickle sing.' These last words
originated in a sudden vivid reminiscence of the baby.

They were succeeded by a gentle tap at the door.

'Mrs Chick' said a very bland female voice outside'how are you
nowmy dear friend?'

'My dear Paul' said Louisa in a low voiceas she rose from her
seat'it's Miss Tox. The kindest creature! I never could have got
here without her! Miss Toxmy brother Mr Dombey. Paulmy dearmy
very particular friend Miss Tox.'

The lady thus specially presentedwas a long lean figurewearing
such a faded air that she seemed not to have been made in what
linen-drapers call 'fast colours' originallyand to haveby little
and littlewashed out. But for this she might have been described as
the very pink of general propitiation and politeness. From a long
habit of listening admiringly to everything that was said in her
presenceand looking at the speakers as if she were mentally engaged
in taking off impressions of their images upon her soulnever to part
with the same but with lifeher head had quite settled on one side.
Her hands had contracted a spasmodic habit of raising themselves of
their own accord as in involuntary admiration. Her eyes were liable to
a similar affection. She had the softest voice that ever was heard;
and her nosestupendously aquilinehad a little knob in the very
centre or key-stone of the bridgewhence it tended downwards towards
her faceas in an invincible determination never to turn up at
anything.

Miss Tox's dressthough perfectly genteel and goodhad a certain
character of angularity and scantiness. She was accustomed to wear odd
weedy little flowers in her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were
sometimes perceived in her hair; and it was observed by the curious
of all her collarsfrillstuckerswristbandsand other gossamer
articles - indeed of everything she wore which had two ends to it
intended to unite - that the two ends were never on good termsand
wouldn't quite meet without a struggle. She had furry articles for
winter wearas tippetsboasand muffswhich stood up on end in
rampant mannerand were not at all sleek. She was much given to the
carrying about of small bags with snaps to themthat went off like
little pistols when they were shut up; and when full-dressedshe wore
round her neck the barrenest of locketsrepresenting a fishy old eye
with no approach to speculation in it. These and other appearances of
a similar naturehad served to propagate the opinionthat Miss Tox
was a lady of what is called a limited independencewhich she turned
to the best account. Possibly her mincing gait encouraged the belief
and suggested that her clipping a step of ordinary compass into two or
threeoriginated in her habit of making the most of everything.

'I am sure' said Miss Toxwith a prodigious curtsey'that to
have the honour of being presented to Mr Dombey is a distinction which
I have long soughtbut very little expected at the present moment. My
dear Mrs Chick - may I say Louisa!'

Mrs Chick took Miss Tox's hand in hersrested the foot of her


wine-glass upon itrepressed a tearand said in a low voice'God
bless you!'

'My dear Louisa then' said Miss Tox'my sweet friendhow are you
now?'

'Better' Mrs Chick returned. 'Take some wine. You have been almost
as anxious as I have beenand must want itI am sure.'

Mr Dombey of course officiatedand also refilled his sister's
glasswhich she (looking another wayand unconscious of his
intention) held straight and steady the whileand then regarded with
great astonishmentsaying'My dear Paulwhat have you been doing!'

'Miss ToxPaul' pursued Mrs Chickstill retaining her hand
'knowing how much I have been interested in the anticipation of the
event of to-dayand how trembly and shaky I have been from head to
foot in expectation of ithas been working at a little gift for
Fannywhich I promised to present. Miss Tox is ingenuity itself.'

'My dear Louisa' said Miss Tox. 'Don't say so.

'It is only a pincushion for the toilette tablePaul' resumed his
sister; 'one of those trifles which are insignificant to your sex in
generalas it's very natural they should be - we have no business to
expect they should be otherwise - but to which we attach some
interest.

'Miss Tox is very good' said Mr Dombey.

'And I do sayand will sayand must say' pursued his sister
pressing the foot of the wine-glass on Miss Tox's handat each of the
three clauses'that Miss Tox has very prettily adapted the sentiment
to the occasion. I call "Welcome little Dombey" Poetrymyself!'

'Is that the device?' inquired her brother.

'That is the device' returned Louisa.

'But do me the justice to remembermy dear Louisa' said Miss
Toxin a tone of low and earnest entreaty'that nothing but the - I
have some difficulty in expressing myself - the dubiousness of the
result would have induced me to take so great a liberty: "Welcome
Master Dombey would have been much more congenial to my feelings, as
I am sure you know. But the uncertainty attendant on angelic
strangers, will, I hope, excuse what must otherwise appear an
unwarrantable familiarity.' Miss Tox made a graceful bend as she
spoke, in favour of Mr Dombey, which that gentleman graciously
acknowledged. Even the sort of recognition of Dombey and Son, conveyed
in the foregoing conversation, was so palatable to him, that his
sister, Mrs Chick - though he affected to consider her a weak
good-natured person - had perhaps more influence over him than anybody
else.

'My dear Paul,' that lady broke out afresh, after silently
contemplating his features for a few moments, 'I don't know whether to
laugh or cry when I look at you, I declare, you do so remind me of
that dear baby upstairs.'

'Well!' said Mrs Chick, with a sweet smile, 'after this, I forgive
Fanny everything!'

It was a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs Chick felt that
it did her good. Not that she had anything particular to forgive in


her sister-in-law, nor indeed anything at all, except her having
married her brother - in itself a species of audacity - and her
having, in the course of events, given birth to a girl instead of a
boy: which, as Mrs Chick had frequently observed, was not quite what
she had expected of her, and was not a pleasant return for all the
attention and distinction she had met with.

Mr Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room at this moment,
the two ladies were left alone together. Miss Tox immediately became
spasmodic.

'I knew you would admire my brother. I told you so beforehand, my
dear,' said Louisa. Miss Tox's hands and eyes expressed how much. 'And
as to his property, my dear!'

'Ah!' said Miss Tox, with deep feeling. 'Im-mense!'

'But his deportment, my dear Louisa!' said Miss Tox. 'His presence!
His dignity! No portrait that I have ever seen of anyone has been half
so replete with those qualities. Something so stately, you know: so
uncompromising: so very wide across the chest: so upright! A pecuniary
Duke of York, my love, and nothing short of it!' said Miss Tox.
'That's what I should designate him.'

'Why, my dear Paul!' exclaimed his sister, as he returned, 'you
look quite pale! There's nothing the matter?'

'I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that Fanny - '

'Now, my dear Paul,' returned his sister rising, 'don't believe it.
Do not allow yourself to receive a turn unnecessarily. Remember of
what importance you are to society, and do not allow yourself to be
worried by what is so very inconsiderately told you by people who
ought to know better. Really I'm surprised at them.'

'I hope I know, Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, stiffly, 'how to bear
myself before the world.'

'Nobody better, my dear Paul. Nobody half so well. They would be
ignorant and base indeed who doubted it.'

'Ignorant and base indeed!' echoed Miss Tox softly.

'But,' pursued Louisa, 'if you have any reliance on my experience,
Paul, you may rest assured that there is nothing wanting but an effort
on Fanny's part. And that effort,' she continued, taking off her
bonnet, and adjusting her cap and gloves, in a business-like manner,
'she must be encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to make. Now,
my dear Paul, come upstairs with me.'

Mr Dombey, who, besides being generally influenced by his sister
for the reason already mentioned, had really faith in her as an
experienced and bustling matron, acquiesced; and followed her, at
once, to the sick chamber.

The lady lay upon her bed as he had left her, clasping her little
daughter to her breast. The child clung close about her, with the same
intensity as before, and never raised her head, or moved her soft
cheek from her mother's face, or looked on those who stood around, or
spoke, or moved, or shed a tear.

'Restless without the little girl,' the Doctor whispered Mr Dombey.
'We found it best to have her in again.'


'Can nothing be done?' asked Mr Dombey.

The Doctor shook his head. 'We can do no more.'

The windows stood open, and the twilight was gathering without.

The scent of the restoratives that had been tried was pungent in
the room, but had no fragrance in the dull and languid air the lady
breathed.

There was such a solemn stillness round the bed; and the two
medical attendants seemed to look on the impassive form with so much
compassion and so little hope, that Mrs Chick was for the moment
diverted from her purpose. But presently summoning courage, and what
she called presence of mind, she sat down by the bedside, and said in
the low precise tone of one who endeavours to awaken a sleeper:

'Fanny! Fanny!'

There was no sound in answer but the loud ticking of Mr Dombey's
watch and Doctor Parker Peps's watch, which seemed in the silence to
be running a race.

'Fanny, my dear,' said Mrs Chick, with assumed lightness, 'here's
Mr Dombey come to see you. Won't you speak to him? They want to lay
your little boy - the baby, Fanny, you know; you have hardly seen him
yet, I think - in bed; but they can't till you rouse yourself a
little. Don't you think it's time you roused yourself a little? Eh?'

She bent her ear to the bed, and listened: at the same time looking
round at the bystanders, and holding up her finger.

'Eh?' she repeated, 'what was it you said, Fanny? I didn't hear
you.'

No word or sound in answer. Mr Dombey's watch and Dr Parker Peps's
watch seemed to be racing faster.

'Now, really, Fanny my dear,' said the sister-in-law, altering her
position, and speaking less confidently, and more earnestly, in spite
of herself, 'I shall have to be quite cross with you, if you don't
rouse yourself. It's necessary for you to make an effort, and perhaps
a very great and painful effort which you are not disposed to make;
but this is a world of effort you know, Fanny, and we must never
yield, when so much depends upon us. Come! Try! I must really scold
you if you don't!'

The race in the ensuing pause was fierce and furious. The watches
seemed to jostle, and to trip each other up.

'Fanny!' said Louisa, glancing round, with a gathering alarm. 'Only
look at me. Only open your eyes to show me that you hear and
understand me; will you? Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done!'

The two medical attendants exchanged a look across the bed; and the
Physician, stooping down, whispered in the child's ear. Not having
understood the purport of his whisper, the little creature turned her
perfectly colourless face and deep dark eyes towards him; but without
loosening her hold in the least

The whisper was repeated.

'Mama!' said the child.


The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened some show of
consciousness, even at that ebb. For a moment, the closed eye lids
trembled, and the nostril quivered, and the faintest shadow of a smile
was seen.

'Mama!' cried the child sobbing aloud. 'Oh dear Mama! oh dear
Mama!'

The Doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of the child,
aside from the face and mouth of the mother. Alas how calm they lay
there; how little breath there was to stir them!

Thus, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother
drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the
world.

CHAPTER 2.

In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that
will sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families

'I shall never cease to congratulate myself,' said Mrs Chick,' on
having said, when I little thought what was in store for us, - really
as if I was inspired by something, - that I forgave poor dear Fanny
everything. Whatever happens, that must always be a comfort to me!'

Mrs Chick made this impressive observation in the drawing-room,
after having descended thither from the inspection of the
mantua-makers upstairs, who were busy on the family mourning. She
delivered it for the behoof of Mr Chick, who was a stout bald
gentleman, with a very large face, and his hands continually in his
pockets, and who had a tendency in his nature to whistle and hum
tunes, which, sensible of the indecorum of such sounds in a house of
grief, he was at some pains to repress at present.

'Don't you over-exert yourself, Loo,' said Mr Chick, 'or you'll be
laid up with spasms, I see. Right tol loor rul! Bless my soul, I
forgot! We're here one day and gone the next!'

Mrs Chick contented herself with a glance of reproof, and then
proceeded with the thread of her discourse.

'I am sure,' she said, 'I hope this heart-rending occurrence will
be a warning to all of us, to accustom ourselves to rouse ourselves,
and to make efforts in time where they're required of us. There's a
moral in everything, if we would only avail ourselves of it. It will
be our own faults if we lose sight of this one.'

Mr Chick invaded the grave silence which ensued on this remark with
the singularly inappropriate air of 'A cobbler there was;' and
checking himself, in some confusion, observed, that it was undoubtedly
our own faults if we didn't improve such melancholy occasions as the
present.

'Which might be better improved, I should think, Mr C.,' retorted
his helpmate, after a short pause, 'than by the introduction, either
of the college hornpipe, or the equally unmeaning and unfeeling remark
of rump-te-iddity, bow-wow-wow!' - which Mr Chick had indeed indulged
in, under his breath, and which Mrs Chick repeated in a tone of
withering scorn.


'Merely habit, my dear,' pleaded Mr Chick.


'Nonsense! Habit!' returned his wife. 'If you're a rational being,
don't make such ridiculous excuses. Habit! If I was to get a habit (as
you call it) of walking on the ceiling, like the flies, I should hear
enough of it, I daresay.


It appeared so probable that such a habit might be attended with
some degree of notoriety, that Mr Chick didn't venture to dispute the
position.


'Bow-wow-wow!' repeated Mrs Chick with an emphasis of blighting
contempt on the last syllable. 'More like a professional singer with
the hydrophobia, than a man in your station of life!'


'How's the Baby, Loo?' asked Mr Chick: to change the subject.


'What Baby do you mean?' answered Mrs Chick.


'The poor bereaved little baby,' said Mr Chick. 'I don't know of
any other, my dear.'


'You don't know of any other,'retorted Mrs Chick. 'More shame for
you, I was going to say.


Mr Chick looked astonished.


'I am sure the morning I have had, with that dining-room
downstairs, one mass of babies, no one in their senses would believe.'


'One mass of babies!' repeated Mr Chick, staring with an alarmed
expression about him.


'It would have occurred to most men,' said Mrs Chick, 'that poor
dear Fanny being no more, - those words of mine will always be a balm
and comfort to me,' here she dried her eyes; 'it becomes necessary to
provide a Nurse.'


'Oh! Ah!' said Mr Chick. 'Toor-ru! - such is life, I mean. I hope
you are suited, my dear.'


'Indeed I am not,' said Mrs Chick; 'nor likely to be, so far as I
can see, and in the meantime the poor child seems likely to be starved
to death. Paul is so very particular - naturally so, of course, having
set his whole heart on this one boy - and there are so many objections
to everybody that offers, that I don't see, myself, the least chance
of an arrangement. Meanwhile, of course, the child is - '


'Going to the Devil,' said Mr Chick, thoughtfully, 'to be sure.'


Admonished, however, that he had committed himself, by the
indignation expressed in Mrs Chick's countenance at the idea of a
Dombey going there; and thinking to atone for his misconduct by a
bright suggestion, he added:


'Couldn't something temporary be done with a teapot?'


If he had meant to bring the subject prematurely to a close, he
could not have done it more effectually. After looking at him for some
moments in silent resignation, Mrs Chick said she trusted he hadn't
said it in aggravation, because that would do very little honour to
his heart. She trusted he hadn't said it seriously, because that would
do very little honour to his head. As in any case, he couldn't,



however sanguine his disposition, hope to offer a remark that would be
a greater outrage on human nature in general, we would beg to leave
the discussion at that point.

Mrs Chick then walked majestically to the window and peeped through
the blind, attracted by the sound of wheels. Mr Chick, finding that
his destiny was, for the time, against him, said no more, and walked
off. But it was not always thus with Mr Chick. He was often in the
ascendant himself, and at those times punished Louisa roundly. In
their matrimonial bickerings they were, upon the whole, a
well-matched, fairly-balanced, give-and-take couple. It would have
been, generally speaking, very difficult to have betted on the winner.
Often when Mr Chick seemed beaten, he would suddenly make a start,
turn the tables, clatter them about the ears of Mrs Chick, and carry
all before him. Being liable himself to similar unlooked for checks
from Mrs Chick, their little contests usually possessed a character of
uncertainty that was very animating.

Miss Tox had arrived on the wheels just now alluded to, and came
running into the room in a breathless condition. 'My dear Louisa,'said
Miss Tox, 'is the vacancy still unsupplied?'

'You good soul, yes,' said Mrs Chick.

'Then, my dear Louisa,' returned Miss Tox, 'I hope and believe but
in one moment, my dear, I'll introduce the party.'

Running downstairs again as fast as she had run up, Miss Tox got
the party out of the hackney-coach, and soon returned with it under
convoy.

It then appeared that she had used the word, not in its legal or
business acceptation, when it merely expresses an individual, but as a
noun of multitude, or signifying many: for Miss Tox escorted a plump
rosy-cheeked wholesome apple-faced young woman, with an infant in her
arms; a younger woman not so plump, but apple-faced also, who led a
plump and apple-faced child in each hand; another plump and also
apple-faced boy who walked by himself; and finally, a plump and
apple-faced man, who carried in his arms another plump and apple-faced
boy, whom he stood down on the floor, and admonished, in a husky
whisper, to 'kitch hold of his brother Johnny.'

'My dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox, 'knowing your great anxiety, and
wishing to relieve it, I posted off myself to the Queen Charlotte's
Royal Married Females,' which you had forgot, and put the question,
Was there anybody there that they thought would suit? No, they said
there was not. When they gave me that answer, I do assure you, my
dear, I was almost driven to despair on your account. But it did so
happen, that one of the Royal Married Females, hearing the inquiry,
reminded the matron of another who had gone to her own home, and who,
she said, would in all likelihood be most satisfactory. The moment I
heard this, and had it corroborated by the matron - excellent
references and unimpeachable character - I got the address, my dear,
and posted off again.'

'Like the dear good Tox, you are!' said Louisa.

'Not at all,' returned Miss Tox. 'Don't say so. Arriving at the
house (the cleanest place, my dear! You might eat your dinner off the
floor), I found the whole family sitting at table; and feeling that no
account of them could be half so comfortable to you and Mr Dombey as
the sight of them all together, I brought them all away. This
gentleman,' said Miss Tox, pointing out the apple-faced man, 'is the
father. Will you have the goodness to come a little forward, Sir?'


The apple-faced man having sheepishly complied with this request,
stood chuckling and grinning in a front row.

'This is his wife, of course,' said Miss Tox, singling out the
young woman with the baby. 'How do you do, Polly?'

'I'm pretty well, I thank you, Ma'am,' said Polly.

By way of bringing her out dexterously, Miss Tox had made the
inquiry as in condescension to an old acquaintance whom she hadn't
seen for a fortnight or so.

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Miss Tox. 'The other young woman is her
unmarried sister who lives with them, and would take care of her
children. Her name's Jemima. How do you do, Jemima?'

'I'm pretty well, I thank you, Ma'am,' returned Jemima.

'I'm very glad indeed to hear it,' said Miss Tox. 'I hope you'll
keep so. Five children. Youngest six weeks. The fine little boy with
the blister on his nose is the eldest The blister, I believe,' said
Miss Tox, looking round upon the family, 'is not constitutional, but
accidental?'

The apple-faced man was understood to growl, 'Flat iron.

'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Miss Tox, 'did you?

'Flat iron,' he repeated.

'Oh yes,' said Miss Tox. 'Yes! quite true. I forgot. The little
creature, in his mother's absence, smelt a warm flat iron. You're
quite right, Sir. You were going to have the goodness to inform me,
when we arrived at the door that you were by trade a - '

'Stoker,' said the man.

'A choker!' said Miss Tox, quite aghast.

'Stoker,' said the man. 'Steam ingine.'

'Oh-h! Yes!' returned Miss Tox, looking thoughtfully at him, and
seeming still to have but a very imperfect understanding of his
meaning.

'And how do you like it, Sir?'

'Which, Mum?' said the man.

'That,' replied Miss Tox. 'Your trade.'

'Oh! Pretty well, Mum. The ashes sometimes gets in here;' touching
his chest: 'and makes a man speak gruff, as at the present time. But
it is ashes, Mum, not crustiness.'

Miss Tox seemed to be so little enlightened by this reply, as to
find a difficulty in pursuing the subject. But Mrs Chick relieved her,
by entering into a close private examination of Polly, her children,
her marriage certificate, testimonials, and so forth. Polly coming out
unscathed from this ordeal, Mrs Chick withdrew with her report to her
brother's room, and as an emphatic comment on it, and corroboration of
it, carried the two rosiest little Toodles with her. Toodle being the
family name of the apple-faced family.


Mr Dombey had remained in his own apartment since the death of his
wife, absorbed in visions of the youth, education, and destination of
his baby son. Something lay at the bottom of his cool heart, colder
and heavier than its ordinary load; but it was more a sense of the
child's loss than his own, awakening within him an almost angry
sorrow. That the life and progress on which he built such hopes,
should be endangered in the outset by so mean a want; that Dombey and
Son should be tottering for a nurse, was a sore humiliation. And yet
in his pride and jealousy, he viewed with so much bitterness the
thought of being dependent for the very first step towards the
accomplishment of his soul's desire, on a hired serving-woman who
would be to the child, for the time, all that even his alliance could
have made his own wife, that in every new rejection of a candidate he
felt a secret pleasure. The time had now come, however, when he could
no longer be divided between these two sets of feelings. The less so,
as there seemed to be no flaw in the title of Polly Toodle after his
sister had set it forth, with many commendations on the indefatigable
friendship of Miss Tox.

'These children look healthy,' said Mr Dombey. 'But my God, to
think of their some day claiming a sort of relationship to Paul!'

' But what relationship is there!' Louisa began


'Is there!' echoed Mr Dombey, who had not intended his sister to
participate in the thought he had unconsciously expressed. 'Is there,
did you say, Louisa!'

'Can there be, I mean - '

'Why none,' said Mr Dombey, sternly. 'The whole world knows that, I
presume. Grief has not made me idiotic, Louisa. Take them away,
Louisa! Let me see this woman and her husband.'

Mrs Chick bore off the tender pair of Toodles, and presently
returned with that tougher couple whose presence her brother had
commanded.

'My good woman,' said Mr Dombey, turning round in his easy chair,
as one piece, and not as a man with limbs and joints, 'I understand
you are poor, and wish to earn money by nursing the little boy, my
son, who has been so prematurely deprived of what can never be
replaced. I have no objection to your adding to the comforts of your
family by that means. So far as I can tell, you seem to be a deserving
object. But I must impose one or two conditions on you, before you
enter my house in that capacity. While you are here, I must stipulate
that you are always known as - say as Richards - an ordinary name, and
convenient. Have you any objection to be known as Richards? You had
better consult your husband.'

'Well?' said Mr Dombey, after a pretty long pause. 'What does your
husband say to your being called Richards?'

As the husband did nothing but chuckle and grin, and continually
draw his right hand across his mouth, moistening the palm, Mrs Toodle,
after nudging him twice or thrice in vain, dropped a curtsey and
replied 'that perhaps if she was to be called out of her name, it
would be considered in the wages.'

'Oh, of course,' said Mr Dombey. 'I desire to make it a question of
wages, altogether. Now, Richards, if you nurse my bereaved child, I
wish you to remember this always. You will receive a liberal stipend
in return for the discharge of certain duties, in the performance of


which, I wish you to see as little of your family as possible. When
those duties cease to be required and rendered, and the stipend ceases
to be paid, there is an end of all relations between us. Do you
understand me?'

Mrs Toodle seemed doubtful about it; and as to Toodle himself, he
had evidently no doubt whatever, that he was all abroad.

'You have children of your own,' said Mr Dombey. 'It is not at all
in this bargain that you need become attached to my child, or that my
child need become attached to you. I don't expect or desire anything
of the kind. Quite the reverse. When you go away from here, you will
have concluded what is a mere matter of bargain and sale, hiring and
letting: and will stay away. The child will cease to remember you; and
you will cease, if you please, to remember the child.'

Mrs Toodle, with a little more colour in her cheeks than she had
had before, said 'she hoped she knew her place.'

'I hope you do, Richards,' said Mr Dombey. 'I have no doubt you
know it very well. Indeed it is so plain and obvious that it could
hardly be otherwise. Louisa, my dear, arrange with Richards about
money, and let her have it when and how she pleases. Mr what's-your
name, a word with you, if you please!'

Thus arrested on the threshold as he was following his wife out of
the room, Toodle returned and confronted Mr Dombey alone. He was a
strong, loose, round-shouldered, shuffling, shaggy fellow, on whom his
clothes sat negligently: with a good deal of hair and whisker,
deepened in its natural tint, perhaps by smoke and coal-dust: hard
knotty hands: and a square forehead, as coarse in grain as the bark of
an oak. A thorough contrast in all respects, to Mr Dombey, who was one
of those close-shaved close-cut moneyed gentlemen who are glossy and
crisp like new bank-notes, and who seem to be artificially braced and
tightened as by the stimulating action of golden showerbaths.

'You have a son, I believe?' said Mr Dombey.

'Four on 'em, Sir. Four hims and a her. All alive!'

'Why, it's as much as you can afford to keep them!' said Mr Dombey.

'I couldn't hardly afford but one thing in the world less, Sir.'

'What is that?'

'To lose 'em, Sir.'

'Can you read?' asked Mr Dombey.

'Why, not partick'ler, Sir.'

'Write?'

'With chalk, Sir?'

'With anything?'

'I could make shift to chalk a little bit, I think, if I was put to
it,' said Toodle after some reflection.

'And yet,' said Mr Dombey, 'you are two or three and thirty, I
suppose?'


'Thereabouts, I suppose, Sir,' answered Toodle, after more
reflection

'Then why don't you learn?' asked Mr Dombey.

'So I'm a going to, Sir. One of my little boys is a going to learn
me, when he's old enough, and been to school himself.'

'Well,' said Mr Dombey, after looking at him attentively, and with
no great favour, as he stood gazing round the room (principally round
the ceiling) and still drawing his hand across and across his mouth.
'You heard what I said to your wife just now?'

'Polly heerd it,' said Toodle, jerking his hat over his shoulder in
the direction of the door, with an air of perfect confidence in his
better half. 'It's all right.'

'But I ask you if you heard it. You did, I suppose, and understood
it?' pursued Mr Dombey.

'I heerd it,' said Toodle, 'but I don't know as I understood it
rightly Sir, 'account of being no scholar, and the words being - ask
your pardon - rayther high. But Polly heerd it. It's all right.'

'As you appear to leave everything to her,' said Mr Dombey,
frustrated in his intention of impressing his views still more
distinctly on the husband, as the stronger character, 'I suppose it is
of no use my saying anything to you.'

'Not a bit,' said Toodle. 'Polly heerd it. She's awake, Sir.'

'I won't detain you any longer then,' returned Mr Dombey,
disappointed. 'Where have you worked all your life?'

'Mostly underground, Sir, 'till I got married. I come to the level
then. I'm a going on one of these here railroads when they comes into
full play.'

As he added in one of his hoarse whispers, 'We means to bring up
little Biler to that line,' Mr Dombey inquired haughtily who little
Biler was.

'The eldest on 'em, Sir,' said Toodle, with a smile. 'It ain't a
common name. Sermuchser that when he was took to church the gen'lm'n
said, it wam't a chris'en one, and he couldn't give it. But we always
calls him Biler just the same. For we don't mean no harm. Not we.

'Do you mean to say, Man,' inquired Mr Dombey; looking at him with
marked displeasure, 'that you have called a child after a boiler?'

'No, no, Sir,' returned Toodle, with a tender consideration for his
mistake. 'I should hope not! No, Sir. Arter a BILER Sir. The
Steamingine was a'most as good as a godfather to him, and so we called
him Biler, don't you see!'

As the last straw breaks the laden camel's back, this piece of
information crushed the sinking spirits of Mr Dombey. He motioned his
child's foster-father to the door, who departed by no means
unwillingly: and then turning the key, paced up and down the room in
solitary wretchedness.

It would be harsh, and perhaps not altogether true, to say of him
that he felt these rubs and gratings against his pride more keenly
than he had felt his wife's death: but certainly they impressed that


event upon him with new force, and communicated to it added weight and
bitterness. It was a rude shock to his sense of property in his child,
that these people - the mere dust of the earth, as he thought them should
be necessary to him; and it was natural that in proportion as
he felt disturbed by it, he should deplore the occurrence which had
made them so. For all his starched, impenetrable dignity and
composure, he wiped blinding tears from his eyes as he paced up and
down his room; and often said, with an emotion of which he would not,
for the world, have had a witness, 'Poor little fellow!'

It may have been characteristic of Mr Dombey's pride, that he
pitied himself through the child. Not poor me. Not poor widower,
confiding by constraint in the wife of an ignorant Hind who has been
working 'mostly underground' all his life, and yet at whose door Death
had never knocked, and at whose poor table four sons daily sit - but
poor little fellow!

Those words being on his lips, it occurred to him - and it is an
instance of the strong attraction with which his hopes and fears and
all his thoughts were tending to one centre - that a great temptation
was being placed in this woman's way. Her infant was a boy too. Now,
would it be possIble for her to change them?

Though he was soon satisfied that he had dismissed the idea as
romantic and unlikely - though possible, there was no denying - he
could not help pursuing it so far as to entertain within himself a
picture of what his condition would be, if he should discover such an
imposture when he was grown old. Whether a man so situated would be
able to pluck away the result of so many years of usage, confidence,
and belief, from the impostor, and endow a stranger with it?

But it was idle speculating thus. It couldn't happen. In a moment
afterwards he determined that it could, but that such women were
constantly observed, and had no opportunity given them for the
accomplishment of such a design, even when they were so wicked as to
entertain it. In another moment, he was remembering how few such cases
seemed to have ever happened. In another moment he was wondering
whether they ever happened and were not found out.

As his unusual emotion subsided, these misgivings gradually melted
away, though so much of their shadow remained behind, that he was
constant in his resolution to look closely after Richards himself,
without appearing to do so. Being now in an easier frame of mind, he
regarded the woman's station as rather an advantageous circumstance
than otherwise, by placing, in itself, a broad distance between her
and the child, and rendering their separation easy and natural. Thence
he passed to the contemplation of the future glories of Dombey and
Son, and dismissed the memory of his wife, for the time being, with a
tributary sigh or two.

Meanwhile terms were ratified and agreed upon between Mrs Chick and
Richards, with the assistance of Miss Tox; and Richards being with
much ceremony invested with the Dombey baby, as if it were an Order,
resigned her own, with many tears and kisses, to Jemima. Glasses of
wine were then produced, to sustain the drooping spirits of the
family; and Miss Tox, busying herself in dispensing 'tastes' to the
younger branches, bred them up to their father's business with such
surprising expedition, that she made chokers of four of them in a
quarter of a minute.

'You'll take a glass yourself, Sir, won't you?' said Miss Tox, as
Toodle appeared.

'Thankee, Mum,' said Toodle, 'since you are suppressing.'


'And you're very glad to leave your dear good wife in such a
comfortable home, ain't you, Sir?'said Miss Tox, nodding and winking
at him stealthily.

'No, Mum,' said Toodle. 'Here's wishing of her back agin.'

Polly cried more than ever at this. So Mrs Chick, who had her
matronly apprehensions that this indulgence in grief might be
prejudicial to the little Dombey ('acid, indeed,' she whispered Miss
Tox), hastened to the rescue.

'Your little child will thrive charmingly with your sister Jemima,
Richards,' said Mrs Chick; 'and you have only to make an effort - this
is a world of effort, you know, Richards - to be very happy indeed.
You have been already measured for your mourning, haven't you,
Richards?'

'Ye - es, Ma'am,' sobbed Polly.

'And it'll fit beautifully. I know,' said Mrs Chick, 'for the same
young person has made me many dresses. The very best materials, too!'

'Lor, you'll be so smart,' said Miss Tox, 'that your husband won't
know you; will you, Sir?'

'I should know her,' said Toodle, gruffly, 'anyhows and anywheres.'

Toodle was evidently not to be bought over.

'As to living, Richards, you know,' pursued Mrs Chick, 'why, the
very best of everything will be at your disposal. You will order your
little dinner every day; and anything you take a fancy to, I'm sure
will be as readily provided as if you were a Lady.'

'Yes to be sure!' said Miss Tox, keeping up the ball with great
sympathy. 'And as to porter! - quite unlimited, will it not, Louisa?'

'Oh, certainly!' returned Mrs Chick in the same tone. 'With a
little abstinence, you know, my dear, in point of vegetables.'

'And pickles, perhaps,' suggested Miss Tox.

'With such exceptions,' said Louisa, 'she'll consult her choice
entirely, and be under no restraint at all, my love.'

'And then, of course, you know,' said Miss Tox, 'however fond she
is of her own dear little child - and I'm sure, Louisa, you don't
blame her for being fond of it?'

'Oh no!' cried Mrs Chick, benignantly.

'Still,' resumed Miss Tox, 'she naturally must be interested in her
young charge, and must consider it a privilege to see a little cherub
connected with the superior classes, gradually unfolding itself from
day to day at one common fountain- is it not so, Louisa?'

'Most undoubtedly!' said Mrs Chick. 'You see, my love, she's
already quite contented and comfortable, and means to say goodbye to
her sister Jemima and her little pets, and her good honest husband,
with a light heart and a smile; don't she, my dear?'

'Oh yes!' cried Miss Tox. 'To be sure she does!'


Notwithstanding which, however, poor Polly embraced them all round
in great distress, and coming to her spouse at last, could not make up
her mind to part from him, until he gently disengaged himself, at the
close of the following allegorical piece of consolation:

'Polly, old 'ooman, whatever you do, my darling, hold up your head
and fight low. That's the only rule as I know on, that'll carry anyone
through life. You always have held up your head and fought low, Polly.
Do it now, or Bricks is no longer so. God bless you, Polly! Me and
J'mima will do your duty by you; and with relating to your'n, hold up
your head and fight low, Polly, and you can't go wrong!'

Fortified by this golden secret, Folly finally ran away to avoid
any more particular leave-taking between herself and the children. But
the stratagem hardly succeeded as well as it deserved; for the
smallest boy but one divining her intent, immediately began swarming
upstairs after her - if that word of doubtful etymology be admissible
- on his arms and legs; while the eldest (known in the family by the
name of Biler, in remembrance of the steam engine) beat a demoniacal
tattoo with his boots, expressive of grief; in which he was joined by
the rest of the family.

A quantity of oranges and halfpence thrust indiscriminately on each
young Toodle, checked the first violence of their regret, and the
family were speedily transported to their own home, by means of the
hackney-coach kept in waiting for that purpose. The children, under
the guardianship of Jemima, blocked up the window, and dropped out
oranges and halfpence all the way along. Mr Toodle himself preferred
to ride behind among the spikes, as being the mode of conveyance to
which he was best accustomed.

CHAPTER 3.

In which Mr Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the
Head of the Home-Department

The funeral of the deceased lady having been 'performed to the
entire satisfaction of the undertaker, as well as of the neighbourhood
at large, which is generally disposed to be captious on such a point,
and is prone to take offence at any omissions or short-comings in the
ceremonies, the various members of Mr Dombey's household subsided into
their several places in the domestic system. That small world, like
the great one out of doors, had the capacity of easily forgetting its
dead; and when the cook had said she was a quiet-tempered lady, and
the house-keeper had said it was the common lot, and the butler had
said who'd have thought it, and the housemaid had said she couldn't
hardly believe it, and the footman had said it seemed exactly like a
dream, they had quite worn the subject out, and began to think their
mourning was wearing rusty too.

On Richards, who was established upstairs in a state of honourable
captivity, the dawn of her new life seemed to break cold and grey. Mr
Dombey's house was a large one, on the shady side of a tall, dark,
dreadfully genteel street in the region between Portland Place and
Bryanstone Square.' It was a corner house, with great wide areas
containing cellars frowned upon by barred windows, and leered at by
crooked-eyed doors leading to dustbins. It was a house of dismal
state, with a circular back to it, containing a whole suite of
drawing-rooms looking upon a gravelled yard, where two gaunt trees,
with blackened trunks and branches, rattled rather than rustled, their


leaves were so smoked-dried. The summer sun was never on the street,
but in the morning about breakfast-time, when it came with the
water-carts and the old clothes men, and the people with geraniums,
and the umbrella-mender, and the man who trilled the little bell of
the Dutch clock as he went along. It was soon gone again to return no
more that day; and the bands of music and the straggling Punch's shows
going after it, left it a prey to the most dismal of organs, and white
mice; with now and then a porcupine, to vary the entertainments; until
the butlers whose families were dining out, began to stand at the
house-doors in the twilight, and the lamp-lighter made his nightly
failure in attempting to brighten up the street with gas.

It was as blank a house inside as outside. When the funeral was
over, Mr Dombey ordered the furniture to be covered up - perhaps to
preserve it for the son with whom his plans were all associated - and
the rooms to be ungarnished, saving such as he retained for himself on
the ground floor. Accordingly, mysterious shapes were made of tables
and chairs, heaped together in the middle of rooms, and covered over
with great winding-sheets. Bell-handles, window-blinds, and
looking-glasses, being papered up in journals, daily and weekly,
obtruded fragmentary accounts of deaths and dreadful murders. Every
chandelier or lustre, muffled in holland, looked like a monstrous tear
depending from the ceiling's eye. Odours, as from vaults and damp
places, came out of the chimneys. The dead and buried lady was awful
in a picture-frame of ghastly bandages. Every gust of wind that rose,
brought eddying round the corner from the neighbouring mews, some
fragments of the straw that had been strewn before the house when she
was ill, mildewed remains of which were still cleaving to the
neighbourhood: and these, being always drawn by some invisible
attraction to the threshold of the dirty house to let immediately
opposite, addressed a dismal eloquence to Mr Dombey's windows.

The apartments which Mr Dombey reserved for his own inhabiting,
were attainable from the hall, and consisted of a sitting-room; a
library, which was in fact a dressing-room, so that the smell of
hot-pressed paper, vellum, morocco, and Russia leather, contended in
it with the smell of divers pairs of boots; and a kind of conservatory
or little glass breakfast-room beyond, commanding a prospect of the
trees before mentioned, and, generally speaking, of a few prowling
cats. These three rooms opened upon one another. In the morning, when
Mr Dombey was at his breakfast in one or other of the two
first-mentioned of them, as well as in the afternoon when he came home
to dinner, a bell was rung for Richards to repair to this glass
chamber, and there walk to and fro with her young charge. From the
glimpses she caught of Mr Dombey at these times, sitting in the dark
distance, looking out towards the infant from among the dark heavy
furniture - the house had been inhabited for years by his father, and
in many of its appointments was old-fashioned and grim - she began to
entertain ideas of him in his solitary state, as if he were a lone
prisoner in a cell, or a strange apparition that was not to be
accosted or understood. Mr Dombey came to be, in the course of a few
days, invested in his own person, to her simple thinking, with all the
mystery and gloom of his house. As she walked up and down the glass
room, or sat hushing the baby there - which she very often did for
hours together, when the dusk was closing in, too - she would
sometimes try to pierce the gloom beyond, and make out how he was
looking and what he was doing. Sensible that she was plainly to be
seen by him' however, she never dared to pry in that direction but
very furtively and for a moment at a time. Consequently she made out
nothing, and Mr Dombey in his den remained a very shade.

Little Paul Dombey's foster-mother had led this life herself, and
had carried little Paul through it for some weeks; and had returned
upstairs one day from a melancholy saunter through the dreary rooms of


state (she never went out without Mrs Chick, who called on fine
mornings, usually accompanied by Miss Tox, to take her and Baby for an
airing - or in other words, to march them gravely up and down the
pavement, like a walking funeral); when, as she was sitting in her own
room, the door was slowly and quietly opened, and a dark-eyed little
girl looked in.

'It's Miss Florence come home from her aunt's, no doubt,' thought
Richards, who had never seen the child before. 'Hope I see you well,
Miss.'

'Is that my brother?' asked the child, pointing to the Baby.

'Yes, my pretty,' answered Richards. 'Come and kiss him.'

But the child, instead of advancing, looked her earnestly in the
face, and said:

'What have you done with my Mama?'

'Lord bless the little creeter!' cried Richards, 'what a sad
question! I done? Nothing, Miss.'

'What have they done with my Mama?' inquired the child, with
exactly the same look and manner.

'I never saw such a melting thing in all my life!' said Richards,
who naturally substituted 'for this child one of her own, inquiring
for herself in like circumstances. 'Come nearer here, my dear Miss!
Don't be afraid of me.'

'I am not afraid of you,' said the child, drawing nearer. 'But I
want to know what they have done with my Mama.'

Her heart swelled so as she stood before the woman, looking into
her eyes, that she was fain to press her little hand upon her breast
and hold it there. Yet there was a purpose in the child that prevented
both her slender figure and her searching gaze from faltering.

'My darling,' said Richards, 'you wear that pretty black frock in
remembrance of your Mama.'

'I can remember my Mama,' returned the child, with tears springing
to her eyes, 'in any frock.'

'But people put on black, to remember people when they're gone.'

'Where gone?' asked the child.

'Come and sit down by me,' said Richards, 'and I'll tell you a
story.'

With a quick perception that it was intended to relate to what she
had asked, little Florence laid aside the bonnet she had held in her
hand until now, and sat down on a stool at the Nurse's feet, looking
up into her face.

'Once upon a time,' said Richards, 'there was a lady - a very good
lady, and her little daughter dearly loved her.'

'A very good lady and her little daughter dearly loved her,'
repeated the child.

'Who, when God thought it right that it should be so, was taken ill


and died.'

The child shuddered.

'Died, never to be seen again by anyone on earth, and was buried in
the ground where the trees grow.

'The cold ground?' said the child, shuddering again. 'No! The warm
ground,' returned Polly, seizing her advantage, 'where the ugly little
seeds turn into beautiful flowers, and into grass, and corn, and I
don't know what all besides. Where good people turn into bright
angels, and fly away to Heaven!'

The child, who had dropped her head, raised it again, and sat
looking at her intently.

'So; let me see,' said Polly, not a little flurried between this
earnest scrutiny, her desire to comfort the child, her sudden success,
and her very slight confidence in her own powers.' So, when this lady
died, wherever they took her, or wherever they put her, she went to
GOD! and she prayed to Him, this lady did,' said Polly, affecting
herself beyond measure; being heartily in earnest, 'to teach her
little daughter to be sure of that in her heart: and to know that she
was happy there and loved her still: and to hope and try - Oh, all her
life - to meet her there one day, never, never, never to part any
more.'

'It was my Mama!' exclaimed the child, springing up, and clasping
her round the neck.

'And the child's heart,' said Polly, drawing her to her breast:
'the little daughter's heart was so full of the truth of this, that
even when she heard it from a strange nurse that couldn't tell it
right, but was a poor mother herself and that was all, she found a
comfort in it - didn't feel so lonely - sobbed and cried upon her
bosom - took kindly to the baby lying in her lap - and - there, there,
there!' said Polly, smoothing the child's curls and dropping tears
upon them. 'There, poor dear!'

'Oh well, Miss Floy! And won't your Pa be angry neither!' cried a
quick voice at the door, proceeding from a short, brown, womanly girl
of fourteen, with a little snub nose, and black eyes like jet beads.
'When it was 'tickerlerly given out that you wasn't to go and worrit
the wet nurse.

'She don't worry me,' was the surprised rejoinder of Polly. 'I am
very fond of children.'

'Oh! but begging your pardon, Mrs Richards, that don't matter, you
know,' returned the black-eyed girl, who was so desperately sharp and
biting that she seemed to make one's eyes water. 'I may be very fond
of pennywinkles, Mrs Richards, but it don't follow that I'm to have
'em for tea. 'Well, it don't matter,' said Polly. 'Oh, thank'ee, Mrs
Richards, don't it!' returned the sharp girl. 'Remembering, however,
if you'll be so good, that Miss Floy's under my charge, and Master
Paul's under your'n.'

'But still we needn't quarrel,' said Polly.

'Oh no, Mrs Richards,' rejoined Spitfire. 'Not at all, I don't wish
it, we needn't stand upon that footing, Miss Floy being a permanency,
Master Paul a temporary.' Spitfire made use of none but comma pauses;
shooting out whatever she had to say in one sentence, and in one
breath, if possible.


'Miss Florence has just come home, hasn't she?' asked Polly.

'Yes, Mrs Richards, just come, and here, Miss Floy, before you've
been in the house a quarter of an hour, you go a smearing your wet
face against the expensive mourning that Mrs Richards is a wearing for
your Ma!' With this remonstrance, young Spitfire, whose real name was
Susan Nipper, detached the child from her new friend by a wrench - as
if she were a tooth. But she seemed to do it, more in the excessively
sharp exercise of her official functions, than with any deliberate
unkindness.

'She'll be quite happy, now she has come home again,' said Polly,
nodding to her with an encouraging smile upon her wholesome face, 'and
will be so pleased to see her dear Papa to-night.'

'Lork, Mrs Richards!' cried Miss Nipper, taking up her words with a
jerk. 'Don't. See her dear Papa indeed! I should like to see her do
it!'

'Won't she then?' asked Polly.

'Lork, Mrs Richards, no, her Pa's a deal too wrapped up in somebody
else, and before there was a somebody else to be wrapped up in she
never was a favourite, girls are thrown away in this house, Mrs
Richards, I assure you.

The child looked quickly from one nurse to the other, as if she
understood and felt what was said.

'You surprise me!' cried Folly. 'Hasn't Mr Dombey seen her since '


'No,' interrupted Susan Nipper. 'Not once since, and he hadn't
hardly set his eyes upon her before that for months and months, and I
don't think he'd have known her for his own child if he had met her in
the streets, or would know her for his own child if he was to meet her
in the streets to-morrow, Mrs Richards, as to me,' said Spitfire, with
a giggle, 'I doubt if he's aweer of my existence.'

'Pretty dear!' said Richards; meaning, not Miss Nipper, but the
little Florence.

'Oh! there's a Tartar within a hundred miles of where we're now in
conversation, I can tell you, Mrs Richards, present company always
excepted too,' said Susan Nipper; 'wish you good morning, Mrs
Richards, now Miss Floy, you come along with me, and don't go hanging
back like a naughty wicked child that judgments is no example to,
don't!'

In spite of being thus adjured, and in spite also of some hauling
on the part of Susan Nipper, tending towards the dislocation of her
right shoulder, little Florence broke away, and kissed her new friend,
affectionately.

'Oh dear! after it was given out so 'tickerlerly, that Mrs Richards
wasn't to be made free with!' exclaimed Susan. 'Very well, Miss Floy!'

'God bless the sweet thing!' said Richards, 'Good-bye, dear!'

'Good-bye!' returned the child. 'God bless you! I shall come to see
you again soon, and you'll come to see me? Susan will let us. Won't
you, Susan?'


Spitfire seemed to be in the main a good-natured little body,
although a disciple of that school of trainers of the young idea which
holds that childhood, like money, must be shaken and rattled and
jostled about a good deal to keep it bright. For, being thus appealed
to with some endearing gestures and caresses, she folded her small
arms and shook her head, and conveyed a relenting expression into her
very-wide-open black eyes.

'It ain't right of you to ask it, Miss Floy, for you know I can't
refuse you, but Mrs Richards and me will see what can be done, if Mrs
Richards likes, I may wish, you see, to take a voyage to Chaney, Mrs
Richards, but I mayn't know how to leave the London Docks.'

Richards assented to the proposition.

'This house ain't so exactly ringing with merry-making,' said Miss
Nipper, 'that one need be lonelier than one must be. Your Toxes and
your Chickses may draw out my two front double teeth, Mrs Richards,
but that's no reason why I need offer 'em the whole set.'

This proposition was also assented to by Richards, as an obvious
one.

'So I'm able, I'm sure,'said Susan Nipper, 'to live friendly, Mrs
Richards, while Master Paul continues a permanency, if the means can
be planned out without going openly against orders, but goodness
gracious Miss Floy, you haven't got your things off yet, you naughty
child, you haven't, come along!'

With these words, Susan Nipper, in a transport of coercion, made a
charge at her young ward, and swept her out of the room.

The child, in her grief and neglect, was so gentle, so quiet, and
uncomplaining; was possessed of so much affection that no one seemed
to care to have, and so much sorrowful intelligence that no one seemed
to mind or think about the wounding of, that Polly's heart was sore
when she was left alone again. In the simple passage that had taken
place between herself and the motherless little girl, her own motherly
heart had been touched no less than the child's; and she felt, as the
child did, that there was something of confidence and interest between
them from that moment.

Notwithstanding Mr Toodle's great reliance on Polly, she was
perhaps in point of artificial accomplishments very little his
superior. She had been good-humouredly working and drudging for her
life all her life, and was a sober steady-going person, with
matter-of-fact ideas about the butcher and baker, and the division of
pence into farthings. But she was a good plain sample of a nature that
is ever, in the mass, better, truer, higher, nobler, quicker to feel,
and much more constant to retain, all tenderness and pity, self-denial
and devotion, than the nature of men. And, perhaps, unlearned as she
was, she could have brought a dawning knowledge home to Mr Dombey at
that early day, which would not then have struck him in the end like
lightning.

But this is from the purpose. Polly only thought, at that time, of
improving on her successful propitiation of Miss Nipper, and devising
some means of having little Florence aide her, lawfully, and without
rebellion. An opening happened to present itself that very night.

She had been rung down into the glass room as usual, and had walked
about and about it a long time, with the baby in her arms, when, to
her great surprise and dismay, Mr Dombey - whom she had seen at first
leaning on his elbow at the table, and afterwards walking up and down


the middle room, drawing, each time, a little nearer, she thought, to
the open folding doors - came out, suddenly, and stopped before her.

'Good evening, Richards.'

Just the same austere, stiff gentleman, as he had appeared to her
on that first day. Such a hard-looking gentleman, that she
involuntarily dropped her eyes and her curtsey at the same time.

'How is Master Paul, Richards?'

'Quite thriving, Sir, and well.'

'He looks so,' said Mr Dombey, glancing with great interest at the
tiny face she uncovered for his observation, and yet affecting to be
half careless of it. 'They give you everything you want, I hope?'

'Oh yes, thank you, Sir.'

She suddenly appended such an obvious hesitation to this reply,
however, that Mr Dombey, who had turned away; stopped, and turned
round again, inquiringly.

'If you please, Sir, the child is very much disposed to take notice
of things,' said Richards, with another curtsey, 'and - upstairs is a
little dull for him, perhaps, Sir.'

'I begged them to take you out for airings, constantly,' said Mr
Dombey. 'Very well! You shall go out oftener. You're quite right to
mention it.'

'I beg your pardon, Sir,' faltered Polly, 'but we go out quite
plenty Sir, thank you.'

'What would you have then?' asked Mr Dombey.

'Indeed Sir, I don't exactly know,' said Polly, 'unless - '

'Yes?'

'I believe nothing is so good for making children lively and
cheerful, Sir, as seeing other children playing about 'em,' observed
Polly, taking courage.

'I think I mentioned to you, Richards, when you came here,' said Mr
Dombey, with a frown, 'that I wished you to see as little of your
family as possible.'

'Oh dear yes, Sir, I wasn't so much as thinking of that.'

'I am glad of it,' said Mr Dombey hastily. 'You can continue your
walk if you please.'

With that, he disappeared into his inner room; and Polly had the
satisfaction of feeling that he had thoroughly misunderstood her
object, and that she had fallen into disgrace without the least
advancement of her purpose.

Next night, she found him walking about the conservatory when she
came down. As she stopped at the door, checked by this unusual sight,
and uncertain whether to advance or retreat, he called her in. His
mind was too much set on Dombey and Son, it soon appeared, to admit of
his having forgotten her suggestion.


'If you really think that sort of society is good for the child,'
he said sharply, as if there had been no interval since she proposed
it, 'where's Miss Florence?'

'Nothing could be better than Miss Florence, Sir,' said Polly
eagerly, 'but I understood from her maid that they were not to - '

Mr Dombey rang the bell, and walked till it was answered.

'Tell them always to let Miss Florence be with Richards when she
chooses, and go out with her, and so forth. Tell them to let the
children be together, when Richards wishes it.'

The iron was now hot, and Richards striking on it boldly - it was a
good cause and she bold in it, though instinctively afraid of Mr
Dombey - requested that Miss Florence might be sent down then and
there, to make friends with her little brother.

She feigned to be dandling the child as the servant retired on this
errand, but she thought that she saw Mr Dombey's colour changed; that
the expression of his face quite altered; that he turned, hurriedly,
as if to gainsay what he had said, or she had said, or both, and was
only deterred by very shame.

And she was right. The last time he had seen his slighted child,
there had been that in the sad embrace between her and her dying
mother, which was at once a revelation and a reproach to him. Let him
be absorbed as he would in the Son on whom he built such high hopes,
he could not forget that closing scene. He could not forget that he
had had no part in it. That, at the bottom of its clear depths of
tenderness and truth' lay those two figures clasped in each other's
arms, while he stood on the bank above them, looking down a mere
spectator - not a sharer with them - quite shut out.

Unable to exclude these things from his remembrance, or to keep his
mind free from such imperfect shapes of the meaning with which they
were fraught, as were able to make themselves visible to him through
the mist of his pride, his previous feeling of indifference towards
little Florence changed into an uneasiness of an extraordinary kind.
Young as she was, and possessing in any eyes but his (and perhaps in
his too) even more than the usual amount of childish simplicity and
confidence, he almost felt as if she watched and distrusted him. As if
she held the clue to something secret in his breast, of the nature of
which he was hardly informed himself. As if she had an innate
knowledge of one jarring and discordant string within him, and her
very breath could sound it.

His feeling about the child had been negative from her birth. He
had never conceived an aversion to her: it had not been worth his
while or in his humour. She had never been a positively disagreeable
object to him. But now he was ill at ease about her. She troubled his
peace. He would have preferred to put her idea aside altogether, if he
had known how. Perhaps - who shall decide on such mysteries! - he was
afraid that he might come to hate her.

When little Florence timidly presented herself, Mr Dombey stopped
in his pacing up and down and looked towards her. Had he looked with
greater interest and with a father's eye, he might have read in her
keen glance the impulses and fears that made her waver; the passionate
desire to run clinging to him, crying, as she hid her face in his
embrace, 'Oh father, try to love me! there's no one else!' the dread
of a repulse; the fear of being too bold, and of offending him; the
pitiable need in which she stood of some assurance and encouragement;
and how her overcharged young heart was wandering to find some natural


resting-place, for its sorrow and affection.

But he saw nothing of this. He saw her pause irresolutely at the
door and look towards him; and he saw no more.

'Come in,' he said, 'come in: what is the child afraid of?'

She came in; and after glancing round her for a moment with an
uncertain air, stood pressing her small hands hard together, close
within the door.

'Come here, Florence,' said her father, coldly. 'Do you know who I
am?'

'Yes, Papa.'

'Have you nothing to say to me?'

The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his
face, were frozen by the expression it wore. She looked down again,
and put out her trembling hand.

Mr Dombey took it loosely in his own, and stood looking down upon
her for a moment, as if he knew as little as the child, what to say or
do.

'There! Be a good girl,' he said, patting her on the head, and
regarding her as it were by stealth with a disturbed and doubtful
look. 'Go to Richards! Go!'

His little daughter hesitated for another instant as though she
would have clung about him still, or had some lingering hope that he
might raise her in his arms and kiss her. She looked up in his face
once more. He thought how like her expression was then, to what it had
been when she looked round at the Doctor - that night - and
instinctively dropped her hand and turned away.

It was not difficult to perceive that Florence was at a great
disadvantage in her father's presence. It was not only a constraint
upon the child's mind, but even upon the natural grace and freedom of
her actions. As she sported and played about her baby brother that
night, her manner was seldom so winning and so pretty as it naturally
was, and sometimes when in his pacing to and fro, he came near her
(she had, perhaps, for the moment, forgotten him) it changed upon the
instant and became forced and embarrassed.

Still, Polly persevered with all the better heart for seeing this;
and, judging of Mr Dombey by herself, had great confidence in the mute
appeal of poor little Florence's mourning dress.' It's hard indeed,'
thought Polly, 'if he takes only to one little motherless child, when
he has another, and that a girl, before his eyes.'

So, Polly kept her before his eyes, as long as she could, and
managed so well with little Paul, as to make it very plain that he was
all the livelier for his sister's company. When it was time to
withdraw upstairs again, she would have sent Florence into the inner
room to say good-night to her father, but the child was timid and drew
back; and when she urged her again, said, spreading her hands before
her eyes, as if to shut out her own unworthiness, 'Oh no, no! He don't
want me. He don't want me!'

The little altercation between them had attracted the notice of Mr
Dombey, who inquired from the table where he was sitting at his wine,
what the matter was.


'Miss Florence was afraid of interrupting, Sir, if she came in to
say good-night,' said Richards.

'It doesn't matter,' returned Mr Dombey. 'You can let her come and
go without regarding me.'

The child shrunk as she listened - and was gone, before her humble
friend looked round again.

However, Polly triumphed not a little in the success of her
well-intentioned scheme, and in the address with which she had brought
it to bear: whereof she made a full disclosure to Spitfire when she
was once more safely entrenched upstairs. Miss Nipper received that
proof of her confidence, as well as the prospect of their free
association for the future, rather coldly, and was anything but
enthusiastic in her demonstrations of joy.

'I thought you would have been pleased,' said Polly.

'Oh yes, Mrs Richards, I'm very well pleased, thank you,' returned
Susan, who had suddenly become so very upright that she seemed to have
put an additional bone in her stays.

'You don't show it,' said Polly.

'Oh! Being only a permanency I couldn't be expected to show it like
a temporary,' said Susan Nipper. 'Temporaries carries it all before
'em here, I find, but though there's a excellent party-wall between
this house and the next, I mayn't exactly like to go to it, Mrs
Richards, notwithstanding!'

CHAPTER 4.

In which some more First Appearances are made on the Stage of these
Adventures

Though the offices of Dombey and Son were within the liberties of
the City of London, and within hearing of Bow Bells, when their
clashing voices were not drowned by the uproar in the streets, yet
were there hints of adventurous and romantic story to be observed in
some of the adjacent objects. Gog and Magog held their state within
ten minutes' walk; the Royal Exchange was close at hand; the Bank of
England, with its vaults of gold and silver 'down among the dead men'
underground, was their magnificent neighbour. Just round the corner
stood the rich East India House, teeming with suggestions of precious
stuffs and stones, tigers, elephants, howdahs, hookahs, umbrellas,
palm trees, palanquins, and gorgeous princes of a brown complexion
sitting on carpets, with their slippers very much turned up at the
toes. Anywhere in the immediate vicinity there might be seen pictures
of ships speeding away full sail to all parts of the world; outfitting
warehouses ready to pack off anybody anywhere, fully equipped in half
an hour; and little timber midshipmen in obsolete naval uniforms,
eternally employed outside the shop doors of nautical
Instrument-makers in taking observations of the hackney carriages.

Sole master and proprietor of one of these effigies - of that which
might be called, familiar!y, the woodenest - of that which thrust
itself out above the pavement, right leg foremost, with a suavity the
least endurable, and had the shoe buckles and flapped waistcoat the


least reconcileable to human reason, and bore at its right eye the
most offensively disproportionate piece of machinery - sole master and
proprietor of that Midshipman, and proud of him too, an elderly
gentleman in a Welsh wig had paid house-rent, taxes, rates, and dues,
for more years than many a full-grown midshipman of flesh and blood
has numbered in his life; and midshipmen who have attained a pretty
green old age, have not been wanting in the English Navy.

The stock-in-trade of this old gentleman comprised chronometers,
barometers, telescopes, compasses, charts, maps, sextants, quadrants,
and specimens of every kind of instrument used in the working of a
ship's course, or the keeping of a ship's reckoning, or the
prosecuting of a ship's discoveries. Objects in brass and glass were
in his drawers and on his shelves, which none but the initiated could
have found the top of, or guessed the use of, or having once examined,
could have ever got back again into their mahogany nests without
assistance. Everything was jammed into the tightest cases, fitted into
the narrowest corners, fenced up behind the most impertinent cushions,
and screwed into the acutest angles, to prevent its philosophical
composure from being disturbed by the rolling of the sea. Such
extraordinary precautions were taken in every instance to save room,
and keep the thing compact; and so much practical navigation was
fitted, and cushioned, and screwed into every box (whether the box was
a mere slab, as some were, or something between a cocked hat and a
star-fish, as others were, and those quite mild and modest boxes as
compared with others); that the shop itself, partaking of the general
infection, seemed almost to become a snug, sea-going, ship-shape
concern, wanting only good sea-room, in the event of an unexpected
launch, to work its way securely to any desert island in the world.

Many minor incidents in the household life of the Ships'

Instrument-maker who was proud of his little Midshipman, assisted
and bore out this fancy. His acquaintance lying chiefly among
ship-chandlers and so forth, he had always plenty of the veritable
ships' biscuit on his table. It was familiar with dried meats and
tongues, possessing an extraordinary flavour of rope yarn. Pickles
were produced upon it, in great wholesale jars, with 'dealer in all
kinds of Ships' Provisions' on the label; spirits were set forth in
case bottles with no throats. Old prints of ships with alphabetical
references to their various mysteries, hung in frames upon the walls;
the Tartar Frigate under weigh, was on the plates; outlandish shells,
seaweeds, and mosses, decorated the chimney-piece; the little
wainscotted back parlour was lighted by a sky-light, like a cabin.

Here he lived too, in skipper-like state, all alone with his nephew
Walter: a boy of fourteen who looked quite enough like a midshipman,
to carry out the prevailing idea. But there it ended, for Solomon
Gills himself (more generally called old Sol) was far from having a
maritime appearance. To say nothing of his Welsh wig, which was as
plain and stubborn a Welsh wig as ever was worn, and in which he
looked like anything but a Rover, he was a slow, quiet-spoken,
thoughtful old fellow, with eyes as red as if they had been small suns
looking at you through a fog; and a newly-awakened manner, such as he
might have acquired by having stared for three or four days
successively through every optical instrument in his shop, and
suddenly came back to the world again, to find it green. The only
change ever known in his outward man, was from a complete suit of
coffee-colour cut very square, and ornamented with glaring buttons, to
the same suit of coffee-colour minus the inexpressibles, which were
then of a pale nankeen. He wore a very precise shirt-frill, and
carried a pair of first-rate spectacles on his forehead, and a
tremendous chronometer in his fob, rather than doubt which precious
possession, he would have believed in a conspiracy against it on part


of all the clocks and watches in the City, and even of the very Sun
itself. Such as he was, such he had been in the shop and parlour
behind the little Midshipman, for years upon years; going regularly
aloft to bed every night in a howling garret remote from the lodgers,
where, when gentlemen of England who lived below at ease had little or
no idea of the state of the weather, it often blew great guns.

It is half-past five o'clock, and an autumn afternoon, when the
reader and Solomon Gills become acquainted. Solomon Gills is in the
act of seeing what time it is by the unimpeachable chronometer. The
usual daily clearance has been making in the City for an hour or more;
and the human tide is still rolling westward. 'The streets have
thinned,' as Mr Gills says, 'very much.' It threatens to be wet
to-night. All the weatherglasses in the shop are in low spirits, and
the rain already shines upon the cocked hat of the wooden Midshipman.

'Where's Walter, I wonder!' said Solomon Gills, after he had
carefully put up the chronometer again. 'Here's dinner been ready,
half an hour, and no Walter!'

Turning round upon his stool behind the counter, Mr Gills looked
out among the instruments in the window, to see if his nephew might be
crossing the road. No. He was not among the bobbing umbrellas, and he
certainly was not the newspaper boy in the oilskin cap who was slowly
working his way along the piece of brass outside, writing his name
over Mr Gills's name with his forefinger.

'If I didn't know he was too fond of me to make a run of it, and go
and enter himself aboard ship against my wishes, I should begin to be
fidgetty,' said Mr Gills, tapping two or three weather-glasses with
his knuckles. 'I really should. All in the Downs, eh! Lots of
moisture! Well! it's wanted.'

I believe,' said Mr Gills, blowing the dust off the glass top of a
compass-case, 'that you don't point more direct and due to the back
parlour than the boy's inclination does after all. And the parlour
couldn't bear straighter either. Due north. Not the twentieth part of
a point either way.'

'Halloa, Uncle Sol!'

'Halloa, my boy!' cried the Instrument-maker, turning briskly
round. 'What! you are here, are you?'

A cheerful looking, merry boy, fresh with running home in the rain;
fair-faced, bright-eyed, and curly-haired.

'Well, Uncle, how have you got on without me all day? Is dinner
ready? I'm so hungry.'

'As to getting on,' said Solomon good-naturedly, 'it would be odd
if I couldn't get on without a young dog like you a great deal better
than with you. As to dinner being ready, it's been ready this half
hour and waiting for you. As to being hungry, I am!'

'Come along then, Uncle!' cried the boy. 'Hurrah for the admiral!'

'Confound the admiral!' returned Solomon Gills. 'You mean the Lord
Mayor.'

'No I don't!' cried the boy. 'Hurrah for the admiral! Hurrah for
the admiral! For-ward!'

At this word of command, the Welsh wig and its wearer were borne


without resistance into the back parlour, as at the head of a boarding
party of five hundred men; and Uncle Sol and his nephew were speedily
engaged on a fried sole with a prospect of steak to follow.

'The Lord Mayor, Wally,' said Solomon, 'for ever! No more admirals.
The Lord Mayor's your admiral.'

'Oh, is he though!' said the boy, shaking his head. 'Why, the Sword
Bearer's better than him. He draws his sword sometimes.

'And a pretty figure he cuts with it for his pains,' returned the
Uncle. 'Listen to me, Wally, listen to me. Look on the mantelshelf.'

'Why who has cocked my silver mug up there, on a nail?' exclaimed
the boy.

I have,' said his Uncle. 'No more mugs now. We must begin to drink
out of glasses to-day, Walter. We are men of business. We belong to
the City. We started in life this morning.

'Well, Uncle,' said the boy, 'I'll drink out of anything you like,
so long as I can drink to you. Here's to you, Uncle Sol, and Hurrah
for the

'Lord Mayor,' interrupted the old man.

'For the Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, Common Council, and Livery,' said
the boy. 'Long life to 'em!'

The uncle nodded his head with great satisfaction. 'And now,' he
said, 'let's hear something about the Firm.'

'Oh! there's not much to be told about the Firm, Uncle,' said the
boy, plying his knife and fork.' It's a precious dark set of offices,
and in the room where I sit, there's a high fender, and an iron safe,
and some cards about ships that are going to sail, and an almanack,
and some desks and stools, and an inkbottle, and some books, and some
boxes, and a lot of cobwebs, and in one of 'em, just over my head, a
shrivelled-up blue-bottle that looks as if it had hung there ever so
long.'

'Nothing else?' said the Uncle.

'No, nothing else, except an old birdcage (I wonder how that ever
came there!) and a coal-scuttle.'

'No bankers' books, or cheque books, or bills, or such tokens of
wealth rolling in from day to day?' said old Sol, looking wistfully at
his nephew out of the fog that always seemed to hang about him, and
laying an unctuous emphasis upon the words.

'Oh yes, plenty of that I suppose,' returned his nephew carelessly;
'but all that sort of thing's in Mr Carker's room, or Mr Morfin's, or
MR Dombey's.'

'Has Mr Dombey been there to-day?' inquired the Uncle.

'Oh yes! In and out all day.'

'He didn't take any notice of you, I suppose?'.

'Yes he did. He walked up to my seat, - I wish he wasn't so solemn
and stiff, Uncle, - and said, Oh! you are the son of Mr Gills the
Ships' Instrument-maker." "NephewSir I said. I said nephewboy


said he. But I could take my oath he said son, Uncle.'

'You're mistaken I daresay. It's no matter.

'No, it's no matter, but he needn't have been so sharp, I thought.
There was no harm in it though he did say son. Then he told me that
you had spoken to him about me, and that he had found me employment in
the House accordingly, and that I was expected to be attentive and
punctual, and then he went away. I thought he didn't seem to like me
much.'

'You mean, I suppose,' observed the Instrument-maker, 'that you
didn't seem to like him much?'

'Well, Uncle,' returned the boy, laughing. 'Perhaps so; I never
thought of that.'

Solomon looked a little graver as he finished his dinner, and
glanced from time to time at the boy's bright face. When dinner was
done, and the cloth was cleared away (the entertainment had been
brought from a neighbouring eating-house), he lighted a candle, and
went down below into a little cellar, while his nephew, standing on
the mouldy staircase, dutifully held the light. After a moment's
groping here and there, he presently returned with a very
ancient-looking bottle, covered with dust and dirt.

'Why, Uncle Sol!' said the boy, 'what are you about? that's the
wonderful Madeira! - there's only one more bottle!'

Uncle Sol nodded his head, implying that he knew very well what he
was about; and having drawn the cork in solemn silence, filled two
glasses and set the bottle and a third clean glass on the table.

'You shall drink the other bottle, Wally,' he said, 'when you come
to good fortune; when you are a thriving, respected, happy man; when
the start in life you have made to-day shall have brought you, as I
pray Heaven it may! - to a smooth part of the course you have to run,
my child. My love to you!'

Some of the fog that hung about old Sol seemed to have got into his
throat; for he spoke huskily. His hand shook too, as he clinked his
glass against his nephew's. But having once got the wine to his lips,
he tossed it off like a man, and smacked them afterwards.

'Dear Uncle,' said the boy, affecting to make light of it, while
the tears stood in his eyes, 'for the honour you have done me, et
cetera, et cetera. I shall now beg to propose Mr Solomon Gills with
three times three and one cheer more. Hurrah! and you'll return
thanks, Uncle, when we drink the last bottle together; won't you?'

They clinked their glasses again; and Walter, who was hoarding his
wine, took a sip of it, and held the glass up to his eye with as
critical an air as he could possibly assume.

His Uncle sat looking at him for some time in silence. When their
eyes at last met, he began at once to pursue the theme that had
occupied his thoughts, aloud, as if he had been speaking all the time.

'You see, Walter,' he said, 'in truth this business is merely a
habit with me. I am so accustomed to the habit that I could hardly
live if I relinquished it: but there's nothing doing, nothing doing.
When that uniform was worn,' pointing out towards the little
Midshipman, 'then indeed, fortunes were to be made, and were made. But
competition, competition - new invention, new invention - alteration,


alteration - the world's gone past me. I hardly know where I am
myself, much less where my customers are.

'Never mind 'em, Uncle!'

'Since you came home from weekly boarding-school at Peckham, for
instance - and that's ten days,' said Solomon, 'I don't remember more
than one person that has come into the shop.'

'Two, Uncle, don't you recollect? There was the man who came to ask
for change for a sovereign - '

'That's the one,' said Solomon.

'Why Uncle! don't you call the woman anybody, who came to ask the
way to Mile-End Turnpike?'

'Oh! it's true,' said Solomon, 'I forgot her. Two persons.'

'To be sure, they didn't buy anything,' cried the boy.

'No. They didn't buy anything,' said Solomon, quietly.

'Nor want anything,' cried the boy.

'No. If they had, they'd gone to another shop,' said Solomon, in
the same tone.

'But there were two of 'em, Uncle,' cried the boy, as if that were
a great triumph. 'You said only one.'

'Well, Wally,' resumed the old man, after a short pause: 'not being
like the Savages who came on Robinson Crusoe's Island, we can't live
on a man who asks for change for a sovereign, and a woman who inquires
the way to Mile-End Turnpike. As I said just now, the world has gone
past me. I don't blame it; but I no longer understand it. Tradesmen
are not the same as they used to be, apprentices are not the same,
business is not the same, business commodities are not the same.
Seven-eighths of my stock is old-fashioned. I am an old-fashioned man
in an old-fashioned shop, in a street that is not the same as I
remember it. I have fallen behind the time, and am too old to catch it
again. Even the noise it makes a long way ahead, confuses me.'

Walter was going to speak, but his Uncle held up his hand.

'Therefore, Wally - therefore it is that I am anxious you should be
early in the busy world, and on the world's track. I am only the ghost
of this business - its substance vanished long ago; and when I die,
its ghost will be laid. As it is clearly no inheritance for you then,
I have thought it best to use for your advantage, almost the only
fragment of the old connexion that stands by me, through long habit.
Some people suppose me to be wealthy. I wish for your sake they were
right. But whatever I leave behind me, or whatever I can give you, you
in such a House as Dombey's are in the road to use well and make the
most of. Be diligent, try to like it, my dear boy, work for a steady
independence, and be happy!'

'I'll do everything I can, Uncle, to deserve your affection. Indeed
I will,' said the boy, earnestly

'I know it,' said Solomon. 'I am sure of it,' and he applied
himself to a second glass of the old Madeira, with increased relish.
'As to the Sea,' he pursued, 'that's well enough in fiction, Wally,
but it won't do in fact: it won't do at all. It's natural enough that


you should think about it, associating it with all these familiar
things; but it won't do, it won't do.'

Solomon Gills rubbed his hands with an air of stealthy enjoyment,
as he talked of the sea, though; and looked on the seafaring objects
about him with inexpressible complacency.

'Think of this wine for instance,' said old Sol, 'which has been to
the East Indies and back, I'm not able to say how often, and has been
once round the world. Think of the pitch-dark nights, the roaring
winds, and rolling seas:'

'The thunder, lightning, rain, hail, storm of all kinds,' said the
boy.

'To be sure,' said Solomon, - 'that this wine has passed through.
Think what a straining and creaking of timbers and masts: what a
whistling and howling of the gale through ropes and rigging:'

'What a clambering aloft of men, vying with each other who shall
lie out first upon the yards to furl the icy sails, while the ship
rolls and pitches, like mad!' cried his nephew.

'Exactly so,' said Solomon: 'has gone on, over the old cask that
held this wine. Why, when the Charming Sally went down in the - '

'In the Baltic Sea, in the dead of night; five-and-twenty minutes
past twelve when the captain's watch stopped in his pocket; he lying
dead against the main-mast - on the fourteenth of February, seventeen
forty-nine!' cried Walter, with great animation.

'Ay, to be sure!' cried old Sol, 'quite right! Then, there were
five hundred casks of such wine aboard; and all hands (except the
first mate, first lieutenant, two seamen, and a lady, in a leaky boat)
going to work to stave the casks, got drunk and died drunk, singing
Rule Britannia"when she settled and went downand ending with one
awful scream in chorus.'

'But when the George the Second drove ashoreUncleon the coast
of Cornwallin a dismal galetwo hours before daybreakon the
fourth of March'seventy-oneshe had near two hundred horses aboard;
and the horses breaking loose down belowearly in the galeand
tearing to and froand trampling each other to deathmade such
noisesand set up such human criesthat the crew believing the ship
to be full of devilssome of the best menlosing heart and head
went overboard in despairand only two were left aliveat lastto
tell the tale.'

'And when' said old Sol'when the Polyphemus - '

'Private West India Traderburden three hundred and fifty tons
CaptainJohn Brown of Deptford. OwnersWiggs and Co.' cried Walter.

'The same' said Sol; 'when she took firefour days' sail with a
fair wind out of Jamaica Harbourin the night - '

'There were two brothers on board' interposed his nephewspeaking
very fast and loud'and there not being room for both of them in the
only boat that wasn't swampedneither of them would consent to go
until the elder took the younger by the waistand flung him in. And
then the youngerrising in the boatcried outDear Edward, think
of your promised wife at home. I'm only a boy. No one waits at home
for me. Leap down into my place!and flung himself in the sea!'


The kindling eye and heightened colour of the boywho had risen
from his seat in the earnestness of what he said and feltseemed to
remind old Sol of something he had forgottenor that his encircling
mist had hitherto shut out. Instead of proceeding with any more
anecdotesas he had evidently intended but a moment beforehe gave a
short dry coughand said'Well! suppose we change the subject.'

The truth wasthat the simple-minded Uncle in his secret
attraction towards the marvellous and adventurous - of which he was
in some sorta distant relationby his trade - had greatly
encouraged the same attraction in the nephew; and that everything that
had ever been put before the boy to deter him from a life of
adventurehad had the usual unaccountable effect of sharpening his
taste for it. This is invariable. It would seem as if there never was
a book writtenor a story toldexpressly with the object of keeping
boys on shorewhich did not lure and charm them to the oceanas a
matter of course.

But an addition to the little party now made its appearancein the
shape of a gentleman in a wide suit of bluewith a hook instead of a
hand attached to his right wrist; very bushy black eyebrows; and a
thick stick in his left handcovered all over (like his nose) with
knobs. He wore a loose black silk handkerchief round his neckand
such a very large coarse shirt collarthat it looked like a small
sail. He was evidently the person for whom the spare wine-glass was
intendedand evidently knew it; for having taken off his rough outer
coatand hung upon a particular peg behind the doorsuch a hard
glazed hat as a sympathetic person's head might ache at the sight of
and which left a red rim round his own forehead as if he had been
wearing a tight basinhe brought a chair to where the clean glass
wasand sat himself down behind it. He was usually addressed as
Captainthis visitor; and had been a pilotor a skipperor a
privateersmanor all three perhaps; and was a very salt-looking man
indeed.

His faceremarkable for a brown soliditybrightened as he shook
hands with Uncle and nephew; but he seemed to be of a laconic
dispositionand merely said:

'How goes it?'

'All well' said Mr Gillspushing the bottle towards him.

He took it upand having surveyed and smelt itsaid with
extraordinary expression:

'The?'

'The' returned the Instrument-maker.

Upon that he whistled as he filled his glassand seemed to think
they were making holiday indeed.

'Wal'r!' he saidarranging his hair (which was thin) with his
hookand then pointing it at the Instrument-maker'Look at him!
Love! Honour! And Obey! Overhaul your catechism till you find that
passageand when found turn the leaf down. Successmy boy!'

He was so perfectly satisfied both with his quotation and his
reference to itthat he could not help repeating the words again in a
low voiceand saying he had forgotten 'em these forty year.

'But I never wanted two or three words in my life that I didn't
know where to lay my hand upon 'emGills' he observed. 'It comes of


not wasting language as some do.'

The reflection perhaps reminded him that he had betterlike young
Norval's father'"ncrease his store." At any rate he became silent
and remained sountil old Sol went out into the shop to light it up
when he turned to Walterand saidwithout any introductory remark:

'I suppose he could make a clock if he tried?'

'I shouldn't wonderCaptain Cuttle' returned the boy.

'And it would go!' said Captain Cuttlemaking a species of serpent
in the air with his hook. 'Lordhow that clock would go!'

For a moment or two he seemed quite lost in contemplating the pace
of this ideal timepieceand sat looking at the boy as if his face
were the dial.

'But he's chockful of science' he observedwaving his hook
towards the stock-in-trade. 'Look'ye here! Here's a collection of 'em.
Earthairor water. It's all one. Only say where you'll have it. Up
in a balloon? There you are. Down in a bell? There you are. D'ye want
to put the North Star in a pair of scales and weigh it? He'll do it
for you.'

It may be gathered from these remarks that Captain Cuttle's
reverence for the stock of instruments was profoundand that his
philosophy knew little or no distinction between trading in it and
inventing it.

'Ah!' he saidwith a sigh'it's a fine thing to understand 'em.
And yet it's a fine thing not to understand 'em. I hardly know which
is best. It's so comfortable to sit here and feel that you might be
weighedmeasuredmagnifiedelectrifiedpolarizedplayed the very
devil with: and never know how.'

Nothing short of the wonderful Madeiracombined with the occasion
(which rendered it desirable to improve and expand Walter's mind)
could have ever loosened his tongue to the extent of giving utterance
to this prodigious oration. He seemed quite amazed himself at the
manner in which it opened up to view the sources of the taciturn
delight he had had in eating Sunday dinners in that parlour for ten
years. Becoming a sadder and a wiser manhe mused and held his peace.

'Come!' cried the subject of this admirationreturning. 'Before
you have your glass of grogNedwe must finish the bottle.'

'Stand by!' said Nedfilling his glass. 'Give the boy some more.'

'No morethank'eUncle!'

'Yesyes' said Sol'a little more. We'll finish the bottleto
the HouseNed - Walter's House. Why it may be his House one of these
daysin part. Who knows? Sir Richard Whittington married his master's
daughter.'

'"Turn again WhittingtonLord Mayor of Londonand when you are
old you will never depart from it' interposed the Captain. 'Wal'r!
Overhaul the book, my lad.'

'And although Mr Dombey hasn't a daughter,' Sol began.

'Yes, yes, he has, Uncle,' said the boy, reddening and laughing.


'Has he?' cried the old man. 'Indeed I think he has too.

'Oh! I know he has,' said the boy. 'Some of 'em were talking about
it in the office today. And they do say, Uncle and Captain Cuttle,'
lowering his voice, 'that he's taken a dislike to her, and that she's
left, unnoticed, among the servants, and that his mind's so set all
the while upon having his son in the House, that although he's only a
baby now, he is going to have balances struck oftener than formerly,
and the books kept closer than they used to be, and has even been seen
(when he thought he wasn't) walking in the Docks, looking at his ships
and property and all that, as if he was exulting like, over what he
and his son will possess together. That's what they say. Of course, I
don't know.

'He knows all about her already, you see,' said the
instrument-maker.

'Nonsense, Uncle,' cried the boy, still reddening and laughing,
boy-like. 'How can I help hearing what they tell me?'

'The Son's a little in our way at present, I'm afraid, Ned,' said
the old man, humouring the joke.

'Very much,' said the Captain.

'Nevertheless, we'll drink him,' pursued Sol. 'So, here's to Dombey
and Son.'

'Oh, very well, Uncle,' said the boy, merrily. 'Since you have
introduced the mention of her, and have connected me with her and have
said that I know all about her, I shall make bold to amend the toast.
So here's to Dombey - and Son - and Daughter!'

CHAPTER 5.

Paul's Progress and Christening

Little Paul, suffering no contamination from the blood of the
Toodles, grew stouter and stronger every day. Every day, too, he was
more and more ardently cherished by Miss Tox, whose devotion was so
far appreciated by Mr Dombey that he began to regard her as a woman of
great natural good sense, whose feelings did her credit and deserved
encouragement. He was so lavish of this condescension, that he not
only bowed to her, in a particular manner, on several occasions, but
even entrusted such stately recognitions of her to his sister as 'pray
tell your friend, Louisa, that she is very good,' or 'mention to Miss
Tox, Louisa, that I am obliged to her;'specialities which made a deep
impression on the lady thus distinguished.

Whether Miss Tox conceived that having been selected by the Fates
to welcome the little Dombey before he was born, in Kirby, Beard and
Kirby's Best Mixed Pins, it therefore naturally devolved upon her to
greet him with all other forms of welcome in all other early stages of
his existence - or whether her overflowing goodness induced her to
volunteer into the domestic militia as a substitute in some sort for
his deceased Mama - or whether she was conscious of any other motives

-are questions which in this stage of the Firm's history herself only
could have solved. Nor have they much bearing on the fact (of which
there is no doubt), that Miss Tox's constancy and zeal were a heavy
discouragement to Richards, who lost flesh hourly under her patronage,

and was in some danger of being superintended to death.

Miss Tox was often in the habit of assuring Mrs Chick, that nothing
could exceed her interest in all connected with the development of
that sweet child;' and an observer of Miss Tox's proceedings might
have inferred so much without declaratory confirmation. She would
preside over the innocent repasts of the young heir, with ineffable
satisfaction, almost with an air of joint proprietorship with Richards
in the entertainment. At the little ceremonies of the bath and
toilette, she assisted with enthusiasm. The administration of
infantine doses of physic awakened all the active sympathy of her
character; and being on one occasion secreted in a cupboard (whither
she had fled in modesty), when Mr Dombey was introduced into the
nursery by his sister, to behold his son, in the course of preparation
for bed, taking a short walk uphill over Richards's gown, in a short
and airy linen jacket, Miss Tox was so transported beyond the ignorant
present as to be unable to refrain from crying out, 'Is he not
beautiful Mr Dombey! Is he not a Cupid, Sir!' and then almost sinking
behind the closet door with confusion and blushes.

'Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, one day, to his sister, 'I really think I
must present your friend with some little token, on the occasion of
Paul's christening. She has exerted herself so warmly in the child's
behalf from the first, and seems to understand her position so
thoroughly (a very rare merit in this world, I am sorry to say), that
it would really be agreeable to me to notice her.'

Let it be no detraction from the merits of Miss Tox, to hint that
in Mr Dombey's eyes, as in some others that occasionally see the
light, they only achieved that mighty piece of knowledge, the
understanding of their own position, who showed a fitting reverence
for his. It was not so much their merit that they knew themselves, as
that they knew him, and bowed low before him.

'My dear Paul,' returned his sister, 'you do Miss Tox but justice,
as a man of your penetration was sure, I knew, to do. I believe if
there are three words in the English language for which she has a
respect amounting almost to veneration, those words are, Dombey and
Son.'

'Well,' said Mr Dombey, 'I believe it. It does Miss Tox credit.'

'And as to anything in the shape of a token, my dear Paul,' pursued
his sister, 'all I can say is that anything you give Miss Tox will be
hoarded and prized, I am sure, like a relic. But there is a way, my
dear Paul, of showing your sense of Miss Tox's friendliness in a still
more flattering and acceptable manner, if you should be so inclined.'

'How is that?' asked Mr Dombey.

'Godfathers, of course,' continued Mrs Chick, 'are important in
point of connexion and influence.'

'I don't know why they should be, to my son, said Mr Dombey,
coldly.

'Very true, my dear Paul,' retorted Mrs Chick, with an
extraordinary show of animation, to cover the suddenness of her
conversion; 'and spoken like yourself. I might have expected nothing
else from you. I might have known that such would have been your
opinion. Perhaps;' here Mrs Chick faltered again, as not quite
comfortably feeling her way; 'perhaps that is a reason why you might
have the less objection to allowing Miss Tox to be godmother to the
dear thing, if it were only as deputy and proxy for someone else. That


it would be received as a great honour and distinction, Paul, I need
not say.

'Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, after a short pause, 'it is not to be
supposed - '

'Certainly not,' cried Mrs Chick, hastening to anticipate a
refusal, 'I never thought it was.'

Mr Dombey looked at her impatiently.

'Don't flurry me, my dear Paul,' said his sister; 'for that
destroys me. I am far from strong. I have not been quite myself, since
poor dear Fanny departed.'

Mr Dombey glanced at the pocket-handkerchief which his sister
applied to her eyes, and resumed:

'It is not be supposed, I say 'And I say,' murmured Mrs Chick,
'that I never thought it was.'

'Good Heaven, Louisa!' said Mr Dombey.

'No, my dear Paul,' she remonstrated with tearful dignity, 'I must
really be allowed to speak. I am not so clever, or so reasoning, or so
eloquent, or so anything, as you are. I know that very well. So much
the worse for me. But if they were the last words I had to utter - and
last words should be very solemn to you and me, Paul, after poor dear
Fanny - I would still say I never thought it was. And what is more,'
added Mrs Chick with increased dignity, as if she had withheld her
crushing argument until now, 'I never did think it was.' Mr Dombey
walked to the window and back again.

'It is not to be supposed, Louisa,' he said (Mrs Chick had nailed
her colours to the mast, and repeated 'I know it isn't,' but he took
no notice of it), 'but that there are many persons who, supposing that
I recognised any claim at all in such a case, have a claim upon me
superior to Miss Tox's. But I do not. I recognise no such thing. Paul
and myself will be able, when the time comes, to hold our own - the
House, in other words, will be able to hold its own, and maintain its
own, and hand down its own of itself, and without any such
common-place aids. The kind of foreign help which people usually seek
for their children, I can afford to despise; being above it, I hope.
So that Paul's infancy and childhood pass away well, and I see him
becoming qualified without waste of time for the career on which he is
destined to enter, I am satisfied. He will make what powerful friends
he pleases in after-life, when he is actively maintaining - and
extending, if that is possible - the dignity and credit of the Firm.
Until then, I am enough for him, perhaps, and all in all. I have no
wish that people should step in between us. I would much rather show
my sense of the obliging conduct of a deserving person like your
friend. Therefore let it be so; and your husband and myself will do
well enough for the other sponsors, I daresay.'

In the course of these remarks, delivered with great majesty and
grandeur, Mr Dombey had truly revealed the secret feelings of his
breast. An indescribable distrust of anybody stepping in between
himself and his son; a haughty dread of having any rival or partner in
the boy's respect and deference; a sharp misgiving, recently acquired,
that he was not infallible in his power of bending and binding human
wills; as sharp a jealousy of any second check or cross; these were,
at that time the master keys of his soul. In all his life, he had
never made a friend. His cold and distant nature had neither sought
one, nor found one. And now, when that nature concentrated its whole


force so strongly on a partial scheme of parental interest and
ambition, it seemed as if its icy current, instead of being released
by this influence, and running clear and free, had thawed for but an
instant to admit its burden, and then frozen with it into one
unyielding block.

Elevated thus to the godmothership of little Paul, in virtue of her
insignificance, Miss Tox was from that hour chosen and appointed to
office; and Mr Dombey further signified his pleasure that the
ceremony, already long delayed, should take place without further
postponement. His sister, who had been far from anticipating so signal
a success, withdrew as soon as she could, to communicate it to her
best of friends; and Mr Dombey was left alone in his library. He had
already laid his hand upon the bellrope to convey his usual summons to
Richards, when his eye fell upon a writing-desk, belonging to his
deceased wife, which had been taken, among other things, from a
cabinet in her chamber. It was not the first time that his eye had
lighted on it He carried the key in his pocket; and he brought it to
his table and opened it now - having previously locked the room door with
a well-accustomed hand.

From beneath a leaf of torn and cancelled scraps of paper, he took
one letter that remained entire. Involuntarily holding his breath as
he opened this document, and 'bating in the stealthy action something
of his arrogant demeanour, he s at down, resting his head upon one
hand, and read it through.

He read it slowly and attentively, and with a nice particularity to
every syllable. Otherwise than as his great deliberation seemed
unnatural, and perhaps the result of an effort equally great, he
allowed no sign of emotion to escape him. When he had read it through,
he folded and refolded it slowly several times, and tore it carefully
into fragments. Checking his hand in the act of throwing these away,
he put them in his pocket, as if unwilling to trust them even to the
chances of being re-united and deciphered; and instead of ringing, as
usual, for little Paul, he sat solitary, all the evening, in his
cheerless room.

There was anything but solitude in the nursery; for there, Mrs
Chick and Miss Tox were enjoying a social evening, so much to the
disgust of Miss Susan Nipper, that that young lady embraced every
opportunity of making wry faces behind the door. Her feelings were so
much excited on the occasion, that she found it indispensable to
afford them this relief, even without having the comfort of any
audience or sympathy whatever. As the knight-errants of old relieved
their minds by carving their mistress's names in deserts, and
wildernesses, and other savage places where there was no probability
of there ever being anybody to read them, so did Miss Susan Nipper
curl her snub nose into drawers and wardrobes, put away winks of
disparagement in cupboards, shed derisive squints into stone pitchers,
and contradict and call names out in the passage.

The two interlopers, however, blissfully unconscious of the young
lady's sentiments, saw little Paul safe through all the stages of
undressing, airy exercise, supper and bed; and then sat down to tea
before the fire. The two children now lay, through the good offices of
Polly, in one room; and it was not until the ladies were established
at their tea-table that, happening to look towards the little beds,
they thought of Florence.

'How sound she sleeps!' said Miss Tox.

'Why, you know, my dear, she takes a great deal of exercise in the
course of the day,' returned Mrs Chick, 'playing about little Paul so


much.'

'She is a curious child,' said Miss Tox.

'My dear,' retorted Mrs Chick, in a low voice: 'Her Mama, all
over!'

'In deed!' said Miss Tox. 'Ah dear me!'

A tone of most extraordinary compassion Miss Tox said it in, though
she had no distinct idea why, except that it was expected of her.

'Florence will never, never, never be a Dombey,'said Mrs Chick,
'not if she lives to be a thousand years old.'

Miss Tox elevated her eyebrows, and was again full of

commiseration.

'I quite fret and worry myself about her,' said Mrs Chick, with a
sigh of modest merit. 'I really don't see what is to become of her
when she grows older, or what position she is to take. She don't gain
on her Papa in the least. How can one expect she should, when she is
so very unlike a Dombey?'

Miss Tox looked as if she saw no way out of such a cogent argument
as that, at all.

'And the child, you see,' said Mrs Chick, in deep confidence, 'has
poor dear Fanny's nature. She'll never make an effort in after-life,
I'll venture to say. Never! She'll never wind and twine herself about
her Papa's heart like - '

'Like the ivy?' suggested Miss Tox.

'Like the ivy,' Mrs Chick assented. 'Never! She'll never glide and
nestle into the bosom of her Papa's affections like - the - '

'Startled fawn?' suggested Miss Tox.

'Like the startled fawn,' said Mrs Chick. 'Never! Poor Fanny! Yet,
how I loved her!'

'You must not distress yourself, my dear,' said Miss Tox, in a
soothing voice. 'Now really! You have too much feeling.'

'We have all our faults,' said Mrs Chick, weeping and shaking her
head. 'I daresay we have. I never was blind to hers. I never said I
was. Far from it. Yet how I loved her!'

What a satisfaction it was to Mrs Chick - a common-place piece of
folly enough, compared with whom her sister-in-law had been a very
angel of womanly intelligence and gentleness - to patronise and be
tender to the memory of that lady: in exact pursuance of her conduct
to her in her lifetime: and to thoroughly believe herself, and take
herself in, and make herself uncommonly comfortable on the strength of
her toleration! What a mighty pleasant virtue toleration should be
when we are right, to be so very pleasant when we are wrong, and quite
unable to demonstrate how we come to be invested with the privilege of
exercising it!

Mrs Chick was yet drying her eyes and shaking her head, when
Richards made bold to caution her that Miss Florence was awake and
sitting in her bed. She had risen, as the nurse said, and the lashes


of her eyes were wet with tears. But no one saw them glistening save
Polly. No one else leant over her, and whispered soothing words to
her, or was near enough to hear the flutter of her beating heart.

'Oh! dear nurse!' said the child, looking earnestly up in her face,
'let me lie by my brother!'

'Why, my pet?' said Richards.

'Oh! I think he loves me,' cried the child wildly. 'Let me lie by
him. Pray do!'

Mrs Chick interposed with some motherly words about going to sleep
like a dear, but Florence repeated her supplication, with a frightened
look, and in a voice broken by sobs and tears.

'I'll not wake him,' she said, covering her face and hanging down
her head. 'I'll only touch him with my hand, and go to sleep. Oh,
pray, pray, let me lie by my brother to-night, for I believe he's fond
of me!'

Richards took her without a word, and carrying her to the little
bed in which the infant was sleeping, laid her down by his side. She
crept as near him as she could without disturbing his rest; and
stretching out one arm so that it timidly embraced his neck, and
hiding her face on the other, over which her damp and scattered hair
fell loose, lay motionless.

'Poor little thing,' said Miss Tox; 'she has been dreaming, I
daresay.'

Dreaming, perhaps, of loving tones for ever silent, of loving eyes
for ever closed, of loving arms again wound round her, and relaxing in
that dream within the dam which no tongue can relate. Seeking, perhaps

-in dreams - some natural comfort for a heart, deeply and sorely
wounded, though so young a child's: and finding it, perhaps, in
dreams, if not in waking, cold, substantial truth. This trivial
incident had so interrupted the current of conversation, that it was
difficult of resumption; and Mrs Chick moreover had been so affected
by the contemplation of her own tolerant nature, that she was not in
spirits. The two friends accordingly soon made an end of their tea,
and a servant was despatched to fetch a hackney cabriolet for Miss
Tox. Miss Tox had great experience in hackney cabs, and her starting
in one was generally a work of time, as she was systematic in the
preparatory arrangements.
'Have the goodness, if you please, Towlinson,' said Miss Tox,
'first of all, to carry out a pen and ink and take his number
legibly.'

'Yes, Miss,' said Towlinson.

'Then, if you please, Towlinson,'said Miss Tox, 'have the goodness

to turn the cushion. Which,' said Miss Tox apart to Mrs Chick, 'is
generally damp, my dear.'

'Yes, Miss,' said Towlinson.

'I'll trouble you also, if you please, Towlinson,' said Miss Tox,
'with this card and this shilling. He's to drive to the card, and is
to understand that he will not on any account have more than the
shilling.'


'No, Miss,' said Towlinson.

'And - I'm sorry to give you so much trouble, Towlinson,' said Miss
Tox, looking at him pensively.

'Not at all, Miss,' said Towlinson.

'Mention to the man, then, if you please, Towlinson,' said Miss
Tox, 'that the lady's uncle is a magistrate, and that if he gives her
any of his impertinence he will be punished terribly. You can pretend
to say that, if you please, Towlinson, in a friendly way, and because
you know it was done to another man, who died.'

'Certainly, Miss,' said Towlinson.

'And now good-night to my sweet, sweet, sweet, godson,' said Miss
Tox, with a soft shower of kisses at each repetition of the adjective;
'and Louisa, my dear friend, promise me to take a little something
warm before you go to bed, and not to distress yourself!'

It was with extreme difficulty that Nipper, the black-eyed, who
looked on steadfastly, contained herself at this crisis, and until the
subsequent departure of Mrs Chick. But the nursery being at length
free of visitors, she made herself some recompense for her late
restraint.

'You might keep me in a strait-waistcoat for six weeks,' said
Nipper, 'and when I got it off I'd only be more aggravated, who ever
heard the like of them two Griffins, Mrs Richards?'

'And then to talk of having been dreaming, poor dear!' said Polly.

'Oh you beauties!' cried Susan Nipper, affecting to salute the door
by which the ladies had departed. 'Never be a Dombey won't she? It's
to be hoped she won't, we don't want any more such, one's enough.'

'Don't wake the children, Susan dear,' said Polly.

'I'm very much beholden to you, Mrs Richards,' said Susan, who was
not by any means discriminating in her wrath, 'and really feel it as a
honour to receive your commands, being a black slave and a mulotter.
Mrs Richards, if there's any other orders, you can give me, pray
mention 'em.'

'Nonsense; orders,' said Polly.

'Oh! bless your heart, Mrs Richards,' cried Susan, 'temporaries
always orders permanencies here, didn't you know that, why wherever
was you born, Mrs Richards? But wherever you was born, Mrs Richards,'
pursued Spitfire, shaking her head resolutely, 'and whenever, and
however (which is best known to yourself), you may bear in mind,
please, that it's one thing to give orders, and quite another thing to
take 'em. A person may tell a person to dive off a bridge head
foremost into five-and-forty feet of water, Mrs Richards, but a person
may be very far from diving.'

'There now,' said Polly, 'you're angry because you're a good little
thing, and fond of Miss Florence; and yet you turn round on me,
because there's nobody else.'

'It's very easy for some to keep their tempers, and be soft-spoken,
Mrs Richards,' returned Susan, slightly mollified, 'when their child's
made as much of as a prince, and is petted and patted till it wishes
its friends further, but when a sweet young pretty innocent, that


never ought to have a cross word spoken to or of it, is rundown, the
case is very different indeed. My goodness gracious me, Miss Floy, you
naughty, sinful child, if you don't shut your eyes this minute, I'll
call in them hobgoblins that lives in the cock-loft to come and eat
you up alive!'

Here Miss Nipper made a horrible lowing, supposed to issue from a
conscientious goblin of the bull species, impatient to discharge the
severe duty of his position. Having further composed her young charge
by covering her head with the bedclothes, and making three or four
angry dabs at the pillow, she folded her arms, and screwed up her
mouth, and sat looking at the fire for the rest of the evening.

Though little Paul was said, in nursery phrase, 'to take a deal of
notice for his age,' he took as little notice of all this as of the
preparations for his christening on the next day but one; which
nevertheless went on about him, as to his personal apparel, and that
of his sister and the two nurses, with great activity. Neither did he,
on the arrival of the appointed morning, show any sense of its
importance; being, on the contrary, unusually inclined to sleep, and
unusually inclined to take it ill in his attendants that they dressed
him to go out.

It happened to be an iron-grey autumnal day, with a shrewd east
wind blowing - a day in keeping with the proceedings. Mr Dombey
represented in himself the wind, the shade, and the autumn of the
christening. He stood in his library to receive the company, as hard
and cold as the weather; and when he looked out through the glass
room, at the trees in the little garden, their brown and yellow leaves
came fluttering down, as if he blighted them.

Ugh! They were black, cold rooms; and seemed to be in mourning,
like the inmates of the house. The books precisely matched as to size,
and drawn up in line, like soldiers, looked in their cold, hard,
slippery uniforms, as if they had but one idea among them, and that
was a freezer. The bookcase, glazed and locked, repudiated all
familiarities. Mr Pitt, in bronze, on the top, with no trace of his
celestial origin' about him, guarded the unattainable treasure like an
enchanted Moor. A dusty urn at each high corner, dug up from an
ancient tomb, preached desolation and decay, as from two pulpits; and
the chimney-glass, reflecting Mr Dombey and his portrait at one blow,
seemed fraught with melancholy meditations.

The stiff and stark fire-irons appeared to claim a nearer
relationship than anything else there to Mr Dombey, with his buttoned
coat, his white cravat, his heavy gold watch-chain, and his creaking
boots.

But this was before the arrival of Mr and Mrs Chick, his lawful
relatives, who soon presented themselves.

'My dear Paul,' Mrs Chick murmured, as she embraced him, 'the
beginning, I hope, of many joyful days!'

'Thank you, Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, grimly. 'How do you do, Mr
John?'

'How do you do, Sir?' said Chick.

He gave Mr Dombey his hand, as if he feared it might electrify him.
Mr Dombey tool: it as if it were a fish, or seaweed, or some such
clammy substance, and immediately returned it to him with exalted
politeness.


'Perhaps, Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, slightly turning his head in his
cravat, as if it were a socket, 'you would have preferred a fire?'


'Oh, my dear Paul, no,' said Mrs Chick, who had much ado to keep
her teeth from chattering; 'not for me.'


'Mr John,' said Mr Dombey, 'you are not sensible of any chill?'


Mr John, who had already got both his hands in his pockets over the
wrists, and was on the very threshold of that same canine chorus which
had given Mrs Chick so much offence on a former occasion, protested
that he was perfectly comfortable.


He added in a low voice, 'With my tiddle tol toor rul' - when he
was providentially stopped by Towlinson, who announced:


'Miss Tox!'


And enter that fair enslaver, with a blue nose and indescribably
frosty face, referable to her being very thinly clad in a maze of
fluttering odds and ends, to do honour to the ceremony.


'How do you do, Miss Tox?' said Mr Dombey.


Miss Tox, in the midst of her spreading gauzes, went down
altogether like an opera-glass shutting-up; she curtseyed so low, in
acknowledgment of Mr Dombey's advancing a step or two to meet her.


'I can never forget this occasion, Sir,' said Miss Tox, softly.
''Tis impossible. My dear Louisa, I can hardly believe the evidence of
my senses.'


If Miss Tox could believe the evidence of one of her senses, it was
a very cold day. That was quite clear. She took an early opportunity
of promoting the circulation in the tip of her nose by secretly
chafing it with her pocket handkerchief, lest, by its very low
temperature, it should disagreeably astonish the baby when she came to
kiss it.


The baby soon appeared, carried in great glory by Richards; while
Florence, in custody of that active young constable, Susan Nipper,
brought up the rear. Though the whole nursery party were dressed by
this time in lighter mourning than at first, there was enough in the
appearance of the bereaved children to make the day no brighter. The
baby too - it might have been Miss Tox's nose - began to cry. Thereby,
as it happened, preventing Mr Chick from the awkward fulfilment of a
very honest purpose he had; which was, to make much of Florence. For
this gentleman, insensible to the superior claims of a perfect Dombey
(perhaps on account of having the honour to be united to a Dombey
himself, and being familiar with excellence), really liked her, and
showed that he liked her, and was about to show it in his own way now,
when Paul cried, and his helpmate stopped him short


'Now Florence, child!' said her aunt, briskly, 'what are you doing,
love? Show yourself to him. Engage his attention, my dear!'


The atmosphere became or might have become colder and colder, when
Mr Dombey stood frigidly watching his little daughter, who, clapping
her hands, and standing On tip-toe before the throne of his son and
heir, lured him to bend down from his high estate, and look at her.
Some honest act of Richards's may have aided the effect, but he did
look down, and held his peace. As his sister hid behind her nurse, he
followed her with his eyes; and when she peeped out with a merry cry
to him, he sprang up and crowed lustily - laughing outright when she



ran in upon him; and seeming to fondle her curls with his tiny hands,
while she smothered him with kisses.

Was Mr Dombey pleased to see this? He testified no pleasure by the
relaxation of a nerve; but outward tokens of any kind of feeling were
unusual with him. If any sunbeam stole into the room to light the
children at their play, it never reached his face. He looked on so
fixedly and coldly, that the warm light vanished even from the
laughing eyes of little Florence, when, at last, they happened to meet
his.

It was a dull, grey, autumn day indeed, and in a minute's pause and
silence that took place, the leaves fell sorrowfully.

'Mr John,' said Mr Dombey, referring to his watch, and assuming his
hat and gloves. 'Take my sister, if you please: my arm today is Miss
Tox's. You had better go first with Master Paul, Richards. Be very
careful.'

In Mr Dombey's carriage, Dombey and Son, Miss Tox, Mrs Chick,
Richards, and Florence. In a little carriage following it, Susan
Nipper and the owner Mr Chick. Susan looking out of window, without
intermission, as a relief from the embarrassment of confronting the
large face of that gentleman, and thinking whenever anything rattled
that he was putting up in paper an appropriate pecuniary compliment
for herself.

Once upon the road to church, Mr Dombey clapped his hands for the
amusement of his son. At which instance of parental enthusiasm Miss
Tox was enchanted. But exclusive of this incident, the chief
difference between the christening party and a party in a mourning
coach consisted in the colours of the carriage and horses.

Arrived at the church steps, they were received by a portentous
beadle.' Mr Dombey dismounting first to help the ladies out, and
standing near him at the church door, looked like another beadle. A
beadle less gorgeous but more dreadful; the beadle of private life;
the beadle of our business and our bosoms.

Miss Tox's hand trembled as she slipped it through Mr Dombey's arm,
and felt herself escorted up the steps, preceded by a cocked hat and a
Babylonian collar. It seemed for a moment like that other solemn
institution, 'Wilt thou have this man, Lucretia?' 'Yes, I will.'

'Please to bring the child in quick out of the air there,'
whispered the beadle, holding open the inner door of the church.

Little Paul might have asked with Hamlet 'into my grave?' so chill
and earthy was the place. The tall shrouded pulpit and reading desk;
the dreary perspective of empty pews stretching away under the
galleries, and empty benches mounting to the roof and lost in the
shadow of the great grim organ; the dusty matting and cold stone
slabs; the grisly free seats' in the aisles; and the damp corner by
the bell-rope, where the black trestles used for funerals were stowed
away, along with some shovels and baskets, and a coil or two of
deadly-looking rope; the strange, unusual, uncomfortable smell, and
the cadaverous light; were all in unison. It was a cold and dismal
scene.

'There's a wedding just on, Sir,' said the beadle, 'but it'll be
over directly, if you'll walk into the westry here.

Before he turned again to lead the way, he gave Mr Dombey a bow and
a half smile of recognition, importing that he (the beadle) remembered


to have had the pleasure of attending on him when he buried his wife,
and hoped he had enjoyed himself since.

The very wedding looked dismal as they passed in front of the
altar. The bride was too old and the bridegroom too young, and a
superannuated beau with one eye and an eyeglass stuck in its blank
companion, was giving away the lady, while the friends were shivering.
In the vestry the fire was smoking; and an over-aged and over-worked
and under-paid attorney's clerk, 'making a search,' was running his
forefinger down the parchment pages of an immense register (one of a
long series of similar volumes) gorged with burials. Over the
fireplace was a ground-plan of the vaults underneath the church; and
Mr Chick, skimming the literary portion of it aloud, by way of
enlivening the company, read the reference to Mrs Dombey's tomb in
full, before he could stop himself.

After another cold interval, a wheezy little pew-opener afflicted
with an asthma, appropriate to the churchyard, if not to the church,
summoned them to the font - a rigid marble basin which seemed to have
been playing a churchyard game at cup and ball with its matter of fact
pedestal, and to have been just that moment caught on the top of it.
Here they waited some little time while the marriage party enrolled
themselves; and meanwhile the wheezy little pew-opener - partly in
consequence of her infirmity, and partly that the marriage party might
not forget her - went about the building coughing like a grampus.

Presently the clerk (the only cheerful-looking object there, and he
was an undertaker) came up with a jug of warm water, and said
something, as he poured it into the font, about taking the chill off;
which millions of gallons boiling hot could not have done for the
occasion. Then the clergyman, an amiable and mild-looking young
curate, but obviously afraid of the baby, appeared like the principal
character in a ghost-story, 'a tall figure all in white;' at sight of
whom Paul rent the air with his cries, and never left off again till
he was taken out black in the face.

Even when that event had happened, to the great relief of
everybody, he was heard under the portico, during the rest of the
ceremony, now fainter, now louder, now hushed, now bursting forth
again with an irrepressible sense of his wrongs. This so distracted
the attention of the two ladies, that Mrs Chick was constantly
deploying into the centre aisle, to send out messages by the
pew-opener, while Miss Tox kept her Prayer-book open at the Gunpowder
Plot, and occasionally read responses from that service.

During the whole of these proceedings, Mr Dombey remained as
impassive and gentlemanly as ever, and perhaps assisted in making it
so cold, that the young curate smoked at the mouth as he read. The
only time that he unbent his visage in the least, was when the
clergyman, in delivering (very unaffectedly and simply) the closing
exhortation, relative to the future examination of the child by the
sponsors, happened to rest his eye on Mr Chick; and then Mr Dombey
might have been seen to express by a majestic look, that he would like
to catch him at it.

It might have been well for Mr Dombey, if he had thought of his own
dignity a little less; and had thought of the great origin and purpose
of the ceremony in which he took so formal and so stiff a part, a
little more. His arrogance contrasted strangely with its history.

When it was all over, he again gave his arm to Miss Tox, and
conducted her to the vestry, where he informed the clergyman how much
pleasure it would have given him to have solicited the honour of his
company at dinner, but for the unfortunate state of his household


affairs. The register signed, and the fees paid, and the pew-opener
(whose cough was very bad again) remembered, and the beadle gratified,
and the sexton (who was accidentally on the doorsteps, looking with
great interest at the weather) not forgotten, they got into the
carriage again, and drove home in the same bleak fellowship.

There they found Mr Pitt turning up his nose at a cold collation,
set forth in a cold pomp of glass and silver, and looking more like a
dead dinner lying in state than a social refreshment. On their arrival
Miss Tox produced a mug for her godson, and Mr Chick a knife and fork
and spoon in a case. Mr Dombey also produced a bracelet for Miss Tox;
and, on the receipt of this token, Miss Tox was tenderly affected.

'Mr John,' said Mr Dombey, 'will you take the bottom of the table,
if you please? What have you got there, Mr John?'

'I have got a cold fillet of veal here, Sir,' replied Mr Chick,
rubbing his numbed hands hard together. 'What have you got there,
Sir?'

'This,' returned Mr Dombey, 'is some cold preparation of calf's
head, I think. I see cold fowls - ham - patties - salad - lobster.
Miss Tox will do me the honour of taking some wine? Champagne to Miss
Tox.'

There was a toothache in everything. The wine was so bitter cold
that it forced a little scream from Miss Tox, which she had great
difficulty in turning into a 'Hem!' The veal had come from such an
airy pantry, that the first taste of it had struck a sensation as of
cold lead to Mr Chick's extremities. Mr Dombey alone remained unmoved.
He might have been hung up for sale at a Russian fair as a specimen of
a frozen gentleman.

The prevailing influence was too much even for his sister. She made
no effort at flattery or small talk, and directed all her efforts to
looking as warm as she could.

'Well, Sir,' said Mr Chick, making a desperate plunge, after a long
silence, and filling a glass of sherry; 'I shall drink this, if you'll
allow me, Sir, to little Paul.'

'Bless him!' murmured Miss Tox, taking a sip of wine.

'Dear little Dombey!' murmured Mrs Chick.

'Mr John,' said Mr Dombey, with severe gravity, 'my son would feel
and express himself obliged to you, I have no doubt, if he could
appreciate the favour you have done him. He will prove, in time to
come, I trust, equal to any responsibility that the obliging
disposition of his relations and friends, in private, or the onerous
nature of our position, in public, may impose upon him.'

The tone in which this was said admitting of nothing more, Mr Chick
relapsed into low spirits and silence. Not so Miss Tox, who, having
listened to Mr Dombey with even a more emphatic attention than usual,
and with a more expressive tendency of her head to one side, now leant
across the table, and said to Mrs Chick softly:

'Louisa!'

'My dear,' said Mrs Chick.

'Onerous nature of our position in public may - I have forgotten


the exact term.'

'Expose him to,' said Mrs Chick.

'Pardon me, my dear,' returned Miss Tox, 'I think not. It was more
rounded and flowing. Obliging disposition of relations and friends in
private, or onerous nature of position in public - may - impose upon
him!'

'Impose upon him, to be sure,' said Mrs Chick.

Miss Tox struck her delicate hands together lightly, in triumph;
and added, casting up her eyes, 'eloquence indeed!'

Mr Dombey, in the meanwhile, had issued orders for the attendance
of Richards, who now entered curtseying, but without the baby; Paul
being asleep after the fatigues of the morning. Mr Dombey, having
delivered a glass of wine to this vassal, addressed her in the
following words: Miss Tox previously settling her head on one side,
and making other little arrangements for engraving them on her heart.

'During the six months or so, Richards, which have seen you an
inmate of this house, you have done your duty. Desiring to connect
some little service to you with this occasion, I considered how I
could best effect that object, and I also advised with my sister, Mrs

-'
'Chick,' interposed the gentleman of that name.

'Oh, hush if you please!' said Miss Tox.

'I was about to say to you, Richards,' resumed Mr Dombey, with an
appalling glance at Mr John, 'that I was further assisted in my
decision, by the recollection of a conversation I held with your
husband in this room, on the occasion of your being hired, when he
disclosed to me the melancholy fact that your family, himself at the
head, were sunk and steeped in ignorance.

Richards quailed under the magnificence of the reproof.

'I am far from being friendly,' pursued Mr Dombey, 'to what is
called by persons of levelling sentiments, general education. But it
is necessary that the inferior classes should continue to be taught to
know their position, and to conduct themselves properly. So far I
approve of schools. Having the power of nominating a child on the
foundation of an ancient establishment, called (from a worshipful
company) the Charitable Grinders; where not only is a wholesome
education bestowed upon the scholars, but where a dress and badge is
likewise provided for them; I have (first communicating, through Mrs
Chick, with your family) nominated your eldest son to an existing
vacancy; and he has this day, I am informed, assumed the habit. The
number of her son, I believe,' said Mr Dombey, turning to his sister
and speaking of the child as if he were a hackney-coach, is one
hundred and forty-seven. Louisa, you can tell her.'

'One hundred and forty-seven,' said Mrs Chick 'The dress, Richards,
is a nice, warm, blue baize tailed coat and cap, turned up with orange
coloured binding; red worsted stockings; and very strong leather
small-clothes. One might wear the articles one's self,' said Mrs
Chick, with enthusiasm, 'and be grateful.'

'There, Richards!' said Miss Tox. 'Now, indeed, you may be proud.
The Charitable Grinders!'


'I am sure I am very much obliged, Sir,' returned Richards faintly,
'and take it very kind that you should remember my little ones.' At
the same time a vision of Biler as a Charitable Grinder, with his very
small legs encased in the serviceable clothing described by Mrs Chick,
swam before Richards's eyes, and made them water.

'I am very glad to see you have so much feeling, Richards,' said
Miss Tox.

'It makes one almost hope, it really does,' said Mrs Chick, who
prided herself on taking trustful views of human nature, 'that there
may yet be some faint spark of gratitude and right feeling in the
world.'

Richards deferred to these compliments by curtseying and murmuring

her thanks; but finding it quite impossible to recover her spirits
from the disorder into which they had been thrown by the image of her
son in his precocious nether garments, she gradually approached the
door and was heartily relieved to escape by it.

Such temporary indications of a partial thaw that had appeared with
her, vanished with her; and the frost set in again, as cold and hard
as ever. Mr Chick was twice heard to hum a tune at the bottom of the
table, but on both occasions it was a fragment of the Dead March in
Saul. The party seemed to get colder and colder, and to be gradually
resolving itself into a congealed and solid state, like the collation
round which it was assembled. At length Mrs Chick looked at Miss Tox,
and Miss Tox returned the look, and they both rose and said it was
really time to go. Mr Dombey receiving this announcement with perfect
equanimity, they took leave of that gentleman, and presently departed
under the protection of Mr Chick; who, when they had turned their
backs upon the house and left its master in his usual solitary state,
put his hands in his pockets, threw himself back in the carriage, and
whistled 'With a hey ho chevy!' all through; conveying into his face
as he did so, an expression of such gloomy and terrible defiance, that
Mrs Chick dared not protest, or in any way molest him.

Richards, though she had little Paul on her lap, could not forget
her own first-born. She felt it was ungrateful; but the influence of
the day fell even on the Charitable Grinders, and she could hardly
help regarding his pewter badge, number one hundred and forty-seven,
as, somehow, a part of its formality and sternness. She spoke, too, in
the nursery, of his 'blessed legs,' and was again troubled by his
spectre in uniform.

'I don't know what I wouldn't give,' said Polly, 'to see the poor
little dear before he gets used to 'em.'

'Why, then, I tell you what, Mrs Richards,' retorted Nipper, who
had been admitted to her confidence, 'see him and make your mind
easy.'

'Mr Dombey wouldn't like it,' said Polly.

'Oh, wouldn't he, Mrs Richards!' retorted Nipper, 'he'd like it
very much, I think when he was asked.'

'You wouldn't ask him, I suppose, at all?' said Polly.

'No, Mrs Richards, quite contrairy,' returned Susan, 'and them two
inspectors Tox and Chick, not intending to be on duty tomorrow, as I
heard 'em say, me and Mid Floy will go along with you tomorrow
morning, and welcome, Mrs Richards, if you like, for we may as well


walk there as up and down a street, and better too.'

Polly rejected the idea pretty stoutly at first; but by little and
little she began to entertain it, as she entertained more and more
distinctly the forbidden pictures of her children, and her own home.
At length, arguing that there could be no great harm in calling for a
moment at the door, she yielded to the Nipper proposition.

The matter being settled thus, little Paul began to cry most
piteously, as if he had a foreboding that no good would come of it.

'What's the matter with the child?' asked Susan.

'He's cold, I think,' said Polly, walking with him to and fro, and
hushing him.

It was a bleak autumnal afternoon indeed; and as she walked, and
hushed, and, glancing through the dreary windows, pressed the little
fellow closer to her breast, the withered leaves came showering down.

CHAPTER 6.

Paul's Second Deprivation

Polly was beset by so many misgivings in the morning, that but for
the incessant promptings of her black-eyed companion, she would have
abandoned all thoughts of the expedition, and formally petitioned for
leave to see number one hundred and forty-seven, under the awful
shadow of Mr Dombey's roof. But Susan who was personally disposed in
favour of the excursion, and who (like Tony Lumpkin), if she could
bear the disappointments of other people with tolerable fortitude,
could not abide to disappoint herself, threw so many ingenious doubts
in the way of this second thought, and stimulated the original
intention with so many ingenious arguments, that almost as soon as Mr
Dombey's stately back was turned, and that gentleman was pursuing his
daily road towards the City, his unconscious son was on his way to
Staggs's Gardens.

This euphonious locality was situated in a suburb, known by the
inhabitants of Staggs's Gardens by the name of Camberling Town; a
designation which the Strangers' Map of London, as printed (with a
view to pleasant and commodious reference) on pocket handkerchiefs,
condenses, with some show of reason, into Camden Town. Hither the two
nurses bent their steps, accompanied by their charges; Richards
carrying Paul, of course, and Susan leading little Florence by the
hand, and giving her such jerks and pokes from time to time, as she
considered it wholesome to administer.

The first shock of a great earthquake had, just at that period,
rent the whole neighbourhood to its centre. Traces of its course were
visible on every side. Houses were knocked down; streets broken
through and stopped; deep pits and trenches dug in the ground;
enormous heaps of earth and clay thrown up; buildings that were
undermined and shaking, propped by great beams of wood. Here, a chaos
of carts, overthrown and jumbled together, lay topsy-turvy at the
bottom of a steep unnatural hill; there, confused treasures of iron
soaked and rusted in something that had accidentally become a pond.
Everywhere were bridges that led nowhere; thoroughfares that were
wholly impassable; Babel towers of chimneys, wanting half their
height; temporary wooden houses and enclosures, in the most unlikely


situations; carcases of ragged tenements, and fragments of unfinished
walls and arches, and piles of scaffolding, and wildernesses of
bricks, and giant forms of cranes, and tripods straddling above
nothing. There were a hundred thousand shapes and substances of
incompleteness, wildly mingled out of their places, upside down,
burrowing in the earth, aspiring in the air, mouldering in the water,
and unintelligible as any dream. Hot springs and fiery eruptions, the
usual attendants upon earthquakes, lent their contributions of
confusion to the scene. Boiling water hissed and heaved within
dilapidated walls; whence, also, the glare and roar of flames came
issuing forth; and mounds of ashes blocked up rights of way, and
wholly changed the law and custom of the neighbourhood.

In short, the yet unfinished and unopened Railroad was in progress;
and, from the very core of all this dire disorder, trailed smoothly
away, upon its mighty course of civilisation and improvement.

But as yet, the neighbourhood was shy to own the Railroad. One or
two bold speculators had projected streets; and one had built a
little, but had stopped among the mud and ashes to consider farther of
it. A bran-new Tavern, redolent of fresh mortar and size, and fronting
nothing at all, had taken for its sign The Railway Arms; but that
might be rash enterprise - and then it hoped to sell drink to the
workmen. So, the Excavators' House of Call had sprung up from a
beer-shop; and the old-established Ham and Beef Shop had become the
Railway Eating House, with a roast leg of pork daily, through
interested motives of a similar immediate and popular description.
Lodging-house keepers were favourable in like manner; and for the like
reasons were not to be trusted. The general belief was very slow.
There were frowzy fields, and cow-houses, and dunghills, and
dustheaps, and ditches, and gardens, and summer-houses, and
carpet-beating grounds, at the very door of the Railway. Little tumuli
of oyster shells in the oyster season, and of lobster shells in the
lobster season, and of broken crockery and faded cabbage leaves in all
seasons, encroached upon its high places. Posts, and rails, and old
cautions to trespassers, and backs of mean houses, and patches of
wretched vegetation, stared it out of countenance. Nothing was the
better for it, or thought of being so. If the miserable waste ground
lying near it could have laughed, it would have laughed it to scorn,
like many of the miserable neighbours.

Staggs's Gardens was uncommonly incredulous. It was a little row of
houses, with little squalid patches of ground before them, fenced off
with old doors, barrel staves, scraps of tarpaulin, and dead bushes;
with bottomless tin kettles and exhausted iron fenders, thrust into
the gaps. Here, the Staggs's Gardeners trained scarlet beans, kept
fowls and rabbits, erected rotten summer-houses (one was an old boat),
dried clothes, and smoked pipes. Some were of opinion that Staggs's
Gardens derived its name from a deceased capitalist, one Mr Staggs,
who had built it for his delectation. Others, who had a natural taste
for the country, held that it dated from those rural times when the
antlered herd, under the familiar denomination of Staggses, had
resorted to its shady precincts. Be this as it may, Staggs's Gardens
was regarded by its population as a sacred grove not to be withered by
Railroads; and so confident were they generally of its long outliving
any such ridiculous inventions, that the master chimney-sweeper at the
corner, who was understood to take the lead in the local politics of
the Gardens, had publicly declared that on the occasion of the
Railroad opening, if ever it did open, two of his boys should ascend
the flues of his dwelling, with instructions to hail the failure with
derisive cheers from the chimney-pots.

To this unhallowed spot, the very name of which had hitherto been
carefully concealed from Mr Dombey by his sister, was little Paul now


borne by Fate and Richards

'That's my house, Susan,' said Polly, pointing it out.

'Is it, indeed, Mrs Richards?' said Susan, condescendingly.

'And there's my sister Jemima at the door, I do declare' cried
Polly, 'with my own sweet precious baby in her arms!'

The sight added such an extensive pair of wings to Polly's
impatience, that she set off down the Gardens at a run, and bouncing
on Jemima, changed babies with her in a twinkling; to the unutterable
astonishment of that young damsel, on whom the heir of the Dombeys
seemed to have fallen from the clouds.

'Why, Polly!' cried Jemima. 'You! what a turn you have given me!
who'd have thought it! come along in Polly! How well you do look to be
sure! The children will go half wild to see you Polly, that they
will.'

That they did, if one might judge from the noise they made, and the
way in which they dashed at Polly and dragged her to a low chair in
the chimney corner, where her own honest apple face became immediately
the centre of a bunch of smaller pippins, all laying their rosy cheeks
close to it, and all evidently the growth of the same tree. As to
Polly, she was full as noisy and vehement as the children; and it was
not until she was quite out of breath, and her hair was hanging all
about her flushed face, and her new christening attire was very much
dishevelled, that any pause took place in the confusion. Even then,
the smallest Toodle but one remained in her lap, holding on tight with
both arms round her neck; while the smallest Toodle but two mounted on
the back of the chair, and made desperate efforts, with one leg in the
air, to kiss her round the corner.

'Look! there's a pretty little lady come to see you,' said Polly;
'and see how quiet she is! what a beautiful little lady, ain't she?'

This reference to Florence, who had been standing by the door not
unobservant of what passed, directed the attention of the younger
branches towards her; and had likewise the happy effect of leading to
the formal recognition of Miss Nipper, who was not quite free from a
misgiving that she had been already slighted.

'Oh do come in and sit down a minute, Susan, please,' said Polly.
'This is my sister Jemima, this is. Jemima, I don't know what I should
ever do with myself, if it wasn't for Susan Nipper; I shouldn't be
here now but for her.'

'Oh do sit down, Miss Nipper, if you please,' quoth Jemima.

Susan took the extreme corner of a chair, with a stately and
ceremonious aspect.

'I never was so glad to see anybody in all my life; now really I
never was, Miss Nipper,' said Jemima.

Susan relaxing, took a little more of the chair, and smiled
graciously.

'Do untie your bonnet-strings, and make yourself at home, Miss
Nipper, please,' entreated Jemima. 'I am afraid it's a poorer place
than you're used to; but you'll make allowances, I'm sure.'

The black-eyed was so softened by this deferential behaviour, that


she caught up little Miss Toodle who was running past, and took her to
Banbury Cross immediately.


'But where's my pretty boy?' said Polly. 'My poor fellow? I came
all this way to see him in his new clothes.'


'Ah what a pity!' cried Jemima. 'He'll break his heart, when he
hears his mother has been here. He's at school, Polly.'


'Gone already!'


'Yes. He went for the first time yesterday, for fear he should lose
any learning. But it's half-holiday, Polly: if you could only stop
till he comes home - you and Miss Nipper, leastways,' said Jemima,
mindful in good time of the dignity of the black-eyed.


'And how does he look, Jemima, bless him!' faltered Polly.


'Well, really he don't look so bad as you'd suppose,' returned
Jemima.


'Ah!' said Polly, with emotion, 'I knew his legs must be too
short.'


His legs is short,' returned Jemima; 'especially behind; but
they'll get longer, Polly, every day.'


It was a slow, prospective kind of consolation; but the
cheerfulness and good nature with which it was administered, gave it a
value it did not intrinsically possess. After a moment's silence,
Polly asked, in a more sprightly manner:


'And where's Father, Jemima dear?' - for by that patriarchal
appellation, Mr Toodle was generally known in the family.


'There again!' said Jemima. 'What a pity! Father took his dinner
with him this morning, and isn't coming home till night. But he's
always talking of you, Polly, and telling the children about you; and
is the peaceablest, patientest, best-temperedest soul in the world, as
he always was and will be!'


'Thankee, Jemima,' cried the simple Polly; delighted by the speech,
and disappointed by the absence.


'Oh you needn't thank me, Polly,' said her sister, giving her a
sounding kiss upon the cheek, and then dancing little Paul cheerfully.
'I say the same of you sometimes, and think it too.'


In spite of the double disappointment, it was impossible to regard
in the light of a failure a visit which was greeted with such a
reception; so the sisters talked hopefully about family matters, and
about Biler, and about all his brothers and sisters: while the
black-eyed, having performed several journeys to Banbury Cross and
back, took sharp note of the furniture, the Dutch clock, the cupboard,
the castle on the mantel-piece with red and green windows in it,
susceptible of illumination by a candle-end within; and the pair of
small black velvet kittens, each with a lady's reticule in its mouth;
regarded by the Staggs's Gardeners as prodigies of imitative art. The
conversation soon becoming general lest the black-eyed should go off
at score and turn sarcastic, that young lady related to Jemima a
summary of everything she knew concerning Mr Dombey, his prospects,
family, pursuits, and character. Also an exact inventory of her
personal wardrobe, and some account of her principal relations and
friends. Having relieved her mind of these disclosures, she partook of



shrimps and porter, and evinced a disposition to swear eternal
friendship.

Little Florence herself was not behind-hand in improving the
occasion; for, being conducted forth by the young Toodles to inspect
some toad-stools and other curiosities of the Gardens, she entered
with them, heart and soul, on the formation of a temporary breakwater
across a small green pool that had collected in a corner. She was
still busily engaged in that labour, when sought and found by Susan;
who, such was her sense of duty, even under the humanizing influence
of shrimps, delivered a moral address to her (punctuated with thumps)
on her degenerate nature, while washing her face and hands; and
predicted that she would bring the grey hairs of her family in
general, with sorrow to the grave. After some delay, occasioned by a
pretty long confidential interview above stairs on pecuniary subjects,
between Polly and Jemima, an interchange of babies was again effected

-for Polly had all this timeretained her own child, and Jemima little
Paul - and the visitors took leave.
But first the young Toodles, victims of a pious fraud, were deluded
into repairing in a body to a chandler's shop in the neighbourhood,
for the ostensible purpose of spending a penny; and when the coast was
quite clear, Polly fled: Jemima calling after her that if they could
only go round towards the City Road on their way back, they would be
sure to meet little Biler coming from school.

'Do you think that we might make time to go a little round in that
direction, Susan?' inquired Polly, when they halted to take breath.

'Why not, Mrs Richards?' returned Susan.

'It's getting on towards our dinner time you know,' said Polly.

But lunch had rendered her companion more than indifferent to this
grave consideration, so she allowed no weight to it, and they resolved
to go 'a little round.'

Now, it happened that poor Biler's life had been, since yesterday
morning, rendered weary by the costume of the Charitable Grinders. The
youth of the streets could not endure it. No young vagabond could be
brought to bear its contemplation for a moment, without throwing
himself upon the unoffending wearer, and doing him a mischief. His
social existence had been more like that of an early Christian, than
an innocent child of the nineteenth century. He had been stoned in the
streets. He had been overthrown into gutters; bespattered with mud;
violently flattened against posts. Entire strangers to his person had
lifted his yellow cap off his head, and cast it to the winds. His legs
had not only undergone verbal criticisms and revilings, but had been
handled and pinched. That very morning, he had received a perfectly
unsolicited black eye on his way to the Grinders' establishment, and
had been punished for it by the master: a superannuated old Grinder of
savage disposition, who had been appointed schoolmaster because he
didn't know anything, and wasn't fit for anything, and for whose cruel
cane all chubby little boys had a perfect fascination.'

Thus it fell out that Biler, on his way home, sought unfrequented
paths; and slunk along by narrow passages and back streets, to avoid
his tormentors. Being compelled to emerge into the main road, his ill
fortune brought him at last where a small party of boys, headed by a
ferocious young butcher, were lying in wait for any means of
pleasurable excitement that might happen. These, finding a Charitable
Grinder in the midst of them - unaccountably delivered over, as it
were, into their hands - set up a general yell and rushed upon him.


But it so fell out likewise, that, at the same time, Polly, looking
hopelessly along the road before her, after a good hour's walk, had
said it was no use going any further, when suddenly she saw this
sight. She no sooner saw it than, uttering a hasty exclamation, and
giving Master Dombey to the black-eyed, she started to the rescue of
her unhappy little son.

Surprises, like misfortunes, rarely come alone. The astonished
Susan Nipper and her two young charges were rescued by the bystanders
from under the very wheels of a passing carriage before they knew what
had happened; and at that moment (it was market day) a thundering
alarm of 'Mad Bull!' was raised.

With a wild confusion before her, of people running up and down,
and shouting, and wheels running over them, and boys fighting, and mad
bulls coming up, and the nurse in the midst of all these dangers being
torn to pieces, Florence screamed and ran. She ran till she was
exhausted, urging Susan to do the same; and then, stopping and
wringing her hands as she remembered they had left the other nurse
behind, found, with a sensation of terror not to be described, that
she was quite alone.

'Susan! Susan!' cried Florence, clapping her hands in the very
ecstasy of her alarm. 'Oh, where are they? where are they?'

'Where are they?' said an old woman, coming hobbling across as fast
as she could from the opposite side of the way. 'Why did you run away
from 'em?'

'I was frightened,' answered Florence. 'I didn't know what I did. I
thought they were with me. Where are they?'

The old woman took her by the wrist, and said, 'I'll show you.'

She was a very ugly old woman, with red rims round her eyes, and a
mouth that mumbled and chattered of itself when she was not speaking.
She was miserably dressed, and carried some skins over her arm. She
seemed to have followed Florence some little way at all events, for
she had lost her breath; and this made her uglier still, as she stood
trying to regain it: working her shrivelled yellow face and throat
into all sorts of contortions.

Florence was afraid of her, and looked, hesitating, up the street,
of which she had almost reached the bottom. It was a solitary place more
a back road than a street - and there was no one in it but herself
and the old woman.

'You needn't be frightened now,' said the old woman, still holding
her tight. 'Come along with me.'

'I - I don't know you. What's your name?' asked Florence.

'Mrs Brown,' said the old woman. 'Good Mrs Brown.'

'Are they near here?' asked Florence, beginning to be led away.

'Susan ain't far off,' said Good Mrs Brown; 'and the others are
close to her.'

'Is anybody hurt?' cried Florence.

'Not a bit of it,' said Good Mrs Brown.

The child shed tears of delight on hearing this, and accompanied


the old woman willingly; though she could not help glancing at her
face as they went along - particularly at that industrious mouth - and
wondering whether Bad Mrs Brown, if there were such a person, was at
all like her.

They had not gone far, but had gone by some very uncomfortable
places, such as brick-fields and tile-yards, when the old woman turned
down a dirty lane, where the mud lay in deep black ruts in the middle
of the road. She stopped before a shabby little house, as closely shut
up as a house that was full of cracks and crevices could be. Opening
the door with a key she took out of her bonnet, she pushed the child
before her into a back room, where there was a great heap of rags of
different colours lying on the floor; a heap of bones, and a heap of
sifted dust or cinders; but there was no furniture at all, and the
walls and ceiling were quite black.

The child became so terrified the she was stricken speechless, and
looked as though about to swoon.

'Now don't be a young mule,' said Good Mrs Brown, reviving her with
a shake. 'I'm not a going to hurt you. Sit upon the rags.'

Florence obeyed her, holding out her folded hands, in mute
supplication.

'I'm not a going to keep you, even, above an hour,' said Mrs Brown.
'D'ye understand what I say?'

The child answered with great difficulty, 'Yes.'

'Then,' said Good Mrs Brown, taking her own seat on the bones,
'don't vex me. If you don't, I tell you I won't hurt you. But if you
do, I'll kill you. I could have you killed at any time - even if you
was in your own bed at home. Now let's know who you are, and what you
are, and all about it.'

The old woman's threats and promises; the dread of giving her
offence; and the habit, unusual to a child, but almost natural to
Florence now, of being quiet, and repressing what she felt, and
feared, and hoped; enabled her to do this bidding, and to tell her
little history, or what she knew of it. Mrs Brown listened
attentively, until she had finished.

'So your name's Dombey, eh?' said Mrs Brown.

'I want that pretty frock, Miss Dombey,' said Good Mrs Brown, 'and
that little bonnet, and a petticoat or two, and anything else you can
spare. Come! Take 'em off.'

Florence obeyed, as fast as her trembling hands would allow;
keeping, all the while, a frightened eye on Mrs Brown. When she had
divested herself of all the articles of apparel mentioned by that
lady, Mrs B. examined them at leisure, and seemed tolerably well
satisfied with their quality and value.

'Humph!' she said, running her eyes over the child's slight figure,
'I don't see anything else - except the shoes. I must have the shoes,
Miss Dombey.'

Poor little Florence took them off with equal alacrity, only too
glad to have any more means of conciliation about her. The old woman
then produced some wretched substitutes from the bottom of the heap of
rags, which she turned up for that purpose; together with a girl's
cloak, quite worn out and very old; and the crushed remains of a


bonnet that had probably been picked up from some ditch or dunghill.
In this dainty raiment, she instructed Florence to dress herself; and
as such preparation seemed a prelude to her release, the child
complied with increased readiness, if possible.

In hurriedly putting on the bonnet, if that may be called a bonnet
which was more like a pad to carry loads on, she caught it in her hair
which grew luxuriantly, and could not immediately disentangle it. Good
Mrs Brown whipped out a large pair of scissors, and fell into an
unaccountable state of excitement.

'Why couldn't you let me be!' said Mrs Brown, 'when I was
contented? You little fool!'

'I beg your pardon. I don't know what I have done,' panted
Florence. 'I couldn't help it.'

'Couldn't help it!' cried Mrs Brown. 'How do you expect I can help
it? Why, Lord!' said the old woman, ruffling her curls with a furious
pleasure, 'anybody but me would have had 'em off, first of all.'
Florence was so relieved to find that it was only her hair and not her
head which Mrs Brown coveted, that she offered no resistance or
entreaty, and merely raised her mild eyes towards the face of that
good soul.

'If I hadn't once had a gal of my own - beyond seas now- that was
proud of her hair,' said Mrs Brown, 'I'd have had every lock of it.
She's far away, she's far away! Oho! Oho!'

Mrs Brown's was not a melodious cry, but, accompanied with a wild
tossing up of her lean arms, it was full of passionate grief, and
thrilled to the heart of Florence, whom it frightened more than ever.
It had its part, perhaps, in saving her curls; for Mrs Brown, after
hovering about her with the scissors for some moments, like a new kind
of butterfly, bade her hide them under the bonnet and let no trace of
them escape to tempt her. Having accomplished this victory over
herself, Mrs Brown resumed her seat on the bones, and smoked a very
short black pipe, mowing and mumbling all the time, as if she were
eating the stem.

When the pipe was smoked out, she gave the child a rabbit-skin to
carry, that she might appear the more like her ordinary companion, and
told her that she was now going to lead her to a public street whence
she could inquire her way to her friends. But she cautioned her, with
threats of summary and deadly vengeance in case of disobedience, not
to talk to strangers, nor to repair to her own home (which may have
been too near for Mrs Brown's convenience), but to her father's office
in the City; also to wait at the street corner where she would be
left, until the clock struck three. These directions Mrs Brown
enforced with assurances that there would be potent eyes and ears in
her employment cognizant of all she did; and these directions Florence
promised faithfully and earnestly to observe.

At length, Mrs Brown, issuing forth, conducted her changed and
ragged little friend through a labyrinth of narrow streets and lanes
and alleys, which emerged, after a long time, upon a stable yard, with
a gateway at the end, whence the roar of a great thoroughfare made
itself audible. Pointing out this gateway, and informing Florence that
when the clocks struck three she was to go to the left, Mrs Brown,
after making a parting grasp at her hair which seemed involuntary and
quite beyond her own control, told her she knew what to do, and bade
her go and do it: remembering that she was watched.

With a lighter heart, but still sore afraid, Florence felt herself


released, and tripped off to the corner. When she reached it, she
looked back and saw the head of Good Mrs Brown peeping out of the low
wooden passage, where she had issued her parting injunctions; likewise
the fist of Good Mrs Brown shaking towards her. But though she often
looked back afterwards - every minute, at least, in her nervous
recollection of the old woman - she could not see her again.

Florence remained there, looking at the bustle in the street, and
more and more bewildered by it; and in the meanwhile the clocks
appeared to have made up their minds never to strike three any more.
At last the steeples rang out three o'clock; there was one close by,
so she couldn't be mistaken; and - after often looking over her
shoulder, and often going a little way, and as often coming back
again, lest the all-powerful spies of Mrs Brown should take offence she
hurried off, as fast as she could in her slipshod shoes, holding
the rabbit-skin tight in her hand.

All she knew of her father's offices was that they belonged to
Dombey and Son, and that that was a great power belonging to the City.
So she could only ask the way to Dombey and Son's in the City; and as
she generally made inquiry of children - being afraid to ask grown
people - she got very little satisfaction indeed. But by dint of
asking her way to the City after a while, and dropping the rest of her
inquiry for the present, she really did advance, by slow degrees,
towards the heart of that great region which is governed by the
terrible Lord Mayor.

Tired of walking, repulsed and pushed about, stunned by the noise
and confusion, anxious for her brother and the nurses, terrified by
what she had undergone, and the prospect of encountering her angry
father in such an altered state; perplexed and frightened alike by
what had passed, and what was passing, and what was yet before her;
Florence went upon her weary way with tearful eyes, and once or twice
could not help stopping to ease her bursting heart by crying bitterly.
But few people noticed her at those times, in the garb she wore: or if
they did, believed that she was tutored to excite compassion, and
passed on. Florence, too, called to her aid all the firmness and
self-reliance of a character that her sad experience had prematurely
formed and tried: and keeping the end she had in view steadily before
her, steadily pursued it.

It was full two hours later in the afternoon than when she had
started on this strange adventure, when, escaping from the clash and
clangour of a narrow street full of carts and waggons, she peeped into
a kind of wharf or landing-place upon the river-side, where there were
a great many packages, casks, and boxes, strewn about; a large pair of
wooden scales; and a little wooden house on wheels, outside of which,
looking at the neighbouring masts and boats, a stout man stood
whistling, with his pen behind his ear, and his hands in his pockets,
as if his day's work were nearly done.

'Now then! 'said this man, happening to turn round. 'We haven't got
anything for you, little girl. Be off!'

'If you please, is this the City?' asked the trembling daughter of
the Dombeys.

'Ah! It's the City. You know that well enough, I daresay. Be off!
We haven't got anything for you.'

'I don't want anything, thank you,' was the timid answer. 'Except
to know the way to Dombey and Son's.'

The man who had been strolling carelessly towards her, seemed


surprised by this reply, and looking attentively in her face,
rejoined:

'Why, what can you want with Dombey and Son's?'

'To know the way there, if you please.'

The man looked at her yet more curiously, and rubbed the back of
his head so hard in his wonderment that he knocked his own hat off.

'Joe!' he called to another man - a labourer- as he picked it up
and put it on again.

'Joe it is!' said Joe.

'Where's that young spark of Dombey's who's been watching the
shipment of them goods?'

'Just gone, by t'other gate,' said Joe.

'Call him back a minute.'

Joe ran up an archway, bawling as he went, and very soon returned

with a blithe-looking boy.

'You're Dombey's jockey, ain't you?' said the first man.

'I'm in Dombey's House, Mr Clark,' returned the boy.

'Look'ye here, then,' said Mr Clark.

Obedient to the indication of Mr Clark's hand, the boy approached
towards Florence, wondering, as well he might, what he had to do with
her. But she, who had heard what passed, and who, besides the relief
of so suddenly considering herself safe at her journey's end, felt
reassured beyond all measure by his lively youthful face and manner,
ran eagerly up to him, leaving one of the slipshod shoes upon the
ground and caught his hand in both of hers.

'I am lost, if you please!' said Florence.

'Lost!' cried the boy.

'Yes, I was lost this morning, a long way from here - and I have
had my clothes taken away, since - and I am not dressed in my own now
- and my name is Florence Dombey, my little brother's only sister and,
oh dear, dear, take care of me, if you please!' sobbed Florence,
giving full vent to the childish feelings she had so long suppressed,
and bursting into tears. At the same time her miserable bonnet falling
off, her hair came tumbling down about her face: moving to speechless
admiration and commiseration, young Walter, nephew of Solomon Gills,
Ships' Instrument-maker in general.

Mr Clark stood rapt in amazement: observing under his breath, I
never saw such a start on this wharf before. Walter picked up the
shoe, and put it on the little foot as the Prince in the story might
have fitted Cinderella's slipper on. He hung the rabbit-skin over his
left arm; gave the right to Florence; and felt, not to say like
Richard Whittington - that is a tame comparison - but like Saint
George of England, with the dragon lying dead before him.

'Don't cry, Miss Dombey,' said Walter, in a transport of


enthusiasm.

'What a wonderful thing for me that I am here! You are as safe now
as if you were guarded by a whole boat's crew of picked men from a
man-of-war. Oh, don't cry.'

'I won't cry any more,' said Florence. 'I am only crying for joy.'

'Crying for joy!' thought Walter, 'and I'm the cause of it! Come
along, Miss Dombey. There's the other shoe off now! Take mine, Miss
Dombey.'

'No, no, no,' said Florence, checking him in the act of impetuously

pulling off his own. 'These do better. These do very well.'

'Why, to be sure,' said Walter, glancing at her foot, 'mine are a
mile too large. What am I thinking about! You never could walk in
mine! Come along, Miss Dombey. Let me see the villain who will dare
molest you now.'

So Walter, looking immensely fierce, led off Florence, looking very
happy; and they went arm-in-arm along the streets, perfectly
indifferent to any astonishment that their appearance might or did
excite by the way.

It was growing dark and foggy, and beginning to rain too; but they
cared nothing for this: being both wholly absorbed in the late
adventures of Florence, which she related with the innocent good faith
and confidence of her years, while Walter listened as if, far from the
mud and grease of Thames Street, they were rambling alone among the
broad leaves and tall trees of some desert island in the tropics - as
he very likely fancied, for the time, they were.

'Have we far to go?' asked Florence at last, lilting up her eyes to
her companion's face.

'Ah! By-the-bye,' said Walter, stopping, 'let me see; where are we?
Oh! I know. But the offices are shut up now, Miss Dombey. There's
nobody there. Mr Dombey has gone home long ago. I suppose we must go
home too? or, stay. Suppose I take you to my Uncle's, where I live it's
very near here - and go to your house in a coach to tell them you
are safe, and bring you back some clothes. Won't that be best?'

'I think so,' answered Florence. 'Don't you? What do you think?'

As they stood deliberating in the street, a man passed them, who
glanced quickly at Walter as he went by, as if he recognised him; but
seeming to correct that first impression, he passed on without
stopping.

'Why, I think it's Mr Carker,' said Walter. 'Carker in our House.
Not Carker our Manager, Miss Dombey - the other Carker; the Junior -
Halloa! Mr Carker!'

'Is that Walter Gay?' said the other, stopping and returning. 'I
couldn't believe it, with such a strange companion.

As he stood near a lamp, listening with surprise to Walter's
hurried explanation, he presented a remarkable contrast to the two
youthful figures arm-in-arm before him. He was not old, but his hair
was white; his body was bent, or bowed as if by the weight of some
great trouble: and there were deep lines in his worn and melancholy
face. The fire of his eyes, the expression of his features, the very


voice in which he spoke, were all subdued and quenched, as if the
spirit within him lay in ashes. He was respectably, though very
plainly dressed, in black; but his clothes, moulded to the general
character of his figure, seemed to shrink and abase themselves upon
him, and to join in the sorrowful solicitation which the whole man
from head to foot expressed, to be left unnoticed, and alone in his
humility.

And yet his interest in youth and hopefulness was not extinguished
with the other embers of his soul, for he watched the boy's earnest
countenance as he spoke with unusual sympathy, though with an
inexplicable show of trouble and compassion, which escaped into his
looks, however hard he strove to hold it prisoner. When Walter, in
conclusion, put to him the question he had put to Florence, he still
stood glancing at him with the same expression, as if he had read some
fate upon his face, mournfully at variance with its present
brightness.

'What do you advise, Mr Carker?' said Walter, smiling. 'You always
give me good advice, you know, when you do speak to me. That's not
often, though.'

'I think your own idea is the best,' he answered: looking from
Florence to Walter, and back again.

'Mr Carker,' said Walter, brightening with a generous thought,
'Come! Here's a chance for you. Go you to Mr Dombey's, and be the
messenger of good news. It may do you some good, Sir. I'll remain at
home. You shall go.'

'I!' returned the other.

'Yes. Why not, Mr Carker?' said the boy.

He merely shook him by the hand in answer; he seemed in a manner
ashamed and afraid even to do that; and bidding him good-night, and
advising him to make haste, turned away.

'Come, Miss Dombey,' said Walter, looking after him as they turned
away also, 'we'll go to my Uncle's as quick as we can. Did you ever
hear Mr Dombey speak of Mr Carker the Junior, Miss Florence?'

'No,' returned the child, mildly, 'I don't often hear Papa speak.'

'Ah! true! more shame for him,' thought Walter. After a minute's
pause, during which he had been looking down upon the gentle patient
little face moving on at his side, he said, 'The strangest man, Mr
Carker the Junior is, Miss Florence, that ever you heard of. If you
could understand what an extraordinary interest he takes in me, and
yet how he shuns me and avoids me; and what a low place he holds in
our office, and how he is never advanced, and never complains, though
year after year he sees young men passed over his head, and though his
brother (younger than he is), is our head Manager, you would be as
much puzzled about him as I am.'

As Florence could hardly be expected to understand much about it,
Walter bestirred himself with his accustomed boyish animation and
restlessness to change the subject; and one of the unfortunate shoes
coming off again opportunely, proposed to carry Florence to his
uncle's in his arms. Florence, though very tired, laughingly declined
the proposal, lest he should let her fall; and as they were already
near the wooden Midshipman, and as Walter went on to cite various
precedents, from shipwrecks and other moving accidents, where younger
boys than he had triumphantly rescued and carried off older girls than


Florence, they were still in full conversation about it when they
arrived at the Instrument-maker's door.

'Holloa, Uncle Sol!' cried Walter, bursting into the shop, and
speaking incoherently and out of breath, from that time forth, for the
rest of the evening. 'Here's a wonderful adventure! Here's Mr Dombey's
daughter lost in the streets, and robbed of her clothes by an old
witch of a woman - found by me - brought home to our parlour to rest look
here!'

'Good Heaven!' said Uncle Sol, starting back against his favourite
compass-case. 'It can't be! Well, I - '

'No, nor anybody else,' said Walter, anticipating the rest. 'Nobody
would, nobody could, you know. Here! just help me lift the little sofa
near the fire, will you, Uncle Sol - take care of the plates - cut
some dinner for her, will you, Uncle - throw those shoes under the
grate. Miss Florence - put your feet on the fender to dry - how damp
they are - here's an adventure, Uncle, eh? - God bless my soul, how
hot I am!'

Solomon Gills was quite as hot, by sympathy, and in excessive
bewilderment. He patted Florence's head, pressed her to eat, pressed
her to drink, rubbed the soles of her feet with his
pocket-handkerchief heated at the fire, followed his locomotive nephew
with his eyes, and ears, and had no clear perception of anything
except that he was being constantly knocked against and tumbled over
by that excited young gentleman, as he darted about the room
attempting to accomplish twenty things at once, and doing nothing at
all.

'Here, wait a minute, Uncle,' he continued, catching up a candle,
'till I run upstairs, and get another jacket on, and then I'll be off.
I say, Uncle, isn't this an adventure?'

'My dear boy,' said Solomon, who, with his spectacles on his
forehead and the great chronometer in his pocket, was incessantly
oscillating between Florence on the sofa, and his nephew in all parts
of the parlour, 'it's the most extraordinary - '

'No, but do, Uncle, please - do, Miss Florence - dinner, you know,
Uncle.'

'Yes, yes, yes,' cried Solomon, cutting instantly into a leg of
mutton, as if he were catering for a giant. 'I'll take care of her,
Wally! I understand. Pretty dear! Famished, of course. You go and get
ready. Lord bless me! Sir Richard Whittington thrice Lord Mayor of
London.'

Walter was not very long in mounting to his lofty garret and
descending from it, but in the meantime Florence, overcome by fatigue,
had sunk into a doze before the fire. The short interval of quiet,
though only a few minutes in duration, enabled Solomon Gills so far to
collect his wits as to make some little arrangements for her comfort,
and to darken the room, and to screen her from the blaze. Thus, when
the boy returned, she was sleeping peacefully.

'That's capital!' he whispered, giving Solomon such a hug that it
squeezed a new expression into his face. 'Now I'm off. I'll just take
a crust of bread with me, for I'm very hungry - and don't wake her,
Uncle Sol.'

'No, no,' said Solomon. 'Pretty child.'


'Pretty, indeed!' cried Walter. 'I never saw such a face, Uncle
Sol. Now I'm off.'

'That's right,' said Solomon, greatly relieved.

'I say, Uncle Sol,' cried Walter, putting his face in at the door.

'Here he is again,' said Solomon.

'How does she look now?'

'Quite happy,' said Solomon.

'That's famous! now I'm off.'

'I hope you are,' said Solomon to himself.

'I say, Uncle Sol,' cried Walter, reappearing at the door.

'Here he is again!' said Solomon.

'We met Mr Carker the Junior in the street, queerer than ever. He
bade me good-bye, but came behind us here - there's an odd thing! for
when we reached the shop door, I looked round, and saw him going
quietly away, like a servant who had seen me home, or a faithful dog.
How does she look now, Uncle?'

'Pretty much the same as before, Wally,' replied Uncle Sol.

'That's right. Now I am off!'

And this time he really was: and Solomon Gills, with no appetite
for dinner, sat on the opposite side of the fire, watching Florence in
her slumber, building a great many airy castles of the most fantastic
architecture; and looking, in the dim shade, and in the close vicinity
of all the instruments, like a magician disguised in a Welsh wig and a
suit of coffee colour, who held the child in an enchanted sleep.

In the meantime, Walter proceeded towards Mr Dombey's house at a
pace seldom achieved by a hack horse from the stand; and yet with his
head out of window every two or three minutes, in impatient
remonstrance with the driver. Arriving at his journey's end, he leaped
out, and breathlessly announcing his errand to the servant, followed
him straight into the library, we there was a great confusion of
tongues, and where Mr Dombey, his sister, and Miss Tox, Richards, and
Nipper, were all congregated together.

'Oh! I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Walter, rushing up to him, 'but
I'm happy to say it's all right, Sir. Miss Dombey's found!'

The boy with his open face, and flowing hair, and sparkling eyes,
panting with pleasure and excitement, was wonderfully opposed to Mr
Dombey, as he sat confronting him in his library chair.

'I told you, Louisa, that she would certainly be found,' said Mr
Dombey, looking slightly over his shoulder at that lady, who wept in
company with Miss Tox. 'Let the servants know that no further steps
are necessary. This boy who brings the information, is young Gay, from
the office. How was my daughter found, Sir? I know how she was lost.'
Here he looked majestically at Richards. 'But how was she found? Who
found her?'

'Why, I believe I found Miss Dombey, Sir,' said Walter modestly,
'at least I don't know that I can claim the merit of having exactly


found her, Sir, but I was the fortunate instrument of - '

'What do you mean, Sir,' interrupted Mr Dombey, regarding the boy's
evident pride and pleasure in his share of the transaction with an
instinctive dislike, 'by not having exactly found my daughter, and by
being a fortunate instrument? Be plain and coherent, if you please.'

It was quite out of Walter's power to be coherent; but he rendered
himself as explanatory as he could, in his breathless state, and
stated why he had come alone.

'You hear this, girl?' said Mr Dombey sternly to the black-eyed.
'Take what is necessary, and return immediately with this young man to
fetch Miss Florence home. Gay, you will be rewarded to-morrow.

'Oh! thank you, Sir,' said Walter. 'You are very kind. I'm sure I
was not thinking of any reward, Sir.'

'You are a boy,' said Mr Dombey, suddenly and almost fiercely; 'and
what you think of, or affect to think of, is of little consequence.
You have done well, Sir. Don't undo it. Louisa, please to give the lad
some wine.'

Mr Dombey's glance followed Walter Gay with sharp disfavour, as he
left the room under the pilotage of Mrs Chick; and it may be that his
mind's eye followed him with no greater relish, as he rode back to his
Uncle's with Miss Susan Nipper.

There they found that Florence, much refreshed by sleep, had dined,
and greatly improved the acquaintance of Solomon Gills, with whom she
was on terms of perfect confidence and ease. The black-eyed (who had
cried so much that she might now be called the red-eyed, and who was
very silent and depressed) caught her in her arms without a word of
contradiction or reproach, and made a very hysterical meeting of it.
Then converting the parlour, for the nonce, into a private tiring
room, she dressed her, with great care, in proper clothes; and
presently led her forth, as like a Dombey as her natural
disqualifications admitted of her being made.

'Good-night!' said Florence, running up to Solomon. 'You have been
very good to me.

Old Sol was quite delighted, and kissed her like her grand-father.

'Good-night, Walter! Good-bye!' said Florence.

'Good-bye!' said Walter, giving both his hands.

'I'll never forget you,' pursued Florence. 'No! indeed I never
will. Good-bye, Walter!' In the innocence of her grateful heart, the
child lifted up her face to his. Walter, bending down his own, raised
it again, all red and burning; and looked at Uncle Sol, quite
sheepishly.

'Where's Walter?' 'Good-night, Walter!' 'Good-bye, Walter!' 'Shake
hands once more, Walter!' This was still Florence's cry, after she was
shut up with her little maid, in the coach. And when the coach at
length moved off, Walter on the door-step gaily turned the waving of
her handkerchief, while the wooden Midshipman behind him seemed, like
himself, intent upon that coach alone, excluding all the other passing
coaches from his observation.

In good time Mr Dombey's mansion was gained again, and again there
was a noise of tongues in the library. Again, too, the coach was


ordered to wait - 'for Mrs Richards,' one of Susan's fellow-servants
ominously whispered, as she passed with Florence.

The entrance of the lost child made a slight sensation, but not
much. Mr Dombey, who had never found her, kissed her once upon the
forehead, and cautioned her not to run away again, or wander anywhere
with treacherous attendants. Mrs Chick stopped in her lamentations on
the corruption of human nature, even when beckoned to the paths of
virtue by a Charitable Grinder; and received her with a welcome
something short of the reception due to none but perfect Dombeys. Miss
Tox regulated her feelings by the models before her. Richards, the
culprit Richards, alone poured out her heart in broken words of
welcome, and bowed herself over the little wandering head as if she
really loved it.

'Ah, Richards!' said Mrs Chick, with a sigh. 'It would have been
much more satisfactory to those who wish to think well of their fellow
creatures, and much more becoming in you, if you had shown some proper
feeling, in time, for the little child that is now going to be
prematurely deprived of its natural nourishment.

'Cut off,' said Miss Tox, in a plaintive whisper, 'from one common
fountain!'

'If it was ungrateful case,' said Mrs Chick, solemnly, 'and I had
your reflections, Richards, I should feel as if the Charitable
Grinders' dress would blight my child, and the education choke him.'

For the matter of that - but Mrs Chick didn't know it - he had been
pretty well blighted by the dress already; and as to the education,
even its retributive effect might be produced in time, for it was a
storm of sobs and blows.

'Louisa!' said Mr Dombey. 'It is not necessary to prolong these
observations. The woman is discharged and paid. You leave this house,
Richards, for taking my son - my son,' said Mr Dombey, emphatically
repeating these two words, 'into haunts and into society which are not
to be thought of without a shudder. As to the accident which befel
Miss Florence this morning, I regard that as, in one great sense, a
happy and fortunate circumstance; inasmuch as, but for that
occurrence, I never could have known - and from your own lips too - of
what you had been guilty. I think, Louisa, the other nurse, the young
person,' here Miss Nipper sobbed aloud, 'being so much younger, and
necessarily influenced by Paul's nurse, may remain. Have the goodness
to direct that this woman's coach is paid to' - Mr Dombey stopped and
winced - 'to Staggs's Gardens.'

Polly moved towards the door, with Florence holding to her dress,
and crying to her in the most pathetic manner not to go away. It was a
dagger in the haughty father's heart, an arrow in his brain, to see
how the flesh and blood he could not disown clung to this obscure
stranger, and he sitting by. Not that he cared to whom his daughter
turned, or from whom turned away. The swift sharp agony struck through
him, as he thought of what his son might do.

His son cried lustily that night, at all events. Sooth to say, poor
Paul had better reason for his tears than sons of that age often have,
for he had lost his second mother - his first, so far as he knew - by
a stroke as sudden as that natural affliction which had darkened the
beginning of his life. At the same blow, his sister too, who cried
herself to sleep so mournfully, had lost as good and true a friend.
But that is quite beside the question. Let us waste no words about it.


CHAPTER 7.

A Bird's-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox's Dwelling-place: also
of the State of Miss Tox's Affections

Miss Tox inhabited a dark little house that had been squeezed, at
some remote period of English History, into a fashionable
neighbourhood at the west end of the town, where it stood in the shade
like a poor relation of the great street round the corner, coldly
looked down upon by mighty mansions. It was not exactly in a court,
and it was not exactly in a yard; but it was in the dullest of
No-Thoroughfares, rendered anxious and haggard by distant double
knocks. The name of this retirement, where grass grew between the
chinks in the stone pavement, was Princess's Place; and in Princess's
Place was Princess's Chapel, with a tinkling bell, where sometimes as
many as five-and-twenty people attended service on a Sunday. The
Princess's Arms was also there, and much resorted to by splendid
footmen. A sedan chair was kept inside the railing before the
Princess's Arms, but it had never come out within the memory of man;
and on fine mornings, the top of every rail (there were
eight-and-forty, as Miss Tox had often counted) was decorated with a
pewter-pot.

There was another private house besides Miss Tox's in Princess's
Place: not to mention an immense Pair of gates, with an immense pair
of lion-headed knockers on them, which were never opened by any
chance, and were supposed to constitute a disused entrance to
somebody's stables. Indeed, there was a smack of stabling in the air
of Princess's Place; and Miss Tox's bedroom (which was at the back)
commanded a vista of Mews, where hostlers, at whatever sort of work
engaged, were continually accompanying themselves with effervescent
noises; and where the most domestic and confidential garments of
coachmen and their wives and families, usually hung, like Macbeth's
banners, on the outward walls.'

At this other private house in Princess's Place, tenanted by a
retired butler who had married a housekeeper, apartments were let
Furnished, to a single gentleman: to wit, a wooden-featured,
blue-faced Major, with his eyes starting out of his head, in whom Miss
Tox recognised, as she herself expressed it, 'something so truly
military;' and between whom and herself, an occasional interchange of
newspapers and pamphlets, and such Platonic dalliance, was effected
through the medium of a dark servant of the Major's who Miss Tox was
quite content to classify as a 'native,' without connecting him with
any geographical idea whatever.

Perhaps there never was a smaller entry and staircase, than the
entry and staircase of Miss Tox's house. Perhaps, taken altogether,
from top to bottom, it was the most inconvenient little house in
England, and the crookedest; but then, Miss Tox said, what a
situation! There was very little daylight to be got there in the
winter: no sun at the best of times: air was out of the question, and
traffic was walled out. Still Miss Tox said, think of the situation!
So said the blue-faced Major, whose eyes were starting out of his
head: who gloried in Princess's Place: and who delighted to turn the
conversation at his club, whenever he could, to something connected
with some of the great people in the great street round the corner,
that he might have the satisfaction of saying they were his
neighbours.

In short, with Miss Tox and the blue-faced Major, it was enough for


Princess's Place - as with a very small fragment of society, it is
enough for many a little hanger-on of another sort - to be well
connected, and to have genteel blood in its veins. It might be poor,
mean, shabby, stupid, dull. No matter. The great street round the
corner trailed off into Princess's Place; and that which of High
Holborn would have become a choleric word, spoken of Princess's Place
became flat blasphemy.

The dingy tenement inhabited by Miss Tox was her own; having been
devised and bequeathed to her by the deceased owner of the fishy eye
in the locket, of whom a miniature portrait, with a powdered head and
a pigtail, balanced the kettle-holder on opposite sides of the parlour
fireplace. The greater part of the furniture was of the powdered-head
and pig-tail period: comprising a plate-warmer, always languishing and
sprawling its four attenuated bow legs in somebody's way; and an
obsolete harpsichord, illuminated round the maker's name with a
painted garland of sweet peas. In any part of the house, visitors were
usually cognizant of a prevailing mustiness; and in warm weather Miss
Tox had been seen apparently writing in sundry chinks and crevices of
the wainscoat with the the wrong end of a pen dipped in spirits of
turpentine.

Although Major Bagstock had arrived at what is called in polite
literature, the grand meridian of life, and was proceeding on his
journey downhill with hardly any throat, and a very rigid pair of
jaw-bones, and long-flapped elephantine ears, and his eyes and
complexion in the state of artificial excitement already mentioned, he
was mightily proud of awakening an interest in Miss Tox, and tickled
his vanity with the fiction that she was a splendid woman who had her
eye on him. This he had several times hinted at the club: in connexion
with little jocularities, of which old Joe Bagstock, old Joey
Bagstock, old J. Bagstock, old Josh Bagstock, or so forth, was the
perpetual theme: it being, as it were, the Major's stronghold and
donjon-keep of light humour, to be on the most familiar terms with his
own name.

'Joey B., Sir,'the Major would say, with a flourish of his
walking-stick, 'is worth a dozen of you. If you had a few more of the
Bagstock breed among you, Sir, you'd be none the worse for it. Old
Joe, Sir, needn't look far for a wile even now, if he was on the
look-out; but he's hard-hearted, Sir, is Joe - he's tough, Sir, tough,
and de-vilish sly!' After such a declaration, wheezing sounds would be
heard; and the Major's blue would deepen into purple, while his eyes
strained and started convulsively.

Notwithstanding his very liberal laudation of himself, however, the
Major was selfish. It may be doubted whether there ever was a more
entirely selfish person at heart; or at stomach is perhaps a better
expression, seeing that he was more decidedly endowed with that latter
organ than with the former. He had no idea of being overlooked or
slighted by anybody; least of all, had he the remotest comprehension
of being overlooked and slighted by Miss Tox.

And yet, Miss Tox, as it appeared, forgot him - gradually forgot
him. She began to forget him soon after her discovery of the Toodle
family. She continued to forget him up to the time of the christening.
She went on forgetting him with compound interest after that.
Something or somebody had superseded him as a source of interest.

'Good morning, Ma'am,' said the Major, meeting Miss Tox in
Princess's Place, some weeks after the changes chronicled in the last
chapter.

'Good morning, Sir,' said Miss Tox; very coldly.


'Joe Bagstock, Ma'am,' observed the Major, with his usual
gallantry, 'has not had the happiness of bowing to you at your window,
for a considerable period. Joe has been hardly used, Ma'am. His sun
has been behind a cloud.'


Miss Tox inclined her head; but very coldly indeed.


'Joe's luminary has been out of town, Ma'am, perhaps,' inquired the
Major.


'I? out of town? oh no, I have not been out of town,' said Miss
Tox. 'I have been much engaged lately. My time is nearly all devoted
to some very intimate friends. I am afraid I have none to spare, even
now. Good morning, Sir!'


As Miss Tox, with her most fascinating step and carriage,
disappeared from Princess's Place, the Major stood looking after her
with a bluer face than ever: muttering and growling some not at all
complimentary remarks.


'Why, damme, Sir,' said the Major, rolling his lobster eyes round
and round Princess's Place, and apostrophizing its fragrant air, 'six
months ago, the woman loved the ground Josh Bagstock walked on. What's
the meaning of it?'


The Major decided, after some consideration, that it meant
mantraps; that it meant plotting and snaring; that Miss Tox was
digging pitfalls. 'But you won't catch Joe, Ma'am,' said the Major.
'He's tough, Ma'am, tough, is J.B. Tough, and de-vilish sly!' over
which reflection he chuckled for the rest of the day.


But still, when that day and many other days were gone and past, it
seemed that Miss Tox took no heed whatever of the Major, and thought
nothing at all about him. She had been wont, once upon a time, to look
out at one of her little dark windows by accident, and blushingly
return the Major's greeting; but now, she never gave the Major a
chance, and cared nothing at all whether he looked over the way or
not. Other changes had come to pass too. The Major, standing in the
shade of his own apartment, could make out that an air of greater
smartness had recently come over Miss Tox's house; that a new cage
with gilded wires had been provided for the ancient little canary
bird; that divers ornaments, cut out of coloured card-boards and
paper, seemed to decorate the chimney-piece and tables; that a plant
or two had suddenly sprung up in the windows; that Miss Tox
occasionally practised on the harpsichord, whose garland of sweet peas
was always displayed ostentatiously, crowned with the Copenhagen and
Bird Waltzes in a Music Book of Miss Tox's own copying.


Over and above all this, Miss Tox had long been dressed with
uncommon care and elegance in slight mourning. But this helped the
Major out of his difficulty; and be determined within himself that she
had come into a small legacy, and grown proud.


It was on the very next day after he had eased his mind by arriving
at this decision, that the Major, sitting at his breakfast, saw an
apparition so tremendous and wonderful in Miss Tox's little
drawing-room, that he remained for some time rooted to his chair;
then, rushing into the next room, returned with a double-barrelled
opera-glass, through which he surveyed it intently for some minutes.


'It's a Baby, Sir,' said the Major, shutting up the glass again,
'for fifty thousand pounds!'



The Major couldn't forget it. He could do nothing but whistle, and
stare to that extent, that his eyes, compared with what they now
became, had been in former times quite cavernous and sunken. Day after
day, two, three, four times a week, this Baby reappeared. The Major
continued to stare and whistle. To all other intents and purposes he
was alone in Princess's Place. Miss Tox had ceased to mind what he
did. He might have been black as well as blue, and it would have been
of no consequence to her.

The perseverance with which she walked out of Princess's Place to
fetch this baby and its nurse, and walked back with them, and walked
home with them again, and continually mounted guard over them; and the
perseverance with which she nursed it herself, and fed it, and played
with it, and froze its young blood with airs upon the harpsichord, was
extraordinary. At about this same period too, she was seized with a
passion for looking at a certain bracelet; also with a passion for
looking at the moon, of which she would take long observations from
her chamber window. But whatever she looked at; sun, moon, stars, or
bracelet; she looked no more at the Major. And the Major whistled, and
stared, and wondered, and dodged about his room, and could make
nothing of it.

'You'll quite win my brother Paul's heart, and that's the truth, my
dear,' said Mrs Chick, one day.

Miss Tox turned pale.

'He grows more like Paul every day,' said Mrs Chick.

Miss Tox returned no other reply than by taking the little Paul in
her arms, and making his cockade perfectly flat and limp with her
caresses.

'His mother, my dear,' said Miss Tox, 'whose acquaintance I was to
have made through you, does he at all resemble her?'

'Not at all,' returned Louisa

'She was - she was pretty, I believe?' faltered Miss Tox.

'Why, poor dear Fanny was interesting,' said Mrs Chick, after some
judicial consideration. 'Certainly interesting. She had not that air
of commanding superiority which one would somehow expect, almost as a
matter of course, to find in my brother's wife; nor had she that
strength and vigour of mind which such a man requires.'

Miss Tox heaved a deep sigh.

'But she was pleasing:' said Mrs Chick: 'extremely so. And she
meant! - oh, dear, how well poor Fanny meant!'

'You Angel!' cried Miss Tox to little Paul. 'You Picture of your
own Papa!'

If the Major could have known how many hopes and ventures, what a
multitude of plans and speculations, rested on that baby head; and
could have seen them hovering, in all their heterogeneous confusion
and disorder, round the puckered cap of the unconscious little Paul;
he might have stared indeed. Then would he have recognised, among the
crowd, some few ambitious motes and beams belonging to Miss Tox; then
would he perhaps have understood the nature of that lady's faltering
investment in the Dombey Firm.

If the child himself could have awakened in the night, and seen,


gathered about his cradle-curtains, faint reflections of the dreams
that other people had of him, they might have scared him, with good
reason. But he slumbered on, alike unconscious of the kind intentions
of Miss Tox, the wonder of the Major, the early sorrows of his sister,
and the stern visions of his father; and innocent that any spot of
earth contained a Dombey or a Son.

CHAPTER 8.

Paul's Further Progress, Growth and Character

Beneath the watching and attentive eyes of Time - so far another
Major - Paul's slumbers gradually changed. More and more light broke
in upon them; distincter and distincter dreams disturbed them; an
accumulating crowd of objects and impressions swarmed about his rest;
and so he passed from babyhood to childhood, and became a talking,
walking, wondering Dombey.

On the downfall and banishment of Richards, the nursery may be said
to have been put into commission: as a Public Department is sometimes,
when no individual Atlas can be found to support it The Commissioners
were, of course, Mrs Chick and Miss Tox: who devoted themselves to
their duties with such astonishing ardour that Major Bagstock had
every day some new reminder of his being forsaken, while Mr Chick,
bereft of domestic supervision, cast himself upon the gay world, dined
at clubs and coffee-houses, smelt of smoke on three different
occasions, went to the play by himself, and in short, loosened (as Mrs
Chick once told him) every social bond, and moral obligation.

Yet, in spite of his early promise, all this vigilance and care
could not make little Paul a thriving boy. Naturally delicate,
perhaps, he pined and wasted after the dismissal of his nurse, and,
for a long time, seemed but to wait his opportunity of gliding through
their hands, and seeking his lost mother. This dangerous ground in his
steeple-chase towards manhood passed, he still found it very rough
riding, and was grievously beset by all the obstacles in his course.
Every tooth was a break-neck fence, and every pimple in the measles a
stone wall to him. He was down in every fit of the hooping-cough, and
rolled upon and crushed by a whole field of small diseases, that came
trooping on each other's heels to prevent his getting up again. Some
bird of prey got into his throat instead of the thrush; and the very
chickens turning ferocious - if they have anything to do with that
infant malady to which they lend their name - worried him like
tiger-cats.

The chill of Paul's christening had struck home, perhaps to some
sensitive part of his nature, which could not recover itself in the
cold shade of his father; but he was an unfortunate child from that
day. Mrs Wickam often said she never see a dear so put upon.

Mrs Wickam was a waiter's wife - which would seem equivalent to
being any other man's widow - whose application for an engagement in
Mr Dombey's service had been favourably considered, on account of the
apparent impossibility of her having any followers, or anyone to
follow; and who, from within a day or two of Paul's sharp weaning, had
been engaged as his nurse. Mrs Wickam was a meek woman, of a fair
complexion, with her eyebrows always elevated, and her head always
drooping; who was always ready to pity herself, or to be pitied, or to
pity anybody else; and who had a surprising natural gift of viewing
all subjects in an utterly forlorn and pitiable light, and bringing


dreadful precedents to bear upon them, and deriving the greatest
consolation from the exercise of that talent.

It is hardly necessary to observe, that no touch of this quality
ever reached the magnificent knowledge of Mr Dombey. It would have
been remarkable, indeed, if any had; when no one in the house - not
even Mrs Chick or Miss Tox - dared ever whisper to him that there had,
on any one occasion, been the least reason for uneasiness in reference
to little Paul. He had settled, within himself, that the child must
necessarily pass through a certain routine of minor maladies, and that
the sooner he did so the better. If he could have bought him off, or
provided a substitute, as in the case of an unlucky drawing for the
militia, he would have been glad to do so, on liberal terms. But as
this was not feasible, he merely wondered, in his haughty-manner, now
and then, what Nature meant by it; and comforted himself with the
reflection that there was another milestone passed upon the road, and
that the great end of the journey lay so much the nearer. For the
feeling uppermost in his mind, now and constantly intensifying, and
increasing in it as Paul grew older, was impatience. Impatience for
the time to come, when his visions of their united consequence and
grandeur would be triumphantly realized.

Some philosophers tell us that selfishness is at the root of our
best loves and affections.' Mr Dombey's young child was, from the
beginning, so distinctly important to him as a part of his own
greatness, or (which is the same thing) of the greatness of Dombey and
Son, that there is no doubt his parental affection might have been
easily traced, like many a goodly superstructure of fair fame, to a
very low foundation. But he loved his son with all the love he had. If
there were a warm place in his frosty heart, his son occupied it; if
its very hard surface could receive the impression of any image, the
image of that son was there; though not so much as an infant, or as a
boy, but as a grown man - the 'Son' of the Firm. Therefore he was
impatient to advance into the future, and to hurry over the
intervening passages of his history. Therefore he had little or no
anxiety' about them, in spite of his love; feeling as if the boy had a
charmed life, and must become the man with whom he held such constant
communication in his thoughts, and for whom he planned and projected,
as for an existing reality, every day.

Thus Paul grew to be nearly five years old. He was a pretty little
fellow; though there was something wan and wistful in his small face,
that gave occasion to many significant shakes of Mrs Wickam's head,
and many long-drawn inspirations of Mrs Wickam's breath. His temper
gave abundant promise of being imperious in after-life; and he had as
hopeful an apprehension of his own importance, and the rightful
subservience of all other things and persons to it, as heart could
desire. He was childish and sportive enough at times, and not of a
sullen disposition; but he had a strange, old-fashioned, thoughtful
way, at other times, of sitting brooding in his miniature arm-chair,
when he looked (and talked) like one of those terrible little Beings
in the Fairy tales, who, at a hundred and fifty or two hundred years
of age, fantastically represent the children for whom they have been
substituted. He would frequently be stricken with this precocious mood
upstairs in the nursery; and would sometimes lapse into it suddenly,
exclaiming that he was tired: even while playing with Florence, or
driving Miss Tox in single harness. But at no time did he fall into it
so surely, as when, his little chair being carried down into his
father's room, he sat there with him after dinner, by the fire. They
were the strangest pair at such a time that ever firelight shone upon.
Mr Dombey so erect and solemn, gazing at the blare; his little image,
with an old, old face, peering into the red perspective with the fixed
and rapt attention of a sage. Mr Dombey entertaining complicated
worldly schemes and plans; the little image entertaining Heaven knows


what wild fancies, half-formed thoughts, and wandering speculations.
Mr Dombey stiff with starch and arrogance; the little image by
inheritance, and in unconscious imitation. The two so very much alike,
and yet so monstrously contrasted.

On one of these occasions, when they had both been perfectly quiet
for a long time, and Mr Dombey only knew that the child was awake by
occasionally glancing at his eye, where the bright fire was sparkling
like a jewel, little Paul broke silence thus:

'Papa! what's money?'

The abrupt question had such immediate reference to the subject of
Mr Dombey's thoughts, that Mr Dombey was quite disconcerted.

'What is money, Paul?' he answered. 'Money?'

'Yes,' said the child, laying his hands upon the elbows of his
little chair, and turning the old face up towards Mr Dombey's; 'what
is money?'

Mr Dombey was in a difficulty. He would have liked to give him some
explanation involving the terms circulating-medium, currency,
depreciation of currency', paper, bullion, rates of exchange, value of
precious metals in the market, and so forth; but looking down at the
little chair, and seeing what a long way down it was, he answered:
'Gold, and silver, and copper. Guineas, shillings, half-pence. You
know what they are?'

'Oh yes, I know what they are,' said Paul. 'I don't mean that,
Papa. I mean what's money after all?'

Heaven and Earth, how old his face was as he turned it up again
towards his father's!

'What is money after all!' said Mr Dombey, backing his chair a
little, that he might the better gaze in sheer amazement at the
presumptuous atom that propounded such an inquiry.

'I mean, Papa, what can it do?' returned Paul, folding his arms
(they were hardly long enough to fold), and looking at the fire, and
up at him, and at the fire, and up at him again.

Mr Dombey drew his chair back to its former place, and patted him
on the head. 'You'll know better by-and-by, my man,' he said. 'Money,
Paul, can do anything.' He took hold of the little hand, and beat it
softly against one of his own, as he said so.

But Paul got his hand free as soon as he could; and rubbing it
gently to and fro on the elbow of his chair, as if his wit were in the
palm, and he were sharpening it - and looking at the fire again, as
though the fire had been his adviser and prompter - repeated, after a
short pause:

'Anything, Papa?'

'Yes. Anything - almost,' said Mr Dombey.

'Anything means everything, don't it, Papa?' asked his son: not
observing, or possibly not understanding, the qualification.

'It includes it: yes,' said Mr Dombey.

'Why didn't money save me my Mama?' returned the child. 'It isn't


cruel, is it?'

'Cruel!' said Mr Dombey, settling his neckcloth, and seeming to
resent the idea. 'No. A good thing can't be cruel.'

'If it's a good thing, and can do anything,' said the little
fellow, thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, 'I wonder why it
didn't save me my Mama.'

He didn't ask the question of his father this time. Perhaps he had
seen, with a child's quickness, that it had already made his father
uncomfortable. But he repeated the thought aloud, as if it were quite
an old one to him, and had troubled him very much; and sat with his
chin resting on his hand, still cogitating and looking for an
explanation in the fire.

Mr Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not to say his alarm
(for it was the very first occasion on which the child had ever
broached the subject of his mother to him, though he had had him
sitting by his side, in this same manner, evening after evening),
expounded to him how that money, though a very potent spirit, never to
be disparaged on any account whatever, could not keep people alive
whose time was come to die; and how that we must all die,
unfortunately, even in the City, though we were never so rich. But how
that money caused us to be honoured, feared, respected, courted, and
admired, and made us powerful and glorious in the eyes of all men; and
how that it could, very often, even keep off death, for a long time
together. How, for example, it had secured to his Mama the services of
Mr Pilkins, by which be, Paul, had often profited himself; likewise of
the great Doctor Parker Peps, whom he had never known. And how it
could do all, that could be done. This, with more to the same purpose,
Mr Dombey instilled into the mind of his son, who listened
attentively, and seemed to understand the greater part of what was
said to him.

'It can't make me strong and quite well, either, Papa; can it?'
asked Paul, after a short silence; rubbing his tiny hands.

'Why, you are strong and quite well,' returned Mr Dombey. 'Are you
not?'

Oh! the age of the face that was turned up again, with an
expression, half of melancholy, half of slyness, on it!

'You are as strong and well as such little people usually are? Eh?'
said Mr Dombey.

'Florence is older than I am, but I'm not as strong and well as
Florence, 'I know,' returned the child; 'and I believe that when
Florence was as little as me, she could play a great deal longer at a
time without tiring herself. I am so tired sometimes,' said little
Paul, warming his hands, and looking in between the bars of the grate,
as if some ghostly puppet-show were performing there, 'and my bones
ache so (Wickam says it's my bones), that I don't know what to do.'

'Ay! But that's at night,' said Mr Dombey, drawing his own chair
closer to his son's, and laying his hand gently on his back; 'little
people should be tired at night, for then they sleep well.'

'Oh, it's not at night, Papa,' returned the child, 'it's in the
day; and I lie down in Florence's lap, and she sings to me. At night I
dream about such cu-ri-ous things!'

And he went on, warming his hands again, and thinking about them,


like an old man or a young goblin.

Mr Dombey was so astonished, and so uncomfortable, and so perfectly
at a loss how to pursue the conversation, that he could only sit
looking at his son by the light of the fire, with his hand resting on
his back, as if it were detained there by some magnetic attraction.
Once he advanced his other hand, and turned the contemplative face
towards his own for a moment. But it sought the fire again as soon as
he released it; and remained, addressed towards the flickering blaze,
until the nurse appeared, to summon him to bed.

'I want Florence to come for me,' said Paul.

'Won't you come with your poor Nurse Wickam, Master Paul?' inquired
that attendant, with great pathos.

'No, I won't,' replied Paul, composing himself in his arm-chair
again, like the master of the house.

Invoking a blessing upon his innocence, Mrs Wickam withdrew, and
presently Florence appeared in her stead. The child immediately
started up with sudden readiness and animation, and raised towards his
father in bidding him good-night, a countenance so much brighter, so
much younger, and so much more child-like altogether, that Mr Dombey,
while he felt greatly reassured by the change, was quite amazed at it.

After they had left the room together, he thought he heard a soft
voice singing; and remembering that Paul had said his sister sung to
him, he had the curiosity to open the door and listen, and look after
them. She was toiling up the great, wide, vacant staircase, with him
in her arms; his head was lying on her shoulder, one of his arms
thrown negligently round her neck. So they went, toiling up; she
singing all the way, and Paul sometimes crooning out a feeble
accompaniment. Mr Dombey looked after them until they reached the top
of the staircase - not without halting to rest by the way - and passed
out of his sight; and then he still stood gazing upwards, until the
dull rays of the moon, glimmering in a melancholy manner through the
dim skylight, sent him back to his room.

Mrs Chick and Miss Tox were convoked in council at dinner next day;
and when the cloth was removed, Mr Dombey opened the proceedings by
requiring to be informed, without any gloss or reservation, whether
there was anything the matter with Paul, and what Mr Pilkins said
about him.

'For the child is hardly,' said Mr Dombey, 'as stout as I could
wish.'

'My dear Paul,' returned Mrs Chick, 'with your usual happy
discrimination, which I am weak enough to envy you, every time I am in
your company; and so I think is Miss Tox

'Oh my dear!' said Miss Tox, softly, 'how could it be otherwise?
Presumptuous as it is to aspire to such a level; still, if the bird of
night may - but I'll not trouble Mr Dombey with the sentiment. It
merely relates to the Bulbul.'

Mr Dombey bent his head in stately recognition of the Bulbuls as an
old-established body.

'With your usual happy discrimination, my dear Paul,' resumed Mrs
Chick, 'you have hit the point at once. Our darling is altogether as
stout as we could wish. The fact is, that his mind is too much for
him. His soul is a great deal too large for his frame. I am sure the


way in which that dear child talks!'said Mrs Chick, shaking her head;
'no one would believe. His expressions, Lucretia, only yesterday upon
the subject of Funerals!

'I am afraid,' said Mr Dombey, interrupting her testily, 'that some
of those persons upstairs suggest improper subjects to the child. He
was speaking to me last night about his - about his Bones,' said Mr
Dombey, laying an irritated stress upon the word. 'What on earth has
anybody to do with the - with the - Bones of my son? He is not a
living skeleton, I suppose.

'Very far from it,' said Mrs Chick, with unspeakable expression.

'I hope so,' returned her brother. 'Funerals again! who talks to
the child of funerals? We are not undertakers, or mutes, or
grave-diggers, I believe.'

'Very far from it,' interposed Mrs Chick, with the same profound
expression as before.

'Then who puts such things into his head?' said Mr Dombey. 'Really
I was quite dismayed and shocked last night. Who puts such things into
his head, Louisa?'

'My dear Paul,' said Mrs Chick, after a moment's silence, 'it is of
no use inquiring. I do not think, I will tell you candidly that Wickam
is a person of very cheerful spirit, or what one would call a - '

'A daughter of Momus,' Miss Tox softly suggested.

'Exactly so,' said Mrs Chick; 'but she is exceedingly attentive and
useful, and not at all presumptuous; indeed I never saw a more
biddable woman. I would say that for her, if I was put upon my trial
before a Court of Justice.'

'Well! you are not put upon your trial before a Court of Justice,
at present, Louisa,' returned Mr Dombey, chafing,' and therefore it
don't matter.

'My dear Paul,' said Mrs Chick, in a warning voice, 'I must be
spoken to kindly, or there is an end of me,' at the same time a
premonitory redness developed itself in Mrs Chick's eyelids which was
an invariable sign of rain, unless the weather changed directly.

'I was inquiring, Louisa,' observed Mr Dombey, in an altered voice,
and after a decent interval, 'about Paul's health and actual state.

'If the dear child,' said Mrs Chick, in the tone of one who was
summing up what had been previously quite agreed upon, instead of
saying it all for the first time, 'is a little weakened by that last
attack, and is not in quite such vigorous health as we could wish; and
if he has some temporary weakness in his system, and does occasionally
seem about to lose, for the moment, the use of his - '

Mrs Chick was afraid to say limbs, after Mr Dombey's recent
objection to bones, and therefore waited for a suggestion from Miss
Tox, who, true to her office, hazarded 'members.'

'Members!' repeated Mr Dombey.

'I think the medical gentleman mentioned legs this morning, my dear
Louisa, did he not?' said Miss Tox.

'Why, of course he did, my love,' retorted Mrs Chick, mildly


reproachful. 'How can you ask me? You heard him. I say, if our dear
Paul should lose, for the moment, the use of his legs, these are
casualties common to many children at his time of life, and not to be
prevented by any care or caution. The sooner you understand that,
Paul, and admit that, the better. If you have any doubt as to the
amount of care, and caution, and affection, and self-sacrifice, that
has been bestowed upon little Paul, I should wish to refer the
question to your medical attendant, or to any of your dependants in
this house. Call Towlinson,' said Mrs Chick, 'I believe he has no
prejudice in our favour; quite the contrary. I should wish to hear
what accusation Towlinson can make!'

'Surely you must know, Louisa,' observed Mr Dombey, 'that I don't
question your natural devotion to, and regard for, the future head of
my house.'

'I am glad to hear it, Paul,' said Mrs Chick; 'but really you are
very odd, and sometimes talk very strangely, though without meaning
it, I know. If your dear boy's soul is too much for his body, Paul,
you should remember whose fault that is - who he takes after, I mean and
make the best of it. He's as like his Papa as he can be. People
have noticed it in the streets. The very beadle, I am informed,
observed it, so long ago as at his christening. He's a very
respectable man, with children of his own. He ought to know.'

'Mr Pilkins saw Paul this morning, I believe?' said Mr Dombey.

'Yes, he did,' returned his sister. 'Miss Tox and myself were
present. Miss Tox and myself are always present. We make a point of
it. Mr Pilkins has seen him for some days past, and a very clever man
I believe him to be. He says it is nothing to speak of; which I can
confirm, if that is any consolation; but he recommended, to-day,
sea-air. Very wisely, Paul, I feel convinced.'

'Sea-air,' repeated Mr Dombey, looking at his sister.

'There is nothing to be made uneasy by, in that,'said Mrs Chick.
'My George and Frederick were both ordered sea-air, when they were
about his age; and I have been ordered it myself a great many times. I
quite agree with you, Paul, that perhaps topics may be incautiously
mentioned upstairs before him, which it would be as well for his
little mind not to expatiate upon; but I really don't see how that is
to be helped, in the case of a child of his quickness. If he were a
common child, there would be nothing in it. I must say I think, with
Miss Tox, that a short absence from this house, the air of Brighton,
and the bodily and mental training of so judicious a person as Mrs
Pipchin for instance - '

'Who is Mrs Pipchin, Louisa?' asked Mr Dombey; aghast at this
familiar introduction of a name he had never heard before.

'Mrs Pipchin, my dear Paul,' returned his sister, 'is an elderly
lady - Miss Tox knows her whole history - who has for some time
devoted all the energies of her mind, with the greatest success, to
the study and treatment of infancy, and who has been extremely well
connected. Her husband broke his heart in - how did you say her
husband broke his heart, my dear? I forget the precise circumstances.

'In pumping water out of the Peruvian Mines,' replied Miss Tox.

'Not being a Pumper himself, of course,' said Mrs Chick, glancing
at her brother; and it really did seem necessary to offer the
explanation, for Miss Tox had spoken of him as if he had died at the
handle; 'but having invested money in the speculation, which failed. I


believe that Mrs Pipchin's management of children is quite
astonishing. I have heard it commended in private circles ever since I
was - dear me - how high!' Mrs Chick's eye wandered about the bookcase
near the bust of Mr Pitt, which was about ten feet from the ground.

'Perhaps I should say of Mrs Pipchin, my dear Sir,' observed Miss
Tox, with an ingenuous blush, 'having been so pointedly referred to,
that the encomium which has been passed upon her by your sweet sister
is well merited. Many ladies and gentleman, now grown up to be
interesting members of society, have been indebted to her care. The
humble individual who addresses you was once under her charge. I
believe juvenile nobility itself is no stranger to her establishment.'

'Do I understand that this respectable matron keeps an
establishment, Miss Tox?' the Mr Dombey, condescendingly.

'Why, I really don't know,' rejoined that lady, 'whether I am
justified in calling it so. It is not a Preparatory School by any
means. Should I express my meaning,' said Miss Tox, with peculiar
sweetness,'if I designated it an infantine Boarding-House of a very
select description?'

'On an exceedingly limited and particular scale,' suggested Mrs
Chick, with a glance at her brother.

'Oh! Exclusion itself!' said Miss Tox.

There was something in this. Mrs Pipchin's husband having broken
his heart of the Peruvian mines was good. It had a rich sound.
Besides, Mr Dombey was in a state almost amounting to consternation at
the idea of Paul remaining where he was one hour after his removal had
been recommended by the medical practitioner. It was a stoppage and
delay upon the road the child must traverse, slowly at the best,
before the goal was reached. Their recommendation of Mrs Pipchin had
great weight with him; for he knew that they were jealous of any
interference with their charge, and he never for a moment took it into
account that they might be solicitous to divide a responsibility, of
which he had, as shown just now, his own established views. Broke his
heart of the Peruvian mines, mused Mr Dombey. Well! a very respectable
way of doing It.

'Supposing we should decide, on to-morrow's inquiries, to send Paul
down to Brighton to this lady, who would go with him?' inquired Mr
Dombey, after some reflection.

'I don't think you could send the child anywhere at present without
Florence, my dear Paul,' returned his sister, hesitating. 'It's quite
an infatuation with him. He's very young, you know, and has his
fancies.'

Mr Dombey turned his head away, and going slowly to the bookcase,
and unlocking it, brought back a book to read.

'Anybody else, Louisa?' he said, without looking up, and turning
over the leaves.

'Wickam, of course. Wickam would be quite sufficient, I should
say,' returned his sister. 'Paul being in such hands as Mrs Pipchin's,
you could hardly send anybody who would be a further check upon her.
You would go down yourself once a week at least, of course.'

'Of course,' said Mr Dombey; and sat looking at one page for an
hour afterwards, without reading one word.


This celebrated Mrs Pipchin was a marvellous ill-favoured,
ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure, with a mottled face,
like bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard grey eye, that looked as if
it might have been hammered at on an anvil without sustaining any
injury. Forty years at least had elapsed since the Peruvian mines had
been the death of Mr Pipchin; but his relict still wore black
bombazeen, of such a lustreless, deep, dead, sombre shade, that gas
itself couldn't light her up after dark, and her presence was a
quencher to any number of candles. She was generally spoken of as 'a
great manager' of children; and the secret of her management was, to
give them everything that they didn't like, and nothing that they did

-which was found to sweeten their dispositions very much. She was
such a bitter old lady, that one was tempted to believe there had been
some mistake in the application of the Peruvian machinery, and that
all her waters of gladness and milk of human kindness, had been pumped
out dry, instead of the mines.
The Castle of this ogress and child-queller was in a steep
by-street at Brighton; where the soil was more than usually chalky,
flinty, and sterile, and the houses were more than usually brittle and
thin; where the small front-gardens had the unaccountable property of
producing nothing but marigolds, whatever was sown in them; and where
snails were constantly discovered holding on to the street doors, and
other public places they were not expected to ornament, with the
tenacity of cupping-glasses. In the winter time the air couldn't be
got out of the Castle, and in the summer time it couldn't be got in.
There was such a continual reverberation of wind in it, that it
sounded like a great shell, which the inhabitants were obliged to hold
to their ears night and day, whether they liked it or no. It was not,
naturally, a fresh-smelling house; and in the window of the front
parlour, which was never opened, Mrs Pipchin kept a collection of
plants in pots, which imparted an earthy flavour of their own to the
establishment. However choice examples of their kind, too, these
plants were of a kind peculiarly adapted to the embowerment of Mrs
Pipchin. There were half-a-dozen specimens of the cactus, writhing
round bits of lath, like hairy serpents; another specimen shooting out
broad claws, like a green lobster; several creeping vegetables,
possessed of sticky and adhesive leaves; and one uncomfortable
flower-pot hanging to the ceiling, which appeared to have boiled over,
and tickling people underneath with its long green ends, reminded them
of spiders - in which Mrs Pipchin's dwelling was uncommonly prolific,
though perhaps it challenged competition still more proudly, in the
season, in point of earwigs.

Mrs Pipchin's scale of charges being high, however, to all who
could afford to pay, and Mrs Pipchin very seldom sweetening the
equable acidity of her nature in favour of anybody, she was held to be
an old 'lady of remarkable firmness, who was quite scientific in her
knowledge of the childish character.' On this reputation, and on the
broken heart of Mr Pipchin, she had contrived, taking one year with
another, to eke out a tolerable sufficient living since her husband's
demise. Within three days after Mrs Chick's first allusion to her,
this excellent old lady had the satisfaction of anticipating a
handsome addition to her current receipts, from the pocket of Mr
Dombey; and of receiving Florence and her little brother Paul, as
inmates of the Castle.

Mrs Chick and Miss Tox, who had brought them down on the previous
night (which they all passed at an Hotel), had just driven away from
the door, on their journey home again; and Mrs Pipchin, with her back
to the fire, stood, reviewing the new-comers, like an old soldier. Mrs
Pipchin's middle-aged niece, her good-natured and devoted slave, but
possessing a gaunt and iron-bound aspect, and much afflicted with
boils on her nose, was divesting Master Bitherstone of the clean


collar he had worn on parade. Miss Pankey, the only other little
boarder at present, had that moment been walked off to the Castle
Dungeon (an empty apartment at the back, devoted to correctional
purposes), for having sniffed thrice, in the presence of visitors.

'Well, Sir,' said Mrs Pipchin to Paul, 'how do you think you shall
like me?'

'I don't think I shall like you at all,' replied Paul. 'I want to
go away. This isn't my house.'

'No. It's mine,' retorted Mrs Pipchin.

'It's a very nasty one,' said Paul.

'There's a worse place in it than this though,' said Mrs Pipchin,
'where we shut up our bad boys.'

'Has he ever been in it?' asked Paul: pointing out Master
Bitherstone.

Mrs Pipchin nodded assent; and Paul had enough to do, for the rest
of that day, in surveying Master Bitherstone from head to foot, and
watching all the workings of his countenance, with the interest
attaching to a boy of mysterious and terrible experiences.

At one o'clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the farinaceous and
vegetable kind, when Miss Pankey (a mild little blue-eyed morsel of a
child, who was shampoo'd every morning, and seemed in danger of being
rubbed away, altogether) was led in from captivity by the ogress
herself, and instructed that nobody who sniffed before visitors ever
went to Heaven. When this great truth had been thoroughly impressed
upon her, she was regaled with rice; and subsequently repeated the
form of grace established in the Castle, in which there was a special
clause, thanking Mrs Pipchin for a good dinner. Mrs Pipchin's niece,
Berinthia, took cold pork. Mrs Pipchin, whose constitution required
warm nourishment, made a special repast of mutton-chops, which were
brought in hot and hot, between two plates, and smelt very nice.

As it rained after dinner, and they couldn't go out walking on the
beach, and Mrs Pipchin's constitution required rest after chops, they
went away with Berry (otherwise Berinthia) to the Dungeon; an empty
room looking out upon a chalk wall and a water-butt, and made ghastly
by a ragged fireplace without any stove in it. Enlivened by company,
however, this was the best place after all; for Berry played with them
there, and seemed to enjoy a game at romps as much as they did; until
Mrs Pipchin knocking angrily at the wall, like the Cock Lane Ghost'
revived, they left off, and Berry told them stories in a whisper until
twilight.

For tea there was plenty of milk and water, and bread and butter,
with a little black tea-pot for Mrs Pipchin and Berry, and buttered
toast unlimited for Mrs Pipchin, which was brought in, hot and hot,
like the chops. Though Mrs Pipchin got very greasy, outside, over this
dish, it didn't seem to lubricate her internally, at all; for she was
as fierce as ever, and the hard grey eye knew no softening.

After tea, Berry brought out a little work-box, with the Royal
Pavilion on the lid, and fell to working busily; while Mrs Pipchin,
having put on her spectacles and opened a great volume bound in green
baize, began to nod. And whenever Mrs Pipchin caught herself falling
forward into the fire, and woke up, she filliped Master Bitherstone on
the nose for nodding too.


At last it was the children's bedtime, and after prayers they went
to bed. As little Miss Pankey was afraid of sleeping alone in the
dark, Mrs Pipchin always made a point of driving her upstairs herself,
like a sheep; and it was cheerful to hear Miss Pankey moaning long
afterwards, in the least eligible chamber, and Mrs Pipchin now and
then going in to shake her. At about half-past nine o'clock the odour
of a warm sweet-bread (Mrs Pipchin's constitution wouldn't go to sleep
without sweet-bread) diversified the prevailing fragrance of the
house, which Mrs Wickam said was 'a smell of building;' and slumber
fell upon the Castle shortly after.

The breakfast next morning was like the tea over night, except that
Mrs Pipchin took her roll instead of toast, and seemed a little more
irate when it was over. Master Bitherstone read aloud to the rest a
pedigree from Genesis judiciously selected by Mrs Pipchin), getting
over the names with the ease and clearness of a person tumbling up the
treadmill. That done, Miss Pankey was borne away to be shampoo'd; and
Master Bitherstone to have something else done to him with salt water,
from which he always returned very blue and dejected. Paul and
Florence went out in the meantime on the beach with Wickam - who was
constantly in tears - and at about noon Mrs Pipchin presided over some
Early Readings. It being a part of Mrs Pipchin's system not to
encourage a child's mind to develop and expand itself like a young
flower, but to open it by force like an oyster, the moral of these
lessons was usually of a violent and stunning character: the hero - a
naughty boy - seldom, in the mildest catastrophe, being finished off
anything less than a lion, or a bear.

Such was life at Mrs Pipchin's. On Saturday Mr Dombey came down;
and Florence and Paul would go to his Hotel, and have tea They passed
the whole of Sunday with him, and generally rode out before dinner;
and on these occasions Mr Dombey seemed to grow, like Falstaff's
assailants, and instead of being one man in buckram, to become a
dozen. Sunday evening was the most melancholy evening in the week; for
Mrs Pipchin always made a point of being particularly cross on Sunday
nights. Miss Pankey was generally brought back from an aunt's at
Rottingdean, in deep distress; and Master Bitherstone, whose relatives
were all in India, and who was required to sit, between the services,
in an erect position with his head against the parlour wall, neither
moving hand nor foot, suffered so acutely in his young spirits that he
once asked Florence, on a Sunday night, if she could give him any idea
of the way back to Bengal.

But it was generally said that Mrs Pipchin was a woman of system
with children; and no doubt she was. Certainly the wild ones went home
tame enough, after sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable
roof. It was generally said, too, that it was highly creditable of Mrs
Pipchin to have devoted herself to this way of life, and to have made
such a sacrifice of her feelings, and such a resolute stand against
her troubles, when Mr Pipchin broke his heart in the Peruvian mines.

At this exemplary old lady, Paul would sit staring in his little
arm-chair by the fire, for any length of time. He never seemed to know
what weariness was, when he was looking fixedly at Mrs Pipchin. He was
not fond of her; he was not afraid of her; but in those old, old moods
of his, she seemed to have a grotesque attraction for him. There he
would sit, looking at her, and warming his hands, and looking at her,
until he sometimes quite confounded Mrs Pipchin, Ogress as she was.
Once she asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about.

'You,' said Paul, without the least reserve.

'And what are you thinking about me?' asked Mrs Pipchin.


'I'm thinking how old you must be,' said Paul.

'You mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman,' returned
the dame. 'That'll never do.'

'Why not?' asked Paul.

'Because it's not polite,' said Mrs Pipchin, snappishly.

'Not polite?' said Paul.

'No.'

'It's not polite,' said Paul, innocently, 'to eat all the mutton
chops and toast, Wickam says.

'Wickam,' retorted Mrs Pipchin, colouring, 'is a wicked, impudent,
bold-faced hussy.'

'What's that?' inquired Paul.

'Never you mind, Sir,' retorted Mrs Pipchin. 'Remember the story of
the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking
questions.'

'If the bull was mad,' said Paul, 'how did he know that the boy had
asked questions? Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I
don't believe that story.

'You don't believe it, Sir?' repeated Mrs Pipchin, amazed.

'No,' said Paul.

'Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little
Infidel?' said Mrs Pipchin.

As Paul had not considered the subject in that light, and had
founded his conclusions on the alleged lunacy of the bull, he allowed
himself to be put down for the present. But he sat turning it over in
his mind, with such an obvious intention of fixing Mrs Pipchin
presently, that even that hardy old lady deemed it prudent to retreat
until he should have forgotten the subject.

From that time, Mrs Pipchin appeared to have something of the same
odd kind of attraction towards Paul, as Paul had towards her. She
would make him move his chair to her side of the fire, instead of
sitting opposite; and there he would remain in a nook between Mrs
Pipchin and the fender, with all the light of his little face absorbed
into the black bombazeen drapery, studying every line and wrinkle of
her countenance, and peering at the hard grey eye, until Mrs Pipchin
was sometimes fain to shut it, on pretence of dozing. Mrs Pipchin had
an old black cat, who generally lay coiled upon the centre foot of the
fender, purring egotistically, and winking at the fire until the
contracted pupils of his eyes were like two notes of admiration. The
good old lady might have been - not to record it disrespectfully - a
witch, and Paul and the cat her two familiars, as they all sat by the
fire together. It would have been quite in keeping with the appearance
of the party if they had all sprung up the chimney in a high wind one
night, and never been heard of any more.

This, however, never came to pass. The cat, and Paul, and Mrs
Pipchin, were constantly to be found in their usual places after dark;
and Paul, eschewing the companionship of Master Bitherstone, went on
studying Mrs Pipchin, and the cat, and the fire, night after night, as


if they were a book of necromancy, in three volumes.

Mrs Wickam put her own construction on Paul's eccentricities; and
being confirmed in her low spirits by a perplexed view of chimneys
from the room where she was accustomed to sit, and by the noise of the
wind, and by the general dulness (gashliness was Mrs Wickam's strong
expression) of her present life, deduced the most dismal reflections
from the foregoing premises. It was a part of Mrs Pipchin's policy to
prevent her own 'young hussy' - that was Mrs Pipchin's generic name
for female servant - from communicating with Mrs Wickam: to which end
she devoted much of her time to concealing herself behind doors, and
springing out on that devoted maiden, whenever she made an approach
towards Mrs Wickam's apartment. But Berry was free to hold what
converse she could in that quarter, consistently with the discharge of
the multifarious duties at which she toiled incessantly from morning
to night; and to Berry Mrs Wickam unburdened her mind.

'What a pretty fellow he is when he's asleep!' said Berry, stopping
to look at Paul in bed, one night when she took up Mrs Wickam's
supper.

'Ah!' sighed Mrs Wickam. 'He need be.'

'Why, he's not ugly when he's awake,' observed Berry.

'No, Ma'am. Oh, no. No more was my Uncle's Betsey Jane,' said Mrs
Wickam.

Berry looked as if she would like to trace the connexion of ideas
between Paul Dombey and Mrs Wickam's Uncle's Betsey Jane

'My Uncle's wife,' Mrs Wickam went on to say, 'died just like his
Mama. My Uncle's child took on just as Master Paul do.'

'Took on! You don't think he grieves for his Mama, sure?' argued
Berry, sitting down on the side of the bed. 'He can't remember
anything about her, you know, Mrs Wickam. It's not possible.'

'No, Ma'am,' said Mrs Wickam 'No more did my Uncle's child. But my
Uncle's child said very strange things sometimes, and looked very
strange, and went on very strange, and was very strange altogether. My
Uncle's child made people's blood run cold, some times, she did!'

'How?' asked Berry.

'I wouldn't have sat up all night alone with Betsey Jane!' said Mrs
Wickam, 'not if you'd have put Wickam into business next morning for
himself. I couldn't have done it, Miss Berry.

Miss Berry naturally asked why not? But Mrs Wickam, agreeably to
the usage of some ladies in her condition, pursued her own branch of
the subject, without any compunction.

'Betsey Jane,' said Mrs Wickam, 'was as sweet a child as I could
wish to see. I couldn't wish to see a sweeter. Everything that a child
could have in the way of illnesses, Betsey Jane had come through. The
cramps was as common to her,' said Mrs Wickam, 'as biles is to
yourself, Miss Berry.' Miss Berry involuntarily wrinkled her nose.

'But Betsey Jane,' said Mrs Wickam, lowering her voice, and looking
round the room, and towards Paul in bed, 'had been minded, in her
cradle, by her departed mother. I couldn't say how, nor I couldn't say
when, nor I couldn't say whether the dear child knew it or not, but
Betsey Jane had been watched by her mother, Miss Berry!' and Mrs


Wickam, with a very white face, and with watery eyes, and with a
tremulous voice, again looked fearfully round the room, and towards
Paul in bed.

'Nonsense!' cried Miss Berry - somewhat resentful of the idea.

'You may say nonsense! I ain't offended, Miss. I hope you may be
able to think in your own conscience that it is nonsense; you'll find
your spirits all the better for it in this - you'll excuse my being so
free - in this burying-ground of a place; which is wearing of me down.
Master Paul's a little restless in his sleep. Pat his back, if you
please.'

'Of course you think,' said Berry, gently doing what she was asked,
'that he has been nursed by his mother, too?'

'Betsey Jane,' returned Mrs Wickam in her most solemn tones, 'was
put upon as that child has been put upon, and changed as that child
has changed. I have seen her sit, often and often, think, think,
thinking, like him. I have seen her look, often and often, old, old,
old, like him. I have heard her, many a time, talk just like him. I
consider that child and Betsey Jane on the same footing entirely, Miss
Berry.'

'Is your Uncle's child alive?' asked Berry.

'Yes, Miss, she is alive,' returned Mrs Wickam with an air of
triumph, for it was evident. Miss Berry expected the reverse; 'and is
married to a silver-chaser. Oh yes, Miss, SHE is alive,' said Mrs
Wickam, laying strong stress on her nominative case.

It being clear that somebody was dead, Mrs Pipchin's niece inquired
who it was.

'I wouldn't wish to make you uneasy,' returned Mrs Wickam, pursuing
her supper. Don't ask me.'

This was the surest way of being asked again. Miss Berry repeated
her question, therefore; and after some resistance, and reluctance,
Mrs Wickam laid down her knife, and again glancing round the room and
at Paul in bed, replied:

'She took fancies to people; whimsical fancies, some of them;
others, affections that one might expect to see - only stronger than
common. They all died.'

This was so very unexpected and awful to Mrs Pipchin's niece, that
she sat upright on the hard edge of the bedstead, breathing short, and
surveying her informant with looks of undisguised alarm.

Mrs Wickam shook her left fore-finger stealthily towards the bed
where Florence lay; then turned it upside down, and made several
emphatic points at the floor; immediately below which was the parlour
in which Mrs Pipchin habitually consumed the toast.

'Remember my words, Miss Berry,' said Mrs Wickam, 'and be thankful
that Master Paul is not too fond of you. I am, that he's not too fond
of me, I assure you; though there isn't much to live for - you'll
excuse my being so free - in this jail of a house!'

Miss Berry's emotion might have led to her patting Paul too hard on
the back, or might have produced a cessation of that soothing
monotony, but he turned in his bed just now, and, presently awaking,
sat up in it with his hair hot and wet from the effects of some


childish dream, and asked for Florence.

She was out of her own bed at the first sound of his voice; and
bending over his pillow immediately, sang him to sleep again. Mrs
Wickam shaking her head, and letting fall several tears, pointed out
the little group to Berry, and turned her eyes up to the ceiling.

'He's asleep now, my dear,' said Mrs Wickam after a pause, 'you'd
better go to bed again. Don't you feel cold?'

'No, nurse,' said Florence, laughing. 'Not at all.'

'Ah!' sighed Mrs Wickam, and she shook her head again, expressing
to the watchful Berry, 'we shall be cold enough, some of us, by and
by!'

Berry took the frugal supper-tray, with which Mrs Wickam had by
this time done, and bade her good-night.

'Good-night, Miss!' returned Wickam softly. 'Good-night! Your aunt
is an old lady, Miss Berry, and it's what you must have looked for,
often.'

This consolatory farewell, Mrs Wickam accompanied with a look of
heartfelt anguish; and being left alone with the two children again,
and becoming conscious that the wind was blowing mournfully, she
indulged in melancholy - that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries

-until she was overpowered by slumber.
Although the niece of Mrs Pipchin did not expect to find that
exemplary dragon prostrate on the hearth-rug when she went downstairs,
she was relieved to find her unusually fractious and severe, and with
every present appearance of intending to live a long time to be a
comfort to all who knew her. Nor had she any symptoms of declining, in
the course of the ensuing week, when the constitutional viands still
continued to disappear in regular succession, notwithstanding that
Paul studied her as attentively as ever, and occupied his usual seat
between the black skirts and the fender, with unwavering constancy.

But as Paul himself was no stronger at the expiration of that time
than he had been on his first arrival, though he looked much healthier
in the face, a little carriage was got for him, in which he could lie
at his ease, with an alphabet and other elementary works of reference,
and be wheeled down to the sea-side. Consistent in his odd tastes, the
child set aside a ruddy-faced lad who was proposed as the drawer of
this carriage, and selected, instead, his grandfather - a weazen, old,
crab-faced man, in a suit of battered oilskin, who had got tough and
stringy from long pickling in salt water, and who smelt like a weedy
sea-beach when the tide is out.

With this notable attendant to pull him along, and Florence always
walking by his side, and the despondent Wickam bringing up the rear,
he went down to the margin of the ocean every day; and there he would
sit or lie in his carriage for hours together: never so distressed as
by the company of children - Florence alone excepted, always.

'Go away, if you please,' he would say to any child who came to
bear him company. Thank you, but I don't want you.'

Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him how he was, perhaps.

'I am very well, I thank you,' he would answer. 'But you had better
go and play, if you please.'


Then he would turn his head, and watch the child away, and say to
Florence, 'We don't want any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy.'

He had even a dislike, at such times, to the company of Wickam, and
was well pleased when she strolled away, as she generally did, to pick
up shells and acquaintances. His favourite spot was quite a lonely
one, far away from most loungers; and with Florence sitting by his
side at work, or reading to him, or talking to him, and the wind
blowing on his face, and the water coming up among the wheels of his
bed, he wanted nothing more.

'Floy,' he said one day, 'where's India, where that boy's friends
live?'

'Oh, it's a long, long distance off,' said Florence, raising her
eyes from her work.

'Weeks off?' asked Paul.

'Yes dear. Many weeks' journey, night and day.'

'If you were in India, Floy,' said Paul, after being silent for a
minute, 'I should - what is it that Mama did? I forget.'

'Loved me!' answered Florence.

'No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy? What is it? - Died. in you
were in India, I should die, Floy.'

She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her head down on his
pillow, caressing him. And so would she, she said, if he were there.
He would be better soon.

'Oh! I am a great deal better now!' he answered. 'I don't mean
that. I mean that I should die of being so sorry and so lonely, Floy!'

Another time, in the same place, he fell asleep, and slept quietly
for a long time. Awaking suddenly, he listened, started up, and sat
listening.

Florence asked him what he thought he heard.

'I want to know what it says,' he answered, looking steadily in her
face. 'The sea' Floy, what is it that it keeps on saying?'

She told him that it was only the noise of the rolling waves.

'Yes, yes,' he said. 'But I know that they are always saying
something. Always the same thing. What place is over there?' He rose
up, looking eagerly at the horizon.

She told him that there was another country opposite, but he said
he didn't mean that: he meant further away - farther away!

Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break
off, to try to understand what it was that the waves were always
saying; and would rise up in his couch to look towards that invisible
region, far away.

CHAPTER 9.

In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble


That spice of romance and love of the marvellous, of which there
was a pretty strong infusion in the nature of young Walter Gay, and
which the guardianship of his Uncle, old Solomon Gills, had not very
much weakened by the waters of stern practical experience, was the
occasion of his attaching an uncommon and delightful interest to the
adventure of Florence with Good Mrs Brown. He pampered and cherished
it in his memory, especially that part of it with which he had been
associated: until it became the spoiled child of his fancy, and took
its own way, and did what it liked with it.

The recollection of those incidents, and his own share in them, may
have been made the more captivating, perhaps, by the weekly dreamings
of old Sol and Captain Cuttle on Sundays. Hardly a Sunday passed,
without mysterious references being made by one or other of those
worthy chums to Richard Whittington; and the latter gentleman had even
gone so far as to purchase a ballad of considerable antiquity, that
had long fluttered among many others, chiefly expressive of maritime
sentiments, on a dead wall in the Commercial Road: which poetical
performance set forth the courtship and nuptials of a promising young
coal-whipper with a certain 'lovely Peg,' the accomplished daughter of
the master and part-owner of a Newcastle collier. In this stirring
legend, Captain Cuttle descried a profound metaphysical bearing on the
case of Walter and Florence; and it excited him so much, that on very
festive occasions, as birthdays and a few other non-Dominical
holidays, he would roar through the whole song in the little back
parlour; making an amazing shake on the word Pe-e-eg, with which every
verse concluded, in compliment to the heroine of the piece.

But a frank, free-spirited, open-hearted boy, is not much given to
analysing the nature of his own feelings, however strong their hold
upon him: and Walter would have found it difficult to decide this
point. He had a great affection for the wharf where he had encountered
Florence, and for the streets (albeit not enchanting in themselves) by
which they had come home. The shoes that had so often tumbled off by
the way, he preserved in his own room; and, sitting in the little back
parlour of an evening, he had drawn a whole gallery of fancy portraits
of Good Mrs Brown. It may be that he became a little smarter in his
dress after that memorable occasion; and he certainly liked in his
leisure time to walk towards that quarter of the town where Mr
Dombey's house was situated, on the vague chance of passing little
Florence in the street. But the sentiment of all this was as boyish
and innocent as could be. Florence was very pretty, and it is pleasant
to admire a pretty face. Florence was defenceless and weak, and it was
a proud thought that he had been able to render her any protection and
assistance. Florence was the most grateful little creature in the
world, and it was delightful to see her bright gratitude beaming in
her face. Florence was neglected and coldly looked upon, and his
breast was full of youthful interest for the slighted child in her
dull, stately home.

Thus it came about that, perhaps some half-a-dozen times in the
course of the year, Walter pulled off his hat to Florence in the
street, and Florence would stop to shake hands. Mrs Wickam (who, with
a characteristic alteration of his name, invariably spoke of him as
'Young Graves') was so well used to this, knowing the story of their
acquaintance, that she took no heed of it at all. Miss Nipper, on the
other hand, rather looked out for these occasions: her sensitive young
heart being secretly propitiated by Walter's good looks, and inclining
to the belief that its sentiments were responded to.

In this way, Walter, so far from forgetting or losing sight of his


acquaintance with Florence, only remembered it better and better. As
to its adventurous beginning, and all those little circumstances which
gave it a distinctive character and relish, he took them into account,
more as a pleasant story very agreeable to his imagination, and not to
be dismissed from it, than as a part of any matter of fact with which
he was concerned. They set off Florence very much, to his fancy; but
not himself. Sometimes he thought (and then he walked very fast) what
a grand thing it would have been for him to have been going to sea on
the day after that first meeting, and to have gone, and to have done
wonders there, and to have stopped away a long time, and to have come
back an Admiral of all the colours of the dolphin, or at least a
Post-Captain with epaulettes of insupportable brightness, and have
married Florence (then a beautiful young woman) in spite of Mr
Dombey's teeth, cravat, and watch-chain, and borne her away to the
blue shores of somewhere or other, triumphantly. But these flights of
fancy seldom burnished the brass plate of Dombey and Son's Offices
into a tablet of golden hope, or shed a brilliant lustre on their
dirty skylights; and when the Captain and Uncle Sol talked about
Richard Whittington and masters' daughters, Walter felt that he
understood his true position at Dombey and Son's, much better than
they did.

So it was that he went on doing what he had to do from day to day,
in a cheerful, pains-taking, merry spirit; and saw through the
sanguine complexion of Uncle Sol and Captain Cuttle; and yet
entertained a thousand indistinct and visionary fancies of his own, to
which theirs were work-a-day probabilities. Such was his condition at
the Pipchin period, when he looked a little older than of yore, but
not much; and was the same light-footed, light-hearted, light-headed
lad, as when he charged into the parlour at the head of Uncle Sol and
the imaginary boarders, and lighted him to bring up the Madeira.

'Uncle Sol,' said Walter, 'I don't think you're well. You haven't
eaten any breakfast. I shall bring a doctor to you, if you go on like
this.'

'He can't give me what I want, my boy,' said Uncle Sol. 'At least
he is in good practice if he can - and then he wouldn't.'

'What is it, Uncle? Customers?'

'Ay,' returned Solomon, with a sigh. 'Customers would do.'

'Confound it, Uncle!' said Walter, putting down his breakfast cup
with a clatter, and striking his hand on the table: 'when I see the
people going up and down the street in shoals all day, and passing and
re-passing the shop every minute, by scores, I feel half tempted to
rush out, collar somebody, bring him in, and make him buy fifty
pounds' worth of instruments for ready money. What are you looking in
at the door for? - ' continued Walter, apostrophizing an old gentleman
with a powdered head (inaudibly to him of course), who was staring at
a ship's telescope with all his might and main. 'That's no use. I
could do that. Come in and buy it!'

The old gentleman, however, having satiated his curiosity, walked
calmly away.

'There he goes!' said Walter. 'That's the way with 'em all. But,
Uncle - I say, Uncle Sol' - for the old man was meditating and had not
responded to his first appeal. 'Don't be cast down. Don't be out of
spirits, Uncle. When orders do come, they'll come in such a crowd, you
won't be able to execute 'em.'

'I shall be past executing 'em, whenever they come, my boy,'


returned Solomon Gills. 'They'll never come to this shop again, till I
am out of t.'

'I say, Uncle! You musn't really, you know!' urged Walter. 'Don't!'

Old Sol endeavoured to assume a cheery look, and smiled across the
little table at him as pleasantly as he could.

'There's nothing more than usual the matter; is there, Uncle?' said
Walter, leaning his elbows on the tea tray, and bending over, to speak
the more confidentially and kindly. 'Be open with me, Uncle, if there
is, and tell me all about it.'

'No, no, no,' returned Old Sol. 'More than usual? No, no. What
should there be the matter more than usual?'

Walter answered with an incredulous shake of his head. 'That's what
I want to know,' he said, 'and you ask me! I'll tell you what, Uncle,
when I see you like this, I am quite sorry that I live with you.'

Old Sol opened his eyes involuntarily.

'Yes. Though nobody ever was happier than I am and always have been
with you, I am quite sorry that I live with you, when I see you with
anything in your mind.'

'I am a little dull at such times, I know,' observed Solomon,
meekly rubbing his hands.

'What I mean, Uncle Sol,' pursued Walter, bending over a little
more to pat him on the shoulder, 'is, that then I feel you ought to
have, sitting here and pouring out the tea instead of me, a nice
little dumpling of a wife, you know, - a comfortable, capital, cosy
old lady, who was just a match for you, and knew how to manage you,
and keep you in good heart. Here am I, as loving a nephew as ever was
(I am sure I ought to be!) but I am only a nephew, and I can't be such
a companion to you when you're low and out of sorts as she would have
made herself, years ago, though I'm sure I'd give any money if I could
cheer you up. And so I say, when I see you with anything on your mind,
that I feel quite sorry you haven't got somebody better about you than
a blundering young rough-and-tough boy like me, who has got the will
to console you, Uncle, but hasn't got the way - hasn't got the way,'
repeated Walter, reaching over further yet, to shake his Uncle by the
hand.

'Wally, my dear boy,' said Solomon, 'if the cosy little old lady
had taken her place in this parlour five and forty years ago, I never
could have been fonder of her than I am of you.'

'I know that, Uncle Sol,' returned Walter. 'Lord bless you, I know
that. But you wouldn't have had the whole weight of any uncomfortable
secrets if she had been with you, because she would have known how to
relieve you of 'em, and I don't.'

'Yes, yes, you do,' returned the Instrument-maker.

'Well then, what's the matter, Uncle Sol?' said Walter, coaxingly.
'Come! What's the matter?'

Solomon Gills persisted that there was nothing the matter; and
maintained it so resolutely, that his nephew had no resource but to
make a very indifferent imitation of believing him.

'All I can say is, Uncle Sol, that if there is - '


'But there isn't,' said Solomon.

'Very well,, said Walter. 'Then I've no more to say; and that's
lucky, for my time's up for going to business. I shall look in
by-and-by when I'm out, to see how you get on, Uncle. And mind, Uncle!
I'll never believe you again, and never tell you anything more about
Mr Carker the Junior, if I find out that you have been deceiving me!'

Solomon Gills laughingly defied him to find out anything of the
kind; and Walter, revolving in his thoughts all sorts of impracticable
ways of making fortunes and placing the wooden Midshipman in a
position of independence, betook himself to the offices of Dombey and
Son with a heavier countenance than he usually carried there.

There lived in those days, round the corner - in Bishopsgate Street
Without - one Brogley, sworn broker and appraiser, who kept a shop
where every description of second-hand furniture was exhibited in the
most uncomfortable aspect, and under circumstances and in combinations
the most completely foreign to its purpose. Dozens of chairs hooked on
to washing-stands, which with difficulty poised themselves on the
shoulders of sideboards, which in their turn stood upon the wrong side
of dining-tables, gymnastic with their legs upward on the tops of
other dining-tables, were among its most reasonable arrangements. A
banquet array of dish-covers, wine-glasses, and decanters was
generally to be seen, spread forth upon the bosom of a four-post
bedstead, for the entertainment of such genial company as half-a-dozen
pokers, and a hall lamp. A set of window curtains with no windows
belonging to them, would be seen gracefully draping a barricade of
chests of drawers, loaded with little jars from chemists' shops; while
a homeless hearthrug severed from its natural companion the fireside,
braved the shrewd east wind in its adversity, and trembled in
melancholy accord with the shrill complainings of a cabinet piano,
wasting away, a string a day, and faintly resounding to the noises of
the street in its jangling and distracted brain. Of motionless clocks
that never stirred a finger, and seemed as incapable of being
successfully wound up, as the pecuniary affairs of their former
owners, there was always great choice in Mr Brogley's shop; and
various looking-glasses, accidentally placed at compound interest of
reflection and refraction, presented to the eye an eternal perspective
of bankruptcy and ruin.

Mr Brogley himself was a moist-eyed, pink-complexioned,
crisp-haired man, of a bulky figure and an easy temper - for that
class of Caius Marius who sits upon the ruins of other people's
Carthages, can keep up his spirits well enough. He had looked in at
Solomon's shop sometimes, to ask a question about articles in
Solomon's way of business; and Walter knew him sufficiently to give
him good day when they met in the street. But as that was the extent
of the broker's acquaintance with Solomon Gills also, Walter was not a
little surprised when he came back in the course of the forenoon,
agreeably to his promise, to find Mr Brogley sitting in the back
parlour with his hands in his pockets, and his hat hanging up behind
the door.

'Well, Uncle Sol!' said Walter. The old man was sitting ruefully on
the opposite side of the table, with his spectacles over his eyes, for
a wonder, instead of on his forehead. 'How are you now?'

Solomon shook his head, and waved one hand towards the broker, as
introducing him.

'Is there anything the matter?' asked Walter, with a catching in
his breath.


'No, no. There's nothing the matter, said Mr Brogley. 'Don't let it
put you out of the way.' Walter looked from the broker to his Uncle in
mute amazement. 'The fact is,' said Mr Brogley, 'there's a little
payment on a bond debt - three hundred and seventy odd, overdue: and
I'm in possession.'

'In possession!' cried Walter, looking round at the shop.

'Ah!' said Mr Brogley, in confidential assent, and nodding his head
as if he would urge the advisability of their all being comfortable
together. 'It's an execution. That's what it is. Don't let it put you
out of the way. I come myself, because of keeping it quiet and
sociable. You know me. It's quite private.'

'Uncle Sol!' faltered Walter.

'Wally, my boy,' returned his uncle. 'It's the first time. Such a
calamity never happened to me before. I'm an old man to begin.'
Pushing up his spectacles again (for they were useless any longer to
conceal his emotion), he covered his face with his hand, and sobbed
aloud, and his tears fell down upon his coffee-coloured waistcoat.

'Uncle Sol! Pray! oh don't!' exclaimed Walter, who really felt a
thrill of terror in seeing the old man weep. 'For God's sake don't do
that. Mr Brogley, what shall I do?'

'I should recommend you looking up a friend or so,' said Mr
Brogley, 'and talking it over.'

'To be sure!' cried Walter, catching at anything. 'Certainly!
Thankee. Captain Cuttle's the man, Uncle. Wait till I run to Captain
Cuttle. Keep your eye upon my Uncle, will you, Mr Brogley, and make
him as comfortable as you can while I am gone? Don't despair, Uncle
Sol. Try and keep a good heart, there's a dear fellow!'

Saying this with great fervour, and disregarding the old man's
broken remonstrances, Walter dashed out of the shop again as hard as
he could go; and, having hurried round to the office to excuse himself
on the plea of his Uncle's sudden illness, set off, full speed, for
Captain Cuttle's residence.

Everything seemed altered as he ran along the streets. There were
the usual entanglement and noise of carts, drays, omnibuses, waggons,
and foot passengers, but the misfortune that had fallen on the wooden
Midshipman made it strange and new. Houses and shops were different
from what they used to be, and bore Mr Brogley's warrant on their
fronts in large characters. The broker seemed to have got hold of the
very churches; for their spires rose into the sky with an unwonted
air. Even the sky itself was changed, and had an execution in it
plainly.

Captain Cuttle lived on the brink of a little canal near the India
Docks, where there was a swivel bridge which opened now and then to
let some wandering monster of a ship come roamIng up the street like a
stranded leviathan. The gradual change from land to water, on the
approach to Captain Cuttle's lodgings, was curious. It began with the
erection of flagstaffs, as appurtenances to public-houses; then came
slop-sellers' shops, with Guernsey shirts, sou'wester hats, and canvas
pantaloons, at once the tightest and the loosest of their order,
hanging up outside. These were succeeded by anchor and chain-cable
forges, where sledgehammers were dinging upon iron all day long. Then
came rows of houses, with little vane-surmounted masts uprearing
themselves from among the scarlet beans. Then, ditches. Then, pollard


willows. Then, more ditches. Then, unaccountable patches of dirty
water, hardly to be descried, for the ships that covered them. Then,
the air was perfumed with chips; and all other trades were swallowed
up in mast, oar, and block-making, and boatbuilding. Then, the ground
grew marshy and unsettled. Then, there was nothing to be smelt but rum
and sugar. Then, Captain Cuttle's lodgings - at once a first floor and
a top storey, in Brig Place - were close before you.

The Captain was one of those timber-looking men, suits of oak as
well as hearts, whom it is almost impossible for the liveliest
imagination to separate from any part of their dress, however
insignificant. Accordingly, when Walter knocked at the door, and the
Captain instantly poked his head out of one of his little front
windows, and hailed him, with the hard glared hat already on it, and
the shirt-collar like a sail, and the wide suit of blue, all standing
as usual, Walter was as fully persuaded that he was always in that
state, as if the Captain had been a bird and those had been his
feathers.

'Wal'r, my lad!'said Captain Cuttle. 'Stand by and knock again.
Hard! It's washing day.'

Walter, in his impatience, gave a prodigious thump with the
knocker.

'Hard it is!' said Captain Cuttle, and immediately drew in his
head, as if he expected a squall.

Nor was he mistaken: for a widow lady, with her sleeves rolled up
to her shoulders, and her arms frothy with soap-suds and smoking with
hot water, replied to the summons with startling rapidity. Before she
looked at Walter she looked at the knocker, and then, measuring him
with her eyes from head to foot, said she wondered he had left any of
it.

'Captain Cuttle's at home, I know,' said Walter with a conciliatory
smile.

'Is he?' replied the widow lady. 'In-deed!'

'He has just been speaking to me,' said Walter, in breathless
explanation.

'Has he?' replied the widow lady. 'Then p'raps you'll give him Mrs
MacStinger's respects, and say that the next time he lowers himself
and his lodgings by talking out of the winder she'll thank him to come
down and open the door too.' Mrs MacStinger spoke loud, and listened
for any observations that might be offered from the first floor.

'I'll mention it,' said Walter, 'if you'll have the goodness to let
me in, Ma'am.'

For he was repelled by a wooden fortification extending across the
doorway, and put there to prevent the little MacStingers in their
moments of recreation from tumbling down the steps.

'A boy that can knock my door down,' said Mrs MacStinger,
contemptuously, 'can get over that, I should hope!' But Walter, taking
this as a permission to enter, and getting over it, Mrs MacStinger
immediately demanded whether an Englishwoman's house was her castle or
not; and whether she was to be broke in upon by 'raff.' On these
subjects her thirst for information was still very importunate, when
Walter, having made his way up the little staircase through an
artificial fog occasioned by the washing, which covered the banisters


with a clammy perspiration, entered Captain Cuttle's room, and found
that gentleman in ambush behind the door.

'Never owed her a penny, Wal'r,' said Captain Cuttle, in a low
voice, and with visible marks of trepidation on his countenance. 'Done
her a world of good turns, and the children too. Vixen at times,
though. Whew!'

'I should go away, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter.

'Dursn't do it, Wal'r,' returned the Captain. 'She'd find me out,
wherever I went. Sit down. How's Gills?'

The Captain was dining (in his hat) off cold loin of mutton,
porter, and some smoking hot potatoes, which he had cooked himself,
and took out of a little saucepan before the fire as he wanted them.
He unscrewed his hook at dinner-time, and screwed a knife into its
wooden socket instead, with which he had already begun to peel one of
these potatoes for Walter. His rooms were very small, and strongly
impregnated with tobacco-smoke, but snug enough: everything being
stowed away, as if there were an earthquake regularly every half-hour.

'How's Gills?' inquired the Captain.

Walter, who had by this time recovered his breath, and lost his
spirits - or such temporary spirits as his rapid journey had given him

-looked at his questioner for a moment, said 'Oh, Captain Cuttle!'
and burst into tears.
No words can describe the Captain's consternation at this sight Mrs
MacStinger faded into nothing before it. He dropped the potato and the
fork - and would have dropped the knife too if he could - and sat
gazing at the boy, as if he expected to hear next moment that a gulf
had opened in the City, which had swallowed up his old friend,
coffee-coloured suit, buttons, chronometer, spectacles, and all.


But when Walter told him what was really the matter, Captain
Cuttle, after a moment's reflection, started up into full activity. He
emptied out of a little tin canister on the top shelf of the cupboard,
his whole stock of ready money (amounting to thirteen pounds and
half-a-crown), which he transferred to one of the pockets of his
square blue coat; further enriched that repository with the contents
of his plate chest, consisting of two withered atomies of tea-spoons,
and an obsolete pair of knock-knee'd sugar-tongs; pulled up his
immense double-cased silver watch from the depths in which it reposed,
to assure himself that that valuable was sound and whole; re-attached
the hook to his right wrist; and seizing the stick covered over with
knobs, bade Walter come along.


Remembering, however, in the midst of his virtuous excitement, that
Mrs MacStinger might be lying in wait below, Captain Cuttle hesitated
at last, not without glancing at the window, as if he had some
thoughts of escaping by that unusual means of egress, rather than
encounter his terrible enemy. He decided, however, in favour of
stratagem.


'Wal'r,' said the Captain, with a timid wink, 'go afore, my lad.
Sing out, good-byeCaptain Cuttle when you're in the passage, and
shut the door. Then wait at the corner of the street 'till you see me.


These directions were not issued without a previous knowledge of
the enemy's tactics, for when Walter got downstairs, Mrs MacStinger
glided out of the little back kitchen, like an avenging spirit. But
not gliding out upon the Captain, as she had expected, she merely made



a further allusion to the knocker, and glided in again.

Some five minutes elapsed before Captain Cuttle could summon
courage to attempt his escape; for Walter waited so long at the street
corner, looking back at the house, before there were any symptoms of
the hard glazed hat. At length the Captain burst out of the door with
the suddenness of an explosion, and coming towards him at a great
pace, and never once looking over his shoulder, pretended, as soon as
they were well out of the street, to whistle a tune.

'Uncle much hove down, Wal'r?' inquired the Captain, as they were
walking along.

'I am afraid so. If you had seen him this morning, you would never
have forgotten it.'

'Walk fast, Wal'r, my lad,' returned the Captain, mending his pace;
'and walk the same all the days of your life. Overhaul the catechism
for that advice, and keep it!'

The Captain was too busy with his own thoughts of Solomon Gills,
mingled perhaps with some reflections on his late escape from Mrs
MacStinger, to offer any further quotations on the way for Walter's
moral improvement They interchanged no other word until they arrived
at old Sol's door, where the unfortunate wooden Midshipman, with his
instrument at his eye, seemed to be surveying the whole horizon in
search of some friend to help him out of his difficulty.

'Gills!' said the Captain, hurrying into the back parlour, and
taking him by the hand quite tenderly. 'Lay your head well to the
wind, and we'll fight through it. All you've got to do,' said the
Captain, with the solemnity of a man who was delivering himself of one
of the most precious practical tenets ever discovered by human wisdom,
'is to lay your head well to the wind, and we'll fight through it!'

Old Sol returned the pressure of his hand, and thanked him.

Captain Cuttle, then, with a gravity suitable to the nature of the
occasion, put down upon the table the two tea-spoons and the
sugar-tongs, the silver watch, and the ready money; and asked Mr
Brogley, the broker, what the damage was.

'Come! What do you make of it?' said Captain Cuttle.

'Why, Lord help you!' returned the broker; 'you don't suppose that
property's of any use, do you?'

'Why not?' inquired the Captain.

'Why? The amount's three hundred and seventy, odd,' replied the
broker.

'Never mind,' returned the Captain, though he was evidently
dismayed by the figures: 'all's fish that comes to your net, I
suppose?'

'Certainly,' said Mr Brogley. 'But sprats ain't whales, you know.'

The philosophy of this observation seemed to strike the Captain. He
ruminated for a minute; eyeing the broker, meanwhile, as a deep
genius; and then called the Instrument-maker aside.

'Gills,' said Captain Cuttle, 'what's the bearings of this
business? Who's the creditor?'


'Hush!' returned the old man. 'Come away. Don't speak before Wally.
It's a matter of security for Wally's father - an old bond. I've paid
a good deal of it, Ned, but the times are so bad with me that I can't
do more just now. I've foreseen it, but I couldn't help it. Not a word
before Wally, for all the world.'

'You've got some money, haven't you?' whispered the Captain.

'Yes, yes - oh yes- I've got some,' returned old Sol, first putting
his hands into his empty pockets, and then squeezing his Welsh wig
between them, as if he thought he might wring some gold out of it;
'but I - the little I have got, isn't convertible, Ned; it can't be
got at. I have been trying to do something with it for Wally, and I'm
old fashioned, and behind the time. It's here and there, and - and, in
short, it's as good as nowhere,' said the old man, looking in
bewilderment about him.

He had so much the air of a half-witted person who had been hiding
his money in a variety of places, and had forgotten where, that the
Captain followed his eyes, not without a faint hope that he might
remember some few hundred pounds concealed up the chimney, or down in
the cellar. But Solomon Gills knew better than that.

'I'm behind the time altogether, my dear Ned,' said Sol, in
resigned despair, 'a long way. It's no use my lagging on so far behind
it. The stock had better be sold - it's worth more than this debt and
I had better go and die somewhere, on the balance. I haven't any
energy left. I don't understand things. This had better be the end of
it. Let 'em sell the stock and take him down,' said the old man,
pointing feebly to the wooden Midshipman, 'and let us both be broken
up together.'

'And what d'ye mean to do with Wal'r?'said the Captain. 'There,
there! Sit ye down, Gills, sit ye down, and let me think o' this. If I
warn't a man on a small annuity, that was large enough till to-day, I
hadn't need to think of it. But you only lay your head well to the
wind,' said the Captain, again administering that unanswerable piece
of consolation, 'and you're all right!'

Old Sol thanked him from his heart, and went and laid it against
the back parlour fire-place instead.

Captain Cuttle walked up and down the shop for some time,
cogitating profoundly, and bringing his bushy black eyebrows to bear
so heavily on his nose, like clouds setting on a mountain, that Walter
was afraid to offer any interruption to the current of his
reflections. Mr Brogley, who was averse to being any constraint upon
the party, and who had an ingenious cast of mind, went, softly
whistling, among the stock; rattling weather-glasses, shaking
compasses as if they were physic, catching up keys with loadstones,
looking through telescopes, endeavouring to make himself acquainted
with the use of the globes, setting parallel rulers astride on to his
nose, and amusing himself with other philosophical transactions.

'Wal'r!' said the Captain at last. 'I've got it.'

'Have you, Captain Cuttle?' cried Walter, with great animation.

'Come this way, my lad,' said the Captain. 'The stock's the
security. I'm another. Your governor's the man to advance money.'

'Mr Dombey!' faltered Walter.


The Captain nodded gravely. 'Look at him,' he said. 'Look at Gills.
If they was to sell off these things now, he'd die of it. You know he
would. We mustn't leave a stone unturned - and there's a stone for
you.'

'A stone! - Mr Dombey!' faltered Walter.

'You run round to the office, first of all, and see if he's there,'
said Captain Cuttle, clapping him on the back. 'Quick!'

Walter felt he must not dispute the command - a glance at his Uncle
would have determined him if he had felt otherwise - and disappeared
to execute it. He soon returned, out of breath, to say that Mr Dombey
was not there. It was Saturday, and he had gone to Brighton.

'I tell you what, Wal'r!' said the Captain, who seemed to have
prepared himself for this contingency in his absence. 'We'll go to
Brighton. I'll back you, my boy. I'll back you, Wal'r. We'll go to
Brighton by the afternoon's coach.'

If the application must be made to Mr Dombey at all, which was
awful to think of, Walter felt that he would rather prefer it alone
and unassisted, than backed by the personal influence of Captain
Cuttle, to which he hardly thought Mr Dombey would attach much weight.
But as the Captain appeared to be of quite another opinion, and was
bent upon it, and as his friendship was too zealous and serious to be
trifled with by one so much younger than himself, he forbore to hint
the least objection. Cuttle, therefore, taking a hurried leave of
Solomon Gills, and returning the ready money, the teaspoons, the
sugar-tongs, and the silver watch, to his pocket - with a view, as
Walter thought, with horror, to making a gorgeous impression on Mr
Dombey - bore him off to the coach-office, with- out a minute's delay,
and repeatedly assured him, on the road, that he would stick by him to
the last.

CHAPTER 10.

Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman's Disaster

Major Bagstock, after long and frequent observation of Paul, across
Princess's Place, through his double-barrelled opera-glass; and after
receiving many minute reports, daily, weekly, and monthly, on that
subject, from the native who kept himself in constant communication
with Miss Tox's maid for that purpose; came to the conclusion that
Dombey, Sir, was a man to be known, and that J. B. was the boy to make
his acquaintance.

Miss Tox, however, maintaining her reserved behaviour, and frigidly
declining to understand the Major whenever he called (which he often
did) on any little fishing excursion connected with this project, the
Major, in spite of his constitutional toughness and slyness, was fain
to leave the accomplishment of his desire in some measure to chance,
'which,' as he was used to observe with chuckles at his club, 'has
been fifty to one in favour of Joey B., Sir, ever since his elder
brother died of Yellow Jack in the West Indies.'

It was some time coming to his aid in the present instance, but it
befriended him at last. When the dark servant, with full particulars,
reported Miss Tox absent on Brighton service, the Major was suddenly
touched with affectionate reminiscences of his friend Bill Bitherstone


of Bengal, who had written to ask him, if he ever went that way, to
bestow a call upon his only son. But when the same dark servant
reported Paul at Mrs Pipchin's, and the Major, referring to the letter
favoured by Master Bitherstone on his arrival in England - to which he
had never had the least idea of paying any attention - saw the opening
that presented itself, he was made so rabid by the gout, with which he
happened to be then laid up, that he threw a footstool at the dark
servant in return for his intelligence, and swore he would be the
death of the rascal before he had done with him: which the dark
servant was more than half disposed to believe.

At length the Major being released from his fit, went one Saturday
growling down to Brighton, with the native behind him; apostrophizing
Miss Tox all the way, and gloating over the prospect of carrying by
storm the distinguished friend to whom she attached so much mystery,
and for whom she had deserted him,

'Would you, Ma'am, would you!' said the Major, straining with
vindictiveness, and swelling every already swollen vein in his head.
'Would you give Joey B. the go-by, Ma'am? Not yet, Ma'am, not yet!
Damme, not yet, Sir. Joe is awake, Ma'am. Bagstock is alive, Sir. J.

B. knows a move or two, Ma'am. Josh has his weather-eye open, Sir.
You'll find him tough, Ma'am. Tough, Sir, tough is Joseph. Tough, and
de-vilish sly!'
And very tough indeed Master Bitherstone found him, when he took
that young gentleman out for a walk. But the Major, with his
complexion like a Stilton cheese, and his eyes like a prawn's, went
roving about, perfectly indifferent to Master Bitherstone's amusement,
and dragging Master Bitherstone along, while he looked about him high
and low, for Mr Dombey and his children.


In good time the Major, previously instructed by Mrs Pipchin, spied
out Paul and Florence, and bore down upon them; there being a stately
gentleman (Mr Dombey, doubtless) in their company. Charging with
Master Bitherstone into the very heart of the little squadron, it fell
out, of course, that Master Bitherstone spoke to his fellow-sufferers.
Upon that the Major stopped to notice and admire them; remembered with
amazement that he had seen and spoken to them at his friend Miss Tox's
in Princess's Place; opined that Paul was a devilish fine fellow, and
his own little friend; inquired if he remembered Joey B. the Major;
and finally, with a sudden recollection of the conventionalities of
life, turned and apologised to Mr Dombey.


'But my little friend here, Sir,' said the Major, 'makes a boy of
me again: An old soldier, Sir - Major Bagstock, at your service - is
not ashamed to confess it.' Here the Major lifted his hat. 'Damme,
Sir,' cried the Major with sudden warmth, 'I envy you.' Then he
recollected himself, and added, 'Excuse my freedom.'


Mr Dombey begged he wouldn't mention it.


'An old campaigner, Sir,' said the Major, 'a smoke-dried,
sun-burnt, used-up, invalided old dog of a Major, Sir, was not afraid
of being condemned for his whim by a man like Mr Dombey. I have the
honour of addressing Mr Dombey, I believe?'


'I am the present unworthy representative of that name, Major,'
returned Mr Dombey.


'By G-, Sir!' said the Major, 'it's a great name. It's a name,
Sir,' said the Major firmly, as if he defied Mr Dombey to contradict
him, and would feel it his painful duty to bully him if he did, 'that
is known and honoured in the British possessions abroad. It is a name,



Sir, that a man is proud to recognise. There is nothing adulatory in
Joseph Bagstock, Sir. His Royal Highness the Duke of York observed on
more than one occasion, there is no adulation in Joey. He is a plain
old soldier is Joe. He is tough to a fault is Joseph:" but it's a
great nameSir. By the Lordit's a great name!' said the Major
solemnly.

'You are good enough to rate it higher than it deservesperhaps
Major' returned Mr Dombey.

'NoSir' said the Majorin a severe tone. NoMr Dombeylet us
understand each other. That is not the Bagstock veinSir. You don't
know Joseph B. He is a blunt old blade is Josh. No flattery in him
Sir. Nothing like it.'

Mr Dombey inclined his headand said he believed him to be in
earnestand that his high opinion was gratifying.

'My little friend hereSir' croaked the Majorlooking as amiably
as he couldon Paul'will certify for Joseph Bagstock that he is a
thorough-goingdown-rightplain-spokenold TrumpSirand nothing
more. That boySir' said the Major in a lower tone'will live in
history. That boySiris not a common production. Take care of him
Mr Dombey.'

Mr Dombey seemed to intimate that he would endeavour to do so.

'Here is a boy hereSir' pursued the Majorconfidentiallyand
giving him a thrust with his cane. 'Son of Bitherstone of Bengal. Bill
Bitherstone formerly of ours. That boy's father and myselfSirwere
sworn friends. Wherever you wentSiryou heard of nothing but Bill
Bitherstone and Joe Bagstock. Am I blind to that boy's defects? By no
means. He's a foolSir.'

Mr Dombey glanced at the libelled Master Bitherstoneof whom he
knew at least as much as the Major didand saidin quite a
complacent manner'Really?'

'That is what he issir' said the Major. 'He's a fool. Joe
Bagstock never minces matters. The son of my old friend Bill
Bitherstoneof Bengalis a born foolSir.' Here the Major laughed
till he was almost black. 'My little friend is destined for a public
school' I' presumeMr Dombey?' said the Major when he had recovered.

'I am not quite decided' returned Mr Dombey. 'I think not. He is
delicate.'

'If he's delicateSir' said the Major'you are right. None but
the tough fellows could live through itSirat Sandhurst. We put
each other to the torture thereSir. We roasted the new fellows at a
slow fireand hung 'em out of a three pair of stairs windowwith
their heads downwards. Joseph BagstockSirwas held out of the
window by the heels of his bootsfor thirteen minutes by the college
clock'

The Major might have appealed to his countenance in corroboration
of this story. It certainly looked as if he had hung out a little too
long.

'But it made us what we wereSir' said the Majorsettling his
shirt frill. 'We were ironSirand it forged us. Are you remaining
hereMr Dombey?'

'I generally come down once a weekMajor' returned that


gentleman. 'I stay at the Bedford.'

'I shall have the honour of calling at the BedfordSirif you'll
permit me' said the Major. 'Joey B.Siris not in general a calling
manbut Mr Dombey's is not a common name. I am much indebted to my
little friendSirfor the honour of this introduction.'

Mr Dombey made a very gracious reply; and Major Bagstockhaving
patted Paul on the headand said of Florence that her eyes would play
the Devil with the youngsters before long - 'and the oldsters too
Sirif you come to that' added the Majorchuckling very much stirred
up Master Bitherstone with his walking-stickand departed
with that young gentlemanat a kind of half-trot; rolling his head
and coughing with great dignityas he staggered awaywith his legs
very wide asunder.

In fulfilment of his promisethe Major afterwards called on Mr
Dombey; and Mr Dombeyhaving referred to the army listafterwards
called on the Major. Then the Major called at Mr Dombey's house in
town; and came down againin the same coach as Mr Dombey. In short
Mr Dombey and the Major got on uncommonly well togetherand
uncommonly fast: and Mr Dombey observed of the Majorto his sister
that besides being quite a military man he was really something more
as he had a very admirable idea of the importance of things
unconnected with his own profession.

At length Mr Dombeybringing down Miss Tox and Mrs Chick to see
the childrenand finding the Major again at Brightoninvited him to
dinner at the Bedfordand complimented Miss Tox highlybeforehand
on her neighbour and acquaintance.

'My dearest Louisa' said Miss Tox to Mrs Chickwhen they were
alone togetheron the morning of the appointed day'if I should seem
at all reserved to Major Bagstockor under any constraint with him
promise me not to notice it.'

'My dear Lucretia' returned Mrs Chick'what mystery is involved
in this remarkable request? I must insist upon knowing.'

'Since you are resolved to extort a confession from meLouisa'
said Miss Tox instantly'I have no alternative but to confide to you
that the Major has been particular.'

'Particular!' repeated Mrs Chick.

'The Major has long been very particular indeedmy lovein his
attentions' said Miss Tox'occasionally they have been so very
markedthat my position has been one of no common difficulty.'

'Is he in good circumstances?' inquired Mrs Chick.

'I have every reason to believemy dear - indeed I may say I
know' returned Miss Tox'that he is wealthy. He is truly military
and full of anecdote. I have been informed that his valourwhen he
was in active serviceknew no bounds. I am told that he did all sorts
of things in the Peninsulawith every description of fire-arm; and in
the East and West Indiesmy loveI really couldn't undertake to say
what he did not do.'

'Very creditable to him indeed' said Mrs Chick'extremely so; and
you have given him no encouragementmy dear?'

'If I were to sayLouisa' replied Miss Toxwith every
demonstration of making an effort that rent her soul'that I never


encouraged Major Bagstock slightlyI should not do justice to the
friendship which exists between you and me. It isperhapshardly in
the nature of woman to receive such attentions as the Major once
lavished upon myself without betraying some sense of obligation. But
that is past - long past. Between the Major and me there is now a
yawning chasmand I will not feign to give encouragementLouisa
where I cannot give my heart. My affections' said Miss Tox - 'but
Louisathis is madness!' and departed from the room.

All this Mrs Chick communicated to her brother before dinner: and
it by no means indisposed Mr Dombey to receive the Major with unwonted
cordiality. The Majorfor his partwas in a state of plethoric
satisfaction that knew no bounds: and he coughedand chokedand
chuckledand gaspedand swelleduntil the waiters seemed positively
afraid of him.

'Your family monopolises Joe's lightSir' said the Majorwhen he
had saluted Miss Tox. 'Joe lives in darkness. Princess's Place is
changed into Kamschatka in the winter time. There is no ray of sun
Sirfor Joey B.now.'

'Miss Tox is good enough to take a great deal of interest in Paul
Major' returned Mr Dombey on behalf of that blushing virgin.

'Damme Sir' said the Major'I'm jealous of my little friend. I'm
pining away Sir. The Bagstock breed is degenerating in the forsaken
person of old Joe.' And the Majorbecoming bluer and bluer and
puffing his cheeks further and further over the stiff ridge of his
tight cravatstared at Miss Toxuntil his eyes seemed as if he were
at that moment being overdone before the slow fire at the military
college.

Notwithstanding the palpitation of the heart which these allusions
occasioned herthey were anything but disagreeable to Miss Toxas
they enabled her to be extremely interestingand to manifest an
occasional incoherence and distraction which she was not at all
unwilling to display. The Major gave her abundant opportunities of
exhibiting this emotion: being profuse in his complaintsat dinner
of her desertion of him and Princess's Place: and as he appeared to
derive great enjoyment from making themthey all got on very well.

None the worse on account of the Major taking charge of the whole
conversationand showing as great an appetite in that respect as in
regard of the various dainties on the tableamong which he may be
almost said to have wallowed: greatly to the aggravation of his
inflammatory tendencies. Mr Dombey's habitual silence and reserve
yielding readily to this usurpationthe Major felt that he was coming
out and shining: and in the flow of spirits thus engenderedrang such
an infinite number of new changes on his own name that he quite
astonished himself. In a wordthey were all very well pleased. The
Major was considered to possess an inexhaustible fund of conversation;
and when he took a late farewellafter a long rubberMr Dombey again
complimented the blushing Miss Tox on her neighbour and acquaintance.

But all the way home to his own hotelthe Major incessantly said
to himselfand of himself'SlySir - slySir - de-vil-ish sly!'
And when he got theresat down in a chairand fell into a silent fit
of laughterwith which he was sometimes seizedand which was always
particularly awful. It held him so long on this occasion that the dark
servantwho stood watching him at a distancebut dared not for his
life approachtwice or thrice gave him over for lost. His whole form
but especially his face and headdilated beyond all former
experience; and presented to the dark man's viewnothing but a
heaving mass of indigo. At length he burst into a violent paroxysm of


coughingand when that was a little better burst into such
ejaculations as the following:

'Would youMa'amwould you? Mrs DombeyehMa'am? I think not
Ma'am. Not while Joe B. can put a spoke in your wheelMa'am. J. B.'s
even with you nowMa'am. He isn't altogether bowled outyetSir
isn't Bagstock. She's deepSirdeepbut Josh is deeper. Wide awake
is old Joe - broad awakeand staringSir!' There was no doubt of
this last assertion being trueand to a very fearful extent; as it
continued to be during the greater part of that nightwhich the Major
chiefly passed in similar exclamationsdiversified with fits of
coughing and choking that startled the whole house.

It was on the day after this occasion (being Sunday) whenas Mr
DombeyMrs Chickand Miss Tox were sitting at breakfaststill
eulogising the MajorFlorence came running in: her face suffused with
a bright colourand her eyes sparkling joyfully: and cried

'Papa! Papa! Here's Walter! and he won't come in.'

'Who?' cried Mr Dombey. 'What does she mean? What is this?'

'WalterPapa!' said Florence timidly; sensible of having
approached the presence with too much familiarity. 'Who found me when
I was lost.'

'Does she mean young GayLouisa?' inquired Mr Dombeyknitting his
brows. 'Reallythis child's manners have become very boisterous. She
cannot mean young GayI think. See what it iswill you?'

Mrs Chick hurried into the passageand returned with the
information that it was young Gayaccompanied by a very
strange-looking person; and that young Gay said he would not take the
liberty of coming inhearing Mr Dombey was at breakfastbut would
wait until Mr Dombey should signify that he might approach.

'Tell the boy to come in now' said Mr Dombey. 'NowGaywhat is
the matter? Who sent you down here? Was there nobody else to come?'

'I beg your pardonSir' returned Walter. 'I have not been sent. I
have been so bold as to come on my own accountwhich I hope you'll
pardon when I mention the cause.

But Mr Dombeywithout attending to what he saidwas looking
impatiently on either side of him (as if he were a pillar in his way)
at some object behind.

'What's that?' said Mr Dombey. 'Who is that? I think you have made
some mistake in the doorSir.'

'OhI'm very sorry to intrude with anyoneSir' cried Walter
hastily: 'but this is - this is Captain CuttleSir.'

'Wal'rmy lad' observed the Captain in a deep voice: 'stand by!'

At the same time the Captaincoming a little further inbrought
out his wide suit of bluehis conspicuous shirt-collarand his
knobby nose in full reliefand stood bowing to Mr Dombeyand waving
his hook politely to the ladieswith the hard glazed hat in his one
handand a red equator round his head which it had newly imprinted
there.

Mr Dombey regarded this phenomenon with amazement and indignation
and seemed by his looks to appeal to Mrs Chick and Miss Tox against


it. Little Paulwho had come in after Florencebacked towards Miss
Tox as the Captain waved his bookand stood on the defensive.

'NowGay' said Mr Dombey. 'What have you got to say to me?'

Again the Captain observedas a general opening of the
conversation that could not fail to propitiate all parties'Wal'r
standby!'

'I am afraidSir' began Waltertremblingand looking down at
the ground'that I take a very great liberty in coming - indeedI am
sure I do. I should hardly have had the courage to ask to see you
Sireven after coming downI am afraidif I had not overtaken Miss
Dombeyand - '

'Well!' said Mr Dombeyfollowing his eyes as he glanced at the
attentive Florenceand frowning unconsciously as she encouraged him
with a smile. 'Go onif you please.'

'Ayay' observed the Captainconsidering it incumbent on himas
a point of good breedingto support Mr Dombey. 'Well said! Go on
Wal'r.'

Captain Cuttle ought to have been withered by the look which Mr
Dombey bestowed upon him in acknowledgment of his patronage. But quite
innocent of thishe closed one eye in replyand gave Mr Dombey to
understandby certain significant motions of his hookthat Walter
was a little bashful at firstand might be expected to come out
shortly.

'It is entirely a private and personal matterthat has brought me
hereSir' continued Walterfaltering'and Captain Cuttle

'Here!' interposed the Captainas an assurance that he was at
handand might be relied upon.

'Who is a very old friend of my poor Uncle'sand a most excellent
manSir' pursued Walterraising his eyes with a look of entreaty in
the Captain's behalf'was so good as to offer to come with mewhich
I could hardly refuse.'

'Nonono;' observed the Captain complacently. 'Of course not. No
call for refusing. Go onWal'r.'

'And thereforeSir' said Walterventuring to meet Mr Dombey's
eyeand proceeding with better courage in the very desperation of the
casenow that there was no avoiding it'therefore I have comewith
himSirto say that my poor old Uncle is in very great affliction
and distress. Thatthrough the gradual loss of his businessand not
being able to make a paymentthe apprehension of which has weighed
very heavily upon his mindmonths and monthsas indeed I knowSir
he has an execution in his houseand is in danger of losing all he
hasand breaking his heart. And that if you wouldin your kindness
and in your old knowledge of him as a respectable mando anything to
help him out of his difficultySirwe never could thank you enough
for it.'

Walter's eyes filled with tears as he spoke; and so did those of
Florence. Her father saw them glisteningthough he appeared to look
at Walter only.

'It is a very large sumSir' said Walter. 'More than three
hundred pounds. My Uncle is quite beaten down by his misfortuneit
lies so heavy on him; and is quite unable to do anything for his own


relief. He doesn't even know yetthat I have come to speak to you.
You would wish me to saySir' added Walterafter a moment's
hesitation'exactly what it is I want. I really don't knowSir.
There is my Uncle's stockon which I believe I may sayconfidently
there are no other demandsand there is Captain Cuttlewho would
wish to be security too. I - I hardly like to mention' said Walter
'such earnings as mine; but if you would allow them - accumulate payment
- advance - Uncle - frugalhonourableold man.' Walter
trailed offthrough these broken sentencesinto silence: and stood
with downcast headbefore his employer.

Considering this a favourable moment for the display of the
valuablesCaptain Cuttle advanced to the table; and clearing a space
among the breakfast-cups at Mr Dombey's elbowproduced the silver
watchthe ready moneythe teaspoonsand the sugar-tongs; and piling
them up into a heap that they might look as precious as possible
delivered himself of these words:

'Half a loaf's better than no breadand the same remark holds good
with crumbs. There's a few. Annuity of one hundred pound premium also
ready to be made over. If there is a man chock full of science in the
worldit's old Sol Gills. If there is a lad of promise - one
flowing' added the Captainin one of his happy quotations'with
milk and honey - it's his nevy!'

The Captain then withdrew to his former placewhere he stood
arranging his scattered locks with the air of a man who had given the
finishing touch to a difficult performance.

When Walter ceased to speakMr Dombey's eyes were attracted to
little Paulwhoseeing his sister hanging down her head and silently
weeping in her commiseration for the distress she had heard described
went over to herand tried to comfort her: looking at Walter and his
father as he did sowith a very expressive face. After the momentary
distraction of Captain Cuttle's addresswhich he regarded with lofty
indifferenceMr Dombey again turned his eyes upon his sonand sat
steadily regarding the childfor some momentsin silence.

'What was this debt contracted for?' asked Mr Dombeyat length.
'Who is the creditor?'

'He don't know' replied the Captainputting his hand on Walter's
shoulder. 'I do. It came of helping a man that's dead nowand that's
cost my friend Gills many a hundred pound already. More particulars in
privateif agreeable.'

'People who have enough to do to hold their own way' said Mr
Dombeyunobservant of the Captain's mysterious signs behind Walter
and still looking at his son'had better be content with their own
obligations and difficultiesand not increase them by engaging for
other men. It is an act of dishonesty and presumptiontoo' said Mr
Dombeysternly; 'great presumption; for the wealthy could do no more.
Paulcome here!'

The child obeyed: and Mr Dombey took him on his knee.

'If you had money now - ' said Mr Dombey. 'Look at me!'

Paulwhose eyes had wandered to his sisterand to Walterlooked
his father in the face.

'If you had money now' said Mr Dombey; 'as much money as young Gay
has talked about; what would you do?'


'Give it to his old Uncle' returned Paul.


'Lend it to his old Uncleeh?' retorted Mr Dombey. 'Well! When you
are old enoughyou knowyou will share my moneyand we shall use it
together.'


'Dombey and Son' interrupted Paulwho had been tutored early in
the phrase.


'Dombey and Son' repeated his father. 'Would you like to begin to
be Dombey and Sonnowand lend this money to young Gay's Uncle?'


'Oh! if you pleasePapa!' said Paul: 'and so would Florence.'


'Girls' said Mr Dombey'have nothing to do with Dombey and Son.
Would you like it?'


'YesPapayes!'


'Then you shall do it' returned his father. 'And you seePaul'
he addeddropping his voice'how powerful money isand how anxious
people are to get it. Young Gay comes all this way to beg for money
and youwho are so grand and greathaving got itare going to let
him have itas a great favour and obligation.'


Paul turned up the old face for a momentin which there was a
sharp understanding of the reference conveyed in these words: but it
was a young and childish face immediately afterwardswhen he slipped
down from his father's kneeand ran to tell Florence not to cry any
morefor he was going to let young Gay have the money.


Mr Dombey then turned to a side-tableand wrote a note and sealed
it. During the intervalPaul and Florence whispered to Walterand
Captain Cuttle beamed on the threewith such aspiring and ineffably
presumptuous thoughts as Mr Dombey never could have believed in. The
note being finishedMr Dombey turned round to his former placeand
held it out to Walter.


'Give that' he said'the first thing to-morrow morningto Mr
Carker. He will immediately take care that one of my people releases
your Uncle from his present positionby paying the amount at issue;
and that such arrangements are made for its repayment as may be
consistent with your Uncle's circumstances. You will consider that
this is done for you by Master Paul.'


Walterin the emotion of holding in his hand the means of
releasing his good Uncle from his troublewould have endeavoured to
express something of his gratitude and joy. But Mr Dombey stopped him
short.


'You will consider that it is done' he repeated'by Master Paul.
I have explained that to himand he understands it. I wish no more to
be said.'


As he motioned towards the doorWalter could only bow his head and
retire. Miss Toxseeing that the Captain appeared about to do the
sameinterposed.


'My dear Sir' she saidaddressing Mr Dombeyat whose munificence
both she and Mrs Chick were shedding tears copiously; 'I think you
have overlooked something. Pardon meMr DombeyI thinkin the
nobility of your characterand its exalted scopeyou have omitted a
matter of detail.'



'IndeedMiss Tox!' said Mr Dombey.

'The gentleman with the - Instrument' pursued Miss Toxglancing
at Captain Cuttle'has left upon the tableat your elbow - '

'Good Heaven!' said Mr Dombeysweeping the Captain's property from
himas if it were so much crumb indeed. 'Take these things away. I am
obliged to youMiss Tox; it is like your usual discretion. Have the
goodness to take these things awaySir!'

Captain Cuttle felt he had no alternative but to comply. But he was
so much struck by the magnanimity of Mr Dombeyin refusing treasures
lying heaped up to his handthat when he had deposited the teaspoons
and sugar-tongs in one pocketand the ready money in anotherand had
lowered the great watch down slowly into its proper vaulthe could
not refrain from seizing that gentleman's right hand in his own
solitary leftand while he held it open with his powerful fingers
bringing the hook down upon its palm in a transport of admiration. At
this touch of warm feeling and cold ironMr Dombey shivered all over.

Captain Cuttle then kissed his hook to the ladies several times
with great elegance and gallantry; and having taken a particular leave
of Paul and Florenceaccompanied Walter out of the room. Florence was
running after them in the earnestness of her heartto send some
message to old Solwhen Mr Dombey called her backand bade her stay
where she was.

'Will you never be a Dombeymy dear child!' said Mrs Chickwith
pathetic reproachfulness.

'Dear aunt' said Florence. 'Don't be angry with me. I am so
thankful to Papa!'

She would have run and thrown her arms about his neck if she had
dared; but as she did not dareshe glanced with thankful eyes towards
himas he sat musing; sometimes bestowing an uneasy glance on her
butfor the most partwatching Paulwho walked about the room with
the new-blown dignity of having let young Gay have the money.

And young Gay - Walter- what of him?

He was overjoyed to purge the old man's hearth from bailiffs and
brokersand to hurry back to his Uncle with the good tidings. He was
overjoyed to have it all arranged and settled next day before noon;
and to sit down at evening in the little back parlour with old Sol and
Captain Cuttle; and to see the Instrument-maker already revivingand
hopeful for the futureand feeling that the wooden Midshipman was his
own again. But without the least impeachment of his gratitude to Mr
Dombeyit must be confessed that Walter was humbled and cast down. It
is when our budding hopes are nipped beyond recovery by some rough
windthat we are the most disposed to picture to ourselves what
flowers they might have borneif they had flourished; and nowwhen
Walter found himself cut off from that great Dombey heightby the
depth of a new and terrible tumbleand felt that all his old wild
fancies had been scattered to the winds in the fallhe began to
suspect that they might have led him on to harmless visions of
aspiring to Florence in the remote distance of time.

The Captain viewed the subject in quite a different light. He
appeared to entertain a belief that the interview at which he had
assisted was so very satisfactory and encouragingas to be only a
step or two removed from a regular betrothal of Florence to Walter;
and that the late transaction had immensely forwardedif not
thoroughly establishedthe Whittingtonian hopes. Stimulated by this


convictionand by the improvement in the spirits of his old friend
and by his own consequent gaietyhe even attemptedin favouring them
with the ballad of 'Lovely Peg' for the third time in one eveningto
make an extemporaneous substitution of the name 'Florence;' but
finding this difficulton account of the word Peg invariably rhyming
to leg (in which personal beauty the original was described as having
excelled all competitors)he hit upon the happy thought of changing
it to Fle-e-eg; which he accordingly didwith an archness almost
supernaturaland a voice quite vociferousnotwithstanding that the
time was close at band when he must seek the abode of the dreadful Mrs
MacStinger.

That same evening the Major was diffuse at his clubon the subject
of his friend Dombey in the City. 'DammeSir' said the Major'he's
a princeis my friend Dombey in the City. I tell you whatSir. If
you had a few more men among you like old Joe Bagstock and my friend
Dombey in the CitySiryou'd do!'

CHAPTER 11.

Paul's Introduction to a New Scene

Mrs Pipchin's constitution was made of such hard metalin spite of
its liability to the fleshly weaknesses of standing in need of repose
after chopsand of requiring to be coaxed to sleep by the soporific
agency of sweet-breadsthat it utterly set at naught the predictions
of Mrs Wickamand showed no symptoms of decline. Yetas Paul's rapt
interest in the old lady continued unbatedMrs Wickam would not budge
an inch from the position she had taken up. Fortifying and entrenching
herself on the strong ground of her Uncle's Betsey Janeshe advised
Miss Berryas a friendto prepare herself for the worst; and
forewarned her that her aunt mightat any timebe expected to go off
suddenlylike a powder-mill.

'I hopeMiss Berry' Mrs Wickam would observe'that you'll come
into whatever little property there may be to leave. You deserve itI
am surefor yours is a trying life. Though there don't seem much
worth coming into - you'll excuse my being so open - in this dismal
den.'

Poor Berry took it all in good partand drudged and slaved away as
usual; perfectly convinced that Mrs Pipchin was one of the most
meritorious persons in the worldand making every day innumerable
sacrifices of herself upon the altar of that noble old woman. But all
these immolations of Berry were somehow carried to the credit of Mrs
Pipchin by Mrs Pipchin's friends and admirers; and were made to
harmonise withand carry outthat melancholy fact of the deceased Mr
Pipchin having broken his heart in the Peruvian mines.

For examplethere was an honest grocer and general dealer in the
retail line of businessbetween whom and Mrs Pipchin there was a
small memorandum bookwith a greasy red coverperpetually in
questionand concerning which divers secret councils and conferences
were continually being held between the parties to that registeron
the mat in the passageand with closed doors in the parlour. Nor were
there wanting dark hints from Master Bitherstone (whose temper had
been made revengeful by the solar heats of India acting on his blood)
of balances unsettledand of a failureon one occasion within his
memoryin the supply of moist sugar at tea-time. This grocer being a
bachelor and not a man who looked upon the surface for beautyhad


once made honourable offers for the hand of Berrywhich Mrs Pipchin
hadwith contumely and scornrejected. Everybody said how laudable
this was in Mrs Pipchinrelict of a man who had died of the Peruvian
mines; and what a staunchhighindependent spirit the old lady had.
But nobody said anything about poor Berrywho cried for six weeks
(being soundly rated by her good aunt all the time)and lapsed into a
state of hopeless spinsterhood.

'Berry's very fond of youain't she?' Paul once asked Mrs Pipchin
when they were sitting by the fire with the cat.

'Yes' said Mrs Pipchin.

'Why?' asked Paul.

'Why!' returned the disconcerted old lady. 'How can you ask such
thingsSir! why are you fond of your sister Florence?'

'Because she's very good' said Paul. 'There's nobody like
Florence.'

'Well!' retorted Mrs Pipchinshortly'and there's nobody like me
I suppose.'

'Ain't there really though?' asked Paulleaning forward in his
chairand looking at her very hard.

'No' said the old lady.

'I am glad of that' observed Paulrubbing his hands thoughtfully.
'That's a very good thing.'

Mrs Pipchin didn't dare to ask him whylest she should receive
some perfectly annihilating answer. But as a compensation to her
wounded feelingsshe harassed Master Bitherstone to that extent until
bed-timethat he began that very night to make arrangements for an
overland return to Indiaby secreting from his supper a quarter of a
round of bread and a fragment of moist Dutch cheeseas the beginning
of a stock of provision to support him on the voyage.

Mrs Pipchin had kept watch and ward over little Paul and his sister
for nearly twelve months. They had been home twicebut only for a few
days; and had been constant in their weekly visits to Mr Dombey at the
hotel. By little and little Paul had grown strongerand had become
able to dispense with his carriage; though he still looked thin and
delicate; and still remained the same oldquietdreamy child that he
had been when first consigned to Mrs Pipchin's care. One Saturday
afternoonat duskgreat consternation was occasioned in the Castle
by the unlooked-for announcement of Mr Dombey as a visitor to Mrs
Pipchin. The population of the parlour was immediately swept upstairs
as on the wings of a whirlwindand after much slamming of bedroom
doorsand trampling overheadand some knocking about of Master
Bitherstone by Mrs Pipchinas a relief to the perturbation of her
spiritsthe black bombazeen garments of the worthy old lady darkened
the audience-chamber where Mr Dombey was contemplating the vacant
arm-chair of his son and heir.

'Mrs Pipchin' said Mr Dombey'How do you do?'

'Thank youSir' said Mrs Pipchin'I am pretty well
considering.'

Mrs Pipchin always used that form of words. It meantconsidering
her virtuessacrificesand so forth.


'I can't expectSirto be very well' said Mrs Pipchintaking a
chair and fetching her breath; 'but such health as I haveI am
grateful for.'

Mr Dombey inclined his head with the satisfied air of a patronwho
felt that this was the sort of thing for which he paid so much a
quarter. After a moment's silence he went on to say:

'Mrs PipchinI have taken the liberty of callingto consult you
in reference to my son. I have had it in my mind to do so for some
time past; but have deferred it from time to timein order that his
health might be thoroughly re-established. You have no misgivings on
that subjectMrs Pipchin?'

'Brighton has proved very beneficialSir' returned Mrs Pipchin.
'Very beneficialindeed.'

'I purpose' said Mr Dombey'his remaining at Brighton.'

Mrs Pipchin rubbed her handsand bent her grey eyes on the fire.

'But' pursued Mr Dombeystretching out his forefinger'but
possibly that he should now make a changeand lead a different kind
of life here. In shortMrs Pipchinthat is the object of my visit.
My son is getting onMrs Pipchin. Reallyhe is getting on.'

There was something melancholy in the triumphant air with which Mr
Dombey said this. It showed how long Paul's childish life had been to
himand how his hopes were set upon a later stage of his existence.
Pity may appear a strange word to connect with anyone so haughty and
so coldand yet he seemed a worthy subject for it at that moment.

'Six years old!' said Mr Dombeysettling his neckcloth - perhaps
to hide an irrepressible smile that rather seemed to strike upon the
surface of his face and glance awayas finding no resting-placethan
to play there for an instant. 'Dear mesix will be changed to
sixteenbefore we have time to look about us.'

'Ten years' croaked the unsympathetic Pipchinwith a frosty
glistening of her hard grey eyeand a dreary shaking of her bent
head'is a long time.'

'It depends on circumstancesreturned Mr Dombey; 'at all events
Mrs Pipchinmy son is six years oldand there is no doubtI fear
that in his studies he is behind many children of his age - or his
youth' said Mr Dombeyquickly answering what he mistrusted was a
shrewd twinkle of the frosty eye'his youth is a more appropriate
expression. NowMrs Pipchininstead of being behind his peersmy
son ought to be before them; far before them. There is an eminence
ready for him to mount upon. There is nothing of chance or doubt in
the course before my son. His way in life was clear and preparedand
marked out before he existed. The education of such a young gentleman
must not be delayed. It must not be left imperfect. It must be very
steadily and seriously undertakenMrs Pipchin.'

'WellSir' said Mrs Pipchin'I can say nothing to the contrary.'

'I was quite sureMrs Pipchin' returned Mr Dombeyapprovingly
'that a person of your good sense could notand would not.'

'There is a great deal of nonsense - and worse - talked about young
people not being pressed too hard at firstand being tempted onand
all the rest of itSir' said Mrs Pipchinimpatiently rubbing her


hooked nose. 'It never was thought of in my timeand it has no
business to be thought of now. My opinion is "keep 'em at it".'

'My good madam' returned Mr Dombey'you have not acquired your
reputation undeservedly; and I beg you to believeMrs Pipchinthat I
am more than satisfied with your excellent system of managementand
shall have the greatest pleasure in commending it whenever my poor
commendation - ' Mr Dombey's loftiness when he affected to disparage
his own importancepassed all bounds - 'can be of any service. I have
been thinking of Doctor Blimber'sMrs Pipchin.'

'My neighbourSir?' said Mrs Pipchin. 'I believe the Doctor's is
an excellent establishment. I've heard that it's very strictly
conductedand there is nothing but learning going on from morning to
night.'

'And it's very expensive' added Mr Dombey.

'And it's very expensiveSir' returned Mrs Pipchincatching at
the factas if in omitting thatshe had omitted one of its leading
merits.

'I have had some communication with the DoctorMrs Pipchin' said
Mr Dombeyhitching his chair anxiously a little nearer to the fire
'and he does not consider Paul at all too young for his purpose. He
mentioned several instances of boys in Greek at about the same age. If
I have any little uneasiness in my own mindMrs Pipchinon the
subject of this changeit is not on that head. My son not having
known a mother has gradually concentrated much - too much - of his
childish affection on his sister. Whether their separation - ' Mr
Dombey said no morebut sat silent.

'Hoity-toity!' exclaimed Mrs Pipchinshaking out her black
bombazeen skirtsand plucking up all the ogress within her. 'If she
don't like itMr Dombeyshe must be taught to lump it.' The good
lady apologised immediately afterwards for using so common a figure of
speechbut said (and truly) that that was the way she reasoned with
'em.

Mr Dombey waited until Mrs Pipchin had done bridling and shaking
her headand frowning down a legion of Bitherstones and Pankeys; and
then said quietlybut correctively'Hemy good madamhe.'

Mrs Pipchin's system would have applied very much the same mode of
cure to any uneasiness on the part of Paultoo; but as the hard grey
eye was sharp enough to see that the recipehowever Mr Dombey might
admit its efficacy in the case of the daughterwas not a sovereign
remedy for the sonshe argued the point; and contended that change
and new societyand the different form of life he would lead at
Doctor Blimber'sand the studies he would have to masterwould very
soon prove sufficient alienations. As this chimed in with Mr Dombey's
own hope and beliefit gave that gentleman a still higher opinion of
Mrs Pipchin's understanding; and as Mrs Pipchinat the same time
bewailed the loss of her dear little friend (which was not an
overwhelming shock to heras she had long expected itand had not
lookedin the beginningfor his remaining with her longer than three
months)he formed an equally good opinion of Mrs Pipchin's
disinterestedness. It was plain that he had given the subject anxious
considerationfor he had formed a planwhich he announced to the
ogressof sending Paul to the Doctor's as a weekly boarder for the
first half yearduring which time Florence would remain at the
Castlethat she might receive her brother thereon Saturdays. This
would wean him by degreesMr Dombey said; possibly with a
recollection of his not having been weaned by degrees on a former


occasion.

Mr Dombey finished the interview by expressing his hope that Mrs
Pipchin would still remain in office as general superintendent and
overseer of his sonpending his studies at Brighton; and having
kissed Pauland shaken hands with Florenceand beheld Master
Bitherstone in his collar of stateand made Miss Pankey cry by
patting her on the head (in which region she was uncommonly tenderon
account of a habit Mrs Pipchin had of sounding it with her knuckles
like a cask)he withdrew to his hotel and dinner: resolved that Paul
now that he was getting so old and wellshould begin a vigorous
course of education forthwithto qualify him for the position in
which he was to shine; and that Doctor Blimber should take him in hand
immediately.

Whenever a young gentleman was taken in hand by Doctor Blimberhe
might consider himself sure of a pretty tight squeeze. The Doctor only
undertook the charge of ten young gentlemenbut he hadalways ready
a supply of learning for a hundredon the lowest estimate; and it was
at once the business and delight of his life to gorge the unhappy ten
with it.

In factDoctor Blimber's establishment was a great hot-housein
which there was a forcing apparatus incessantly at work. All the boys
blew before their time. Mental green-peas were produced at Christmas
and intellectual asparagus all the year round. Mathematical
gooseberries (very sour ones too) were common at untimely seasonsand
from mere sprouts of bushesunder Doctor Blimber's cultivation. Every
description of Greek and Latin vegetable was got off the driest twigs
of boysunder the frostiest circumstances. Nature was of no
consequence at all. No matter what a young gentleman was intended to
bearDoctor Blimber made him bear to patternsomehow or other.

This was all very pleasant and ingeniousbut the system of forcing
was attended with its usual disadvantages. There was not the right
taste about the premature productionsand they didn't keep well.
Moreoverone young gentlemanwith a swollen nose and an excessively
large head (the oldest of the ten who had 'gone through' everything)
suddenly left off blowing one dayand remained in the establishment a
mere stalk. And people did say that the Doctor had rather overdone it
with young Tootsand that when he began to have whiskers he left off
having brains.

There young Toots wasat any rate; possessed of the gruffest of
voices and the shrillest of minds; sticking ornamental pins into his
shirtand keeping a ring in his waistcoat pocket to put on his little
finger by stealthwhen the pupils went out walking; constantly
falling in love by sight with nurserymaidswho had no idea of his
existence; and looking at the gas-lighted world over the little iron
bars in the left-hand corner window of the front three pairs of
stairsafter bed-timelike a greatly overgrown cherub who had sat up
aloft much too long.

The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of blackwith strings
at his kneesand stockings below them. He had a bald headhighly
polished; a deep voice; and a chin so very doublethat it was a
wonder how he ever managed to shave into the creases. He had likewise
a pair of little eyes that were always half shut upand a mouth that
was always half expanded into a grinas if he hadthat momentposed
a boyand were waiting to convict him from his own lips. Insomuch
that when the Doctor put his right hand into the breast of his coat
and with his other hand behind himand a scarcely perceptible wag of his
headmade the commonest observation to a nervous strangerit was
like a sentiment from the sphynxand settled his business.


The Doctor's was a mighty fine housefronting the sea. Not a
joyful style of house withinbut quite the contrary. Sad-coloured
curtainswhose proportions were spare and leanhid themselves
despondently behind the windows. The tables and chairs were put away
in rowslike figures in a sum; fires were so rarely lighted in the
rooms of ceremonythat they felt like wellsand a visitor
represented the bucket; the dining-room seemed the last place in the
world where any eating or drinking was likely to occur; there was no
sound through all the house but the ticking of a great clock in the
hallwhich made itself audible in the very garrets; and sometimes a
dull cooing of young gentlemen at their lessonslike the murmurings
of an assemblage of melancholy pigeons.

Miss Blimbertooalthough a slim and graceful maiddid no soft
violence to the gravity of the house. There was no light nonsense
about Miss Blimber. She kept her hair short and crispand wore
spectacles. She was dry and sandy with working in the graves of
deceased languages. None of your live languages for Miss Blimber. They
must be dead - stone dead - and then Miss Blimber dug them up like a
Ghoul.

Mrs Blimberher Mamawas not learned herselfbut she pretended
to beand that did quite as well. She said at evening partiesthat
if she could have known Ciceroshe thought she could have died
contented. It was the steady joy of her life to see the Doctor's young
gentlemen go out walkingunlike all other young gentlemenin the
largest possible shirt-collarsand the stiffest possible cravats. It
was so classicalshe said.

As to Mr FeederB.A.Doctor Blimber's assistanthe was a kind of
human barrel-organwith a little list of tunes at which he was
continually workingover and over againwithout any variation. He
might have been fitted up with a change of barrelsperhapsin early
lifeif his destiny had been favourable; but it had not been; and he
had only onewith whichin a monotonous roundit was his occupation
to bewilder the young ideas of Doctor Blimber's young gentlemen. The
young gentlemen were prematurely full of carking anxieties. They knew
no rest from the pursuit of stony-hearted verbssavage
noun-substantivesinflexible syntactic passagesand ghosts of
exercises that appeared to them in their dreams. Under the forcing
systema young gentleman usually took leave of his spirits in three
weeks. He had all the cares of the world on his head in three months.
He conceived bitter sentiments against his parents or guardians in
four; he was an old misanthropein five; envied Curtius that blessed
refuge in the earthin six; and at the end of the first twelvemonth
had arrived at the conclusionfrom which he never afterwards
departedthat all the fancies of the poetsand lessons of the sages
were a mere collection of words and grammarand had no other meaning
in the world.

But he went on blowblowblowingin the Doctor's hothouseall
the time; and the Doctor's glory and reputation were greatwhen he
took his wintry growth home to his relations and friends.

Upon the Doctor's door-steps one dayPaul stood with a fluttering
heartand with his small right hand in his father's. His other hand
was locked in that of Florence. How tight the tiny pressure of that
one; and how loose and cold the other!

Mrs Pipchin hovered behind the victimwith her sable plumage and
her hooked beaklike a bird of ill-omen. She was out of breath - for
Mr Dombeyfull of great thoughtshad walked fast - and she croaked
hoarsely as she waited for the opening of the door.


'NowPaul' said Mr Dombeyexultingly. 'This is the way indeed to
be Dombey and Sonand have money. You are almost a man already.'

'Almost' returned the child.

Even his childish agitation could not master the sly and quaint yet
touching lookwith which he accompanied the reply.

It brought a vague expression of dissatisfaction into Mr Dombey's
face; but the door being openedit was quickly gone

'Doctor Blimber is at homeI believe?' said Mr Dombey.

The man said yes; and as they passed inlooked at Paul as if he
were a little mouseand the house were a trap. He was a weak-eyed
young manwith the first faint streaks or early dawn of a grin on his
countenance. It was mere imbecility; but Mrs Pipchin took it into her
head that it was impudenceand made a snap at him directly.

'How dare you laugh behind the gentleman's back?' said Mrs Pipchin.
'And what do you take me for?'

'I ain't a laughing at nobodyand I'm sure I don't take you for
nothingMa'am' returned the young manin consternation.

'A pack of idle dogs!' said Mrs Pipchin'only fit to be turnspits.
Go and tell your master that Mr Dombey's hereor it'll be worse for
you!'

The weak-eyed young man wentvery meeklyto discharge himself of
this commission; and soon came back to invite them to the Doctor's
study.

'You're laughing againSir' said Mrs Pipchinwhen it came to her
turnbringing up the rearto pass him in the hall.

'I ain't' returned the young mangrievously oppressed. 'I never
see such a thing as this!'

'What is the matterMrs Pipchin?' said Mr Dombeylooking round.
'Softly! Pray!'

Mrs Pipchinin her deferencemerely muttered at the young man as
she passed onand said'Oh! he was a precious fellow' - leaving the
young manwho was all meekness and incapacityaffected even to tears
by the incident. But Mrs Pipchin had a way of falling foul of all meek
people; and her friends said who could wonder at itafter the
Peruvian mines!

The Doctor was sitting in his portentous studywith a globe at
each kneebooks all round himHomer over the doorand Minerva on
the mantel-shelf. 'And how do you doSir?' he said to Mr Dombey'and
how is my little friend?' Grave as an organ was the Doctor's speech;
and when he ceasedthe great clock in the hall seemed (to Paul at
least) to take him upand to go on saying'howismylittle
friend? howismylittlefriend?' over and over and over again.

The little friend being something too small to be seen at all from
where the Doctor satover the books on his tablethe Doctor made
several futile attempts to get a view of him round the legs; which Mr
Dombey perceivingrelieved the Doctor from his embarrassment by
taking Paul up in his armsand sitting him on another little table
over against the Doctorin the middle of the room.


'Ha!' said the Doctorleaning back in his chair with his hand in
his breast. 'Now I see my little friend. How do you domy little
friend?'

The clock in the hall wouldn't subscribe to this alteration in the
form of wordsbut continued to repeat howismylittlefriend?
howismylittlefriend?'

'Very wellI thank youSir' returned Paulanswering the clock
quite as much as the Doctor.

'Ha!' said Doctor Blimber. 'Shall we make a man of him?'

'Do you hearPaul?' added Mr Dombey; Paul being silent.

'Shall we make a man of him?' repeated the Doctor.

'I had rather be a child' replied Paul.

'Indeed!' said the Doctor. 'Why?'

The child sat on the table looking at himwith a curious
expression of suppressed emotion in his faceand beating one hand
proudly on his knee as if he had the rising tears beneath itand
crushed them. But his other hand strayed a little way the whilea
little farther - farther from him yet - until it lighted on the neck
of Florence. 'This is why' it seemed to sayand then the steady look
was broken up and gone; the working lip was loosened; and the tears
came streaming forth.

'Mrs Pipchin' said his fatherin a querulous manner'I am really
very sorry to see this.'

'Come away from himdoMiss Dombey' quoth the matron.

'Never mind' said the Doctorblandly nodding his headto keep
Mrs Pipchin back. 'Never mind; we shall substitute new cares and new
impressionsMr Dombeyvery shortly. You would still wish my little
friend to acquire - '

'Everythingif you pleaseDoctor' returned Mr Dombeyfirmly.

'Yes' said the Doctorwhowith his half-shut eyesand his usual
smileseemed to survey Paul with the sort of interest that might
attach to some choice little animal he was going to stuff. 'Yes
exactly. Ha! We shall impart a great variety of information to our
little friendand bring him quickly forwardI daresay. I daresay.
Quite a virgin soilI believe you saidMr Dombey?'

'Except some ordinary preparation at homeand from this lady'
replied Mr Dombeyintroducing Mrs Pipchinwho instantly communicated
a rigidity to her whole muscular systemand snorted defiance
beforehandin case the Doctor should disparage her; 'except so far
Paul hasas yetapplied himself to no studies at all.'

Doctor Blimber inclined his headin gentle tolerance of such
insignificant poaching as Mrs Pipchin'sand said he was glad to hear
it. It was much more satisfactoryhe observedrubbing his handsto
begin at the foundation. And again he leered at Paulas if he would
have liked to tackle him with the Greek alphabeton the spot.

'That circumstanceindeedDoctor Blimber' pursued Mr Dombey
glancing at his little son'and the interview I have already had the


pleasure of holding with yourenders any further explanationand
consequentlyany further intrusion on your valuable timeso
unnecessarythat - '

'NowMiss Dombey!' said the acid Pipchin.

'Permit me' said the Doctor'one moment. Allow me to present Mrs
Blimber and my daughter; who will be associated with the domestic life
of our young Pilgrim to Parnassus Mrs Blimber' for the ladywho had
perhaps been in waitingopportunely enteredfollowed by her
daughterthat fair Sexton in spectacles'Mr Dombey. My daughter
CorneliaMr Dombey. Mr Dombeymy love' pursued the Doctorturning
to his wife'is so confiding as to - do you see our little friend?'

Mrs Blimberin an excess of politenessof which Mr Dombey was the
objectapparently did notfor she was backing against the little
friendand very much endangering his position on the table. Buton
this hintshe turned to admire his classical and intellectual
lineamentsand turning again to Mr Dombeysaidwith a sighthat
she envied his dear son.

'Like a beeSir' said Mrs Blimberwith uplifted eyes'about to
plunge into a garden of the choicest flowersand sip the sweets for
the first time VirgilHoraceOvidTerencePlautusCicero. What a
world of honey have we here. It may appear remarkableMr Dombeyin
one who is a wife - the wife of such a husband - '

'Hushhush' said Doctor Blimber. 'Fie for shame.'

'Mr Dombey will forgive the partiality of a wife' said Mrs
Blimberwith an engaging smile.

Mr Dombey answered 'Not at all:' applying those wordsit is to be
presumedto the partialityand not to the forgiveness.

'And it may seem remarkable in one who is a mother also' resumed
Mrs Blimber.

'And such a mother' observed Mr Dombeybowing with some confused
idea of being complimentary to Cornelia.

'But really' pursued Mrs Blimber'I think if I could have known
Ciceroand been his friendand talked with him in his retirement at
Tusculum (beau-ti-ful Tusculum!)I could have died contented.'

A learned enthusiasm is so very contagiousthat Mr Dombey half
believed this was exactly his case; and even Mrs Pipchinwho was not
as we have seenof an accommodating disposition generallygave
utterance to a little sound between a groan and a sighas if she
would have said that nobody but Cicero could have proved a lasting
consolation under that failure of the Peruvian MInesbut that he
indeed would have been a very Davy-lamp of refuge.

Cornelia looked at Mr Dombey through her spectaclesas if she
would have liked to crack a few quotations with him from the authority
in question. But this designif she entertained itwas frustrated by
a knock at the room-door.

'Who is that?' said the Doctor. 'Oh! Come inToots; come in. Mr
DombeySir.' Toots bowed. 'Quite a coincidence!' said Doctor Blimber.
'Here we have the beginning and the end. Alpha and Omega Our head boy
Mr Dombey.'

The Doctor might have called him their head and shoulders boyfor


he was at least that much taller than any of the rest. He blushed very
much at finding himself among strangersand chuckled aloud.

'An addition to our little PorticoToots' said the Doctor; 'Mr
Dombey's son.'

Young Toots blushed again; and findingfrom a solemn silence which
prevailedthat he was expected to say somethingsaid to Paul'How
are you?' in a voice so deepand a manner so sheepishthat if a lamb
had roared it couldn't have been more surprising.

'Ask Mr Feederif you pleaseToots' said the Doctor'to prepare
a few introductory volumes for Mr Dombey's sonand to allot him a
convenient seat for study. My dearI believe Mr Dombey has not seen
the dormitories.'

'If Mr Dombey will walk upstairs' said Mrs Blimber'I shall be
more than proud to show him the dominions of the drowsy god.'

With thatMrs Blimberwho was a lady of great suavityand a wiry
figureand who wore a cap composed of sky-blue materialspied
upstairs with Mr Dombey and Cornelia; Mrs Pipchin followingand
looking out sharp for her enemy the footman.

While they were gonePaul sat upon the tableholding Florence by
the handand glancing timidly from the Doctor round and round the
roomwhile the Doctorleaning back in his chairwith his hand in
his breast as usualheld a book from him at arm's lengthand read.
There was something very awful in this manner of reading. It was such
a determinedunimpassionedinflexiblecold-blooded way of going to
work. It left the Doctor's countenance exposed to view; and when the
Doctor smiled suspiciously at his authoror knit his browsor shook
his head and made wry faces at himas much as to say'Don't tell me
Sir; I know better' it was terrific.

Tootstoohad no business to be outside the doorostentatiously
examining the wheels in his watchand counting his half-crowns. But
that didn't last long; for Doctor Blimberhappening to change the
position of his tight plump legsas if he were going to get upToots
swiftly vanishedand appeared no more.

Mr Dombey and his conductress were soon heard coming downstairs
againtalking all the way; and presently they re-entered the Doctor's
study.

'I hopeMr Dombey' said the Doctorlaying down his book'that
the arrangements meet your approval.'

'They are excellentSir' said Mr Dombey.

'Very fairindeed' said Mrs Pipchinin a low voice; never
disposed to give too much encouragement.

'Mrs Pipchin' said Mr Dombeywheeling round'willwith your
permissionDoctor and Mrs Blimbervisit Paul now and then.'

'Whenever Mrs Pipchin pleases' observed the Doctor.

'Always happy to see her' said Mrs Blimber.

'I think' said Mr Dombey'I have given all the trouble I need
and may take my leave. Paulmy child' he went close to himas he
sat upon the table. 'Good-bye.'


'Good-byePapa.'

The limp and careless little hand that Mr Dombey took in hiswas
singularly out of keeping with the wistful face. But he had no part in
its sorrowful expression. It was not addressed to him. Nono. To
Florence - all to Florence.

If Mr Dombey in his insolence of wealthhad ever made an enemy
hard to appease and cruelly vindictive in his hateeven such an enemy
might have received the pang that wrung his proud heart thenas
compensation for his injury.

He bent downover his boyand kissed him. If his sight were
dimmed as he did soby something that for a moment blurred the little
faceand made it indistinct to himhis mental vision may have been
for that short timethe clearer perhaps.

'I shall see you soonPaul. You are free on Saturdays and Sundays
you know.'

'YesPapa' returned Paul: looking at his sister. 'On Saturdays
and Sundays.'

'And you'll try and learn a great deal hereand be a clever man'
said Mr Dombey; 'won't you?'

'I'll try' returned the childwearily.

'And you'll soon be grown up now!' said Mr Dombey.

'Oh! very soon!' replied the child. Once more the oldold look
passed rapidly across his features like a strange light. It fell on
Mrs Pipchinand extinguished itself in her black dress. That
excellent ogress stepped forward to take leave and to bear off
Florencewhich she had long been thirsting to do. The move on her
part roused Mr Dombeywhose eyes were fixed on Paul. After patting
him on the headand pressing his small hand againhe took leave of
Doctor BlimberMrs Blimberand Miss Blimberwith his usual polite
frigidityand walked out of the study.

Despite his entreaty that they would not think of stirringDoctor
BlimberMrs Blimberand Miss Blimber all pressed forward to attend
him to the hall; and thus Mrs Pipchin got into a state of entanglement
with Miss Blimber and the Doctorand was crowded out of the study
before she could clutch Florence. To which happy accident Paul stood
afterwards indebted for the dear remembrancethat Florence ran back
to throw her arms round his neckand that hers was the last face in
the doorway: turned towards him with a smile of encouragementthe
brighter for the tears through which it beamed.

It made his childish bosom heave and swell when it was gone; and
sent the globesthe booksblind Homer and Minervaswimming round
the room. But they stoppedall of a sudden; and then he heard the
loud clock in the hall still gravely inquiring 'howismylittle
friend? howismylittlefriend?' as it had done before.

He satwith folded handsupon his pedestalsilently listening.
But he might have answered 'wearyweary! very lonelyvery sad!' And
therewith an aching void in his young heartand all outside so
coldand bareand strangePaul sat as if he had taken life
unfurnishedand the upholsterer were never coming.


CHAPTER 12.

Paul's Education

After the lapse of some minuteswhich appeared an immense time to
little Paul Dombey on the tableDoctor Blimber came back. The
Doctor's walk was statelyand calculated to impress the juvenile mind
with solemn feelings. It was a sort of march; but when the Doctor put
out his right foothe gravely turned upon his axiswith a
semi-circular sweep towards the left; and when he put out his left
foothe turned in the same manner towards the right. So that he
seemedat every stride he tookto look about him as though he were
saying'Can anybody have the goodness to indicate any subjectin any
directionon which I am uninformed? I rather think not'

Mrs Blimber and Miss Blimber came back in the Doctor's company; and
the Doctorlifting his new pupil off the tabledelivered him over to
Miss Blimber.

'Cornelia' said the Doctor'Dombey will be your charge at first.
Bring him onCorneliabring him on.'

Miss Blimber received her young ward from the Doctor's hands; and
Paulfeeling that the spectacles were surveying himcast down his
eyes.

'How old are youDombey?' said Miss Blimber.

'Six' answered Paulwonderingas he stole a glance at the young
ladywhy her hair didn't grow long like Florence'sand why she was
like a boy.

'How much do you know of your Latin GrammarDombey?' said Miss
Blimber.

'None of it' answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a shock to
Miss Blimber's sensibilityhe looked up at the three faces that were
looking down at himand said:

'I have'n't been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn't learn a
Latin Grammar when I was outevery daywith old Glubb. I wish you'd
tell old Glubb to come and see meif you please.'

'What a dreadfully low name' said Mrs Blimber. 'Unclassical to a
degree! Who is the monsterchild?'

'What monster?' inquired Paul.

'Glubb' said Mrs Blimberwith a great disrelish.

'He's no more a monster than you are' returned Paul.

'What!' cried the Doctorin a terrible voice. 'Ayayay? Aha!
What's that?'

Paul was dreadfully frightened; but still he made a stand for the
absent Glubbthough he did it trembling.

'He's a very nice old manMa'am' he said. 'He used to draw my
couch. He knows all about the deep seaand the fish that are in it
and the great monsters that come and lie on rocks in the sunand dive
into the water again when they're startledblowing and splashing so


that they can be heard for miles. There are some creaturessaid Paul
warming with his subject'I don't know how many yards longand I
forget their namesbut Florence knowsthat pretend to be in
distress; and when a man goes near themout of compassionthey open
their great jawsand attack him. But all he has got to do' said
Paulboldly tendering this information to the very Doctor himself
'is to keep on turning as he runs awayand thenas they turn slowly
because they are so longand can't bendhe's sure to beat them. And
though old Glubb don't know why the sea should make me think of my
Mama that's deador what it is that it is always saying - always
saying! he knows a great deal about it. And I wish' the child
concludedwith a sudden falling of his countenanceand failing in
his animationas he looked like one forlornupon the three strange
faces'that you'd let old Glubb come here to see mefor I know him
very welland he knows me.

'Ha!' said the Doctorshaking his head; 'this is badbut study
will do much.'

Mrs Blimber opinedwith something like a shiverthat he was an
unaccountable child; andallowing for the difference of visage
looked at him pretty much as Mrs Pipchin had been used to do.

'Take him round the houseCornelia' said the Doctor'and
familiarise him with his new sphere. Go with that young ladyDombey.'

Dombey obeyed; giving his hand to the abstruse Corneliaand
looking at her sidewayswith timid curiosityas they went away
together. For her spectaclesby reason of the glistening of the
glassesmade her so mysteriousthat he didn't know where she was
lookingand was not indeed quite sure that she had any eyes at all
behind them.

Cornelia took him first to the schoolroomwhich was situated at
the back of the halland was approached through two baize doors
which deadened and muffled the young gentlemen's voices. Herethere
were eight young gentlemen in various stages of mental prostration
all very hard at workand very grave indeed. Tootsas an old hand
had a desk to himself in one corner: and a magnificent manof immense
agehe lookedin Paul's young eyesbehind it.

Mr FeederB.A.who sat at another little deskhad his Virgil
stop onand was slowly grinding that tune to four young gentlemen. Of
the remaining fourtwowho grasped their foreheads convulsively
were engaged in solving mathematical problems; one with his face like
a dirty windowfrom much cryingwas endeavouring to flounder through
a hopeless number of lines before dinner; and one sat looking at his
task in stony stupefaction and despair - which it seemed had been his
condition ever since breakfast time.

The appearance of a new boy did not create the sensation that might
have been expected. Mr FeederB.A. (who was in the habit of shaving
his head for coolnessand had nothing but little bristles on it)
gave him a bony handand told him he was glad to see him - which Paul
would have been very glad to have told himif he could have done so
with the least sincerity. Then Paulinstructed by Corneliashook
hands with the four young gentlemen at Mr Feeder's desk; then with the
two young gentlemen at work on the problemswho were very feverish;
then with the young gentleman at work against timewho was very inky;
and lastly with the young gentleman in a state of stupefactionwho
was flabby and quite cold.

Paul having been already introduced to Tootsthat pupil merely
chuckled and breathed hardas his custom wasand pursued the


occupation in which he was engaged. It was not a severe one; for on
account of his having 'gone through' so much (in more senses than
one)and also of his havingas before hintedleft off blowing in
his primeToots now had licence to pursue his own course of study:
which was chiefly to write long letters to himself from persons of
distinctionadds 'P. TootsEsquireBrightonSussex' and to
preserve them in his desk with great care.

These ceremonies passedCornelia led Paul upstairs to the top of
the house; which was rather a slow journeyon account of Paul being
obliged to land both feet on every stairbefore he mounted another.
But they reached their journey's end at last; and therein a front
roomlooking over the wild seaCornelia showed him a nice little bed
with white hangingsclose to the windowon which there was already
beautifully written on a card in round text - down strokes very thick
and up strokes very fine - DOMBEY; while two other little bedsteads in
the same room were announcedthrough like meansas respectively
appertaining unto BRIGGS and TOZER.

Just as they got downstairs again into the hallPaul saw the
weak-eyed young man who had given that mortal offence to Mrs Pipchin
suddenly seize a very large drumstickand fly at a gong that was
hanging upas if he had gone mador wanted vengeance. Instead of
receiving warninghoweveror being instantly taken into custodythe
young man left off uncheckedafter having made a dreadful noise. Then
Cornelia Blimber said to Dombey that dinner would be ready in a
quarter of an hourand perhaps he had better go into the schoolroom
among his 'friends.'

So Dombeydeferentially passing the great clock which was still as
anxious as ever to know how he found himselfopened the schoolroom
door a very little wayand strayed in like a lost boy: shutting it
after him with some difficulty. His friends were all dispersed about
the room except the stony friendwho remained immoveable. Mr Feeder
was stretching himself in his grey gownas ifregardless of expense
he were resolved to pull the sleeves off.

'Heigh ho hum!' cried Mr Feedershaking himself like a cart-horse.
'Oh dear medear me! Ya-a-a-ah!'

Paul was quite alarmed by Mr Feeder's yawning; it was done on such
a great scaleand he was so terribly in earnest. All the boys too
(Toots excepted) seemed knocked upand were getting ready for dinner

-some newly tying their neckclothswhich were very stiff indeed; and
others washing their hands or brushing their hairin an adjoining
ante-chamber - as if they didn't think they should enjoy it at all.
Young Toots who was ready beforehandand had therefore nothing to
doand had leisure to bestow upon Paulsaidwith heavy good nature:

'Sit downDombey.'

'Thank youSir' said Paul.

His endeavouring to hoist himself on to a very high window-seat
and his slipping down againappeared to prepare Toots's mind for the
reception of a discovery.

'You're a very small chap;' said Mr Toots.

'YesSirI'm small' returned Paul. 'Thank youSir.'

For Toots had lifted him into the seatand done it kindly too.


'Who's your tailor?' inquired Tootsafter looking at him for some
moments.

'It's a woman that has made my clothes as yet' said Paul. 'My
sister's dressmaker.'

'My tailor's Burgess and Co.' said Toots. 'Fash'nable. But very
dear.'

Paul had wit enough to shake his headas if he would have said it
was easy to see that; and indeed he thought so.

'Your father's regularly richain't he?' inquired Mr Toots.

'YesSir' said Paul. 'He's Dombey and Son.'

'And which?' demanded Toots.

'And SonSir' replied Paul.

Mr Toots made one or two attemptsin a low voiceto fix the Firm
in his mind; but not quite succeedingsaid he would get Paul to
mention the name again to-morrow morningas it was rather important.
And indeed he purposed nothing less than writing himself a private and
confidential letter from Dombey and Son immediately.

By this time the other pupils (always excepting the stony boy)
gathered round. They were politebut pale; and spoke low; and they
were so depressed in their spiritsthat in comparison with the
general tone of that companyMaster Bitherstone was a perfect Miller
or complete Jest Book.' And yet he had a sense of injury upon him
toohad Bitherstone.

'You sleep in my roomdon't you?' asked a solemn young gentleman
whose shirt-collar curled up the lobes of his ears.

'Master Briggs?' inquired Paul.

'Tozer' said the young gentleman.

Paul answered yes; and Tozer pointing out the stony pupilsaid
that was Briggs. Paul had already felt certain that it must be either
Briggs or Tozerthough he didn't know why.

'Is yours a strong constitution?' inquired Tozer.

Paul said he thought not. Tozer replied that he thought not also
judging from Paul's looksand that it was a pityfor it need be. He
then asked Paul if he were going to begin with Cornelia; and on Paul
saying 'yes' all the young gentlemen (Briggs excepted) gave a low
groan.

It was drowned in the tintinnabulation of the gongwhich sounding
again with great furythere was a general move towards the
dining-room; still excepting Briggs the stony boywho remained where
he wasand as he was; and on its way to whom Paul presently
encountered a round of breadgenteelly served on a plate and napkin
and with a silver fork lying crosswise on the top of it.

Doctor Blimber was already in his place in the dining-roomat the
top of the tablewith Miss Blimber and Mrs Blimber on either side of
him. Mr Feeder in a black coat was at the bottom. Paul's chair was
next to Miss Blimber; but it being foundwhen he sat in itthat his
eyebrows were not much above the level of the table-clothsome books


were brought in from the Doctor's studyon which he was elevatedand
on which he always sat from that time - carrying them in and out
himself on after occasionslike a little elephant and castle.'

Grace having been said by the Doctordinner began. There was some
nice soup; also roast meatboiled meatvegetablespieand cheese.
Every young gentleman had a massive silver forkand a napkin; and all
the arrangements were stately and handsome. In particularthere was a
butler in a blue coat and bright buttonswho gave quite a winey
flavour to the table beer; he poured it out so superbly.

Nobody spokeunless spoken toexcept Doctor BlimberMrs Blimber
and Miss Blimberwho conversed occasionally. Whenever a young
gentleman was not actually engaged with his knife and fork or spoon
his eyewith an irresistible attractionsought the eye of Doctor
BlimberMrs Blimberor Miss Blimberand modestly rested there.
Toots appeared to be the only exception to this rule. He sat next Mr
Feeder on Paul's side of the tableand frequently looked behind and
before the intervening boys to catch a glimpse of Paul.

Only once during dinner was there any conversation that included
the young gentlemen. It happened at the epoch of the cheesewhen the
Doctorhaving taken a glass of port wineand hemmed twice or thrice
said:

'It is remarkableMr Feederthat the Romans - '

At the mention of this terrible peopletheir implacable enemies
every young gentleman fastened his gaze upon the Doctorwith an
assumption of the deepest interest. One of the number who happened to
be drinkingand who caught the Doctor's eye glaring at him through
the side of his tumblerleft off so hastily that he was convulsed for
some momentsand in the sequel ruined Doctor Blimber's point.

'It is remarkableMr Feeder' said the Doctorbeginning again
slowly'that the Romansin those gorgeous and profuse entertainments
of which we read in the days of the Emperorswhen luxury had attained
a height unknown before or sinceand when whole provinces were
ravaged to supply the splendid means of one Imperial Banquet - '

Here the offenderwho had been swelling and strainingand waiting
in vain for a full stopbroke out violently.

'Johnson' said Mr Feederin a low reproachful voice'take some
water.'

The Doctorlooking very sternmade a pause until the water was
broughtand then resumed:

'And whenMr Feeder - '

But Mr Feederwho saw that Johnson must break out againand who
knew that the Doctor would never come to a period before the young
gentlemen until he had finished all he meant to saycouldn't keep his
eye off Johnson; and thus was caught in the fact of not looking at the
Doctorwho consequently stopped.

'I beg your pardonSir' said Mr Feederreddening. 'I beg your
pardonDoctor Blimber.'

'And when' said the Doctorraising his voice'whenSiras we
readand have no reason to doubt - incredible as it may appear to the
vulgar - of our time - the brother of Vitellius prepared for him a
feastin which were servedof fishtwo thousand dishes - '


'Take some waterJohnson - dishesSir' said Mr Feeder.

'Of various sorts of fowlfive thousand dishes.'

'Or try a crust of bread' said Mr Feeder.

'And one dish' pursued Doctor Blimberraising his voice still
higher as he looked all round the table'calledfrom its enormous
dimensionsthe Shield of Minervaand madeamong other costly
ingredientsof the brains of pheasants - '

'Owowow!' (from Johnson.)

'Woodcocks - '

'Owowow!'

'The sounds of the fish called scari - '

'You'll burst some vessel in your head' said Mr Feeder. 'You had
better let it come.'

'And the spawn of the lampreybrought from the Carpathian Sea'
pursued the Doctorin his severest voice; 'when we read of costly
entertainments such as theseand still rememberthat we have a Titus

-'
'What would be your mother's feelings if you died of apoplexy!'
said Mr Feeder.

'A Domitian - '

'And you're blueyou know' said Mr Feeder.

'A Neroa Tiberiusa Caligulaa Heliogabalusand many more
pursued the Doctor; 'it isMr Feeder - if you are doing me the honour
to attend - remarkable; VERY remarkableSir - '

But Johnsonunable to suppress it any longerburst at that moment
into such an overwhelming fit of coughingthat although both his
immediate neighbours thumped him on the backand Mr Feeder himself
held a glass of water to his lipsand the butler walked him up and
down several times between his own chair and the sideboardlike a
sentryit was a full five minutes before he was moderately composed.
Then there was a profound silence.

'Gentlemen' said Doctor Blimber'rise for Grace! Cornelialift
Dombey down' - nothing of whom but his scalp was accordingly seen
above the tablecloth. 'Johnson will repeat to me tomorrow morning
before breakfastwithout bookand from the Greek Testamentthe
first chapter of the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Ephesians. We will
resume our studiesMr Feederin half-an-hour.'

The young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr Feeder did likewise.
During the half-hourthe young gentlemenbroken into pairsloitered
arm-in-arm up and down a small piece of ground behind the houseor
endeavoured to kindle a spark of animation in the breast of Briggs.
But nothing happened so vulgar as play. Punctually at the appointed
timethe gong was soundedand the studiesunder the joint auspices
of Doctor Blimber and Mr Feederwere resumed.

As the Olympic game of lounging up and down had been cut shorter
than usual that dayon Johnson's accountthey all went out for a


walk before tea. Even Briggs (though he hadn't begun yet) partook of
this dissipation; in the enjoyment of which he looked over the cliff
two or three times darkly. Doctor Blimber accompanied them; and Paul
had the honour of being taken in tow by the Doctor himself: a
distinguished state of thingsin which he looked very little and
feeble.

Tea was served in a style no less polite than the dinner; and after
teathe young gentlemen rising and bowing as beforewithdrew to
fetch up the unfinished tasks of that dayor to get up the already
looming tasks of to-morrow. In the meantime Mr Feeder withdrew to his
own room; and Paul sat in a corner wondering whether Florence was
thinking of himand what they were all about at Mrs Pipchin's.

Mr Tootswho had been detained by an important letter from the
Duke of Wellingtonfound Paul out after a time; and having looked at
him for a long whileas beforeinquired if he was fond of
waistcoats.

Paul said 'YesSir.'

'So am I' said Toots.

No word more spoke Toots that night; but he stood looking at Paul
as if he liked him; and as there was company in thatand Paul was not
inclined to talkit answered his purpose better than conversation.

At eight o'clock or sothe gong sounded again for prayers in the
dining-roomwhere the butler afterwards presided over a side-table
on which bread and cheese and beer were spread for such young
gentlemen as desired to partake of those refreshments. The ceremonies
concluded by the Doctor's saying'Gentlemenwe will resume our
studies at seven to-morrow;' and thenfor the first timePaul saw
Cornelia Blimber's eyeand saw that it was upon him. When the Doctor
had said these words'Gentlemenwe will resume our studies at seven
tomorrow' the pupils bowed againand went to bed.

In the confidence of their own room upstairsBriggs said his head
ached ready to splitand that he should wish himself dead if it
wasn't for his motherand a blackbird he had at home Tozer didn't say
muchbut he sighed a good dealand told Paul to look outfor his
turn would come to-morrow. After uttering those prophetic wordshe
undressed himself moodilyand got into bed. Briggs was in his bed
tooand Paul in his bed toobefore the weak-eyed young man appeared
to take away the candlewhen he wished them good-night and pleasant
dreams. But his benevolent wishes were in vainas far as Briggs and
Tozer were concerned; for Paulwho lay awake for a long whileand
often woke afterwardsfound that Briggs was ridden by his lesson as a
nightmare: and that Tozerwhose mind was affected in his sleep by
similar causesin a minor degree talked unknown tonguesor scraps of
Greek and Latin - it was all one to Paul- whichin the silence of
nighthad an inexpressibly wicked and guilty effect.

Paul had sunk into a sweet sleepand dreamed that he was walking
hand in hand with Florence through beautiful gardenswhen they came
to a large sunflower which suddenly expanded itself into a gongand
began to sound. Opening his eyeshe found that it was a darkwindy
morningwith a drizzling rain: and that the real gong was giving
dreadful note of preparationdown in the hall.

So he got up directlyand found Briggs with hardly any eyesfor
nightmare and grief had made his face puffyputting his boots on:
while Tozer stood shivering and rubbing his shoulders in a very bad
humour. Poor Paul couldn't dress himself easilynot being used to it


and asked them if they would have the goodness to tie some strings for
him; but as Briggs merely said 'Bother!' and Tozer'Oh yes!' he went
down when he was otherwise readyto the next storeywhere he saw a
pretty young woman in leather glovescleaning a stove. The young
woman seemed surprised at his appearanceand asked him where his
mother was. When Paul told her she was deadshe took her gloves off
and did what he wanted; and furthermore rubbed his hands to warm them;
and gave him a kiss; and told him whenever he wanted anything of that
sort - meaning in the dressing way - to ask for 'Melia; which Paul
thanking her very muchsaid he certainly would. He then proceeded
softly on his journey downstairstowards the room in which the young
gentlemen resumed their studieswhenpassing by a door that stood
ajara voice from within cried'Is that Dombey?' On Paul replying
'YesMa'am:' for he knew the voice to be Miss Blimber's: Miss Blimber
said'Come inDombey.' And in he went. Miss Blimber presented
exactly the appearance she had presented yesterdayexcept that she
wore a shawl. Her little light curls were as crisp as everand she
had already her spectacles onwhich made Paul wonder whether she went
to bed in them. She had a cool little sitting-room of her own up
therewith some books in itand no fire But Miss Blimber was never
coldand never sleepy.

NowDombey' said Miss Blimber'I am going out for a
constitutional.'

Paul wondered what that wasand why she didn't send the footman
out to get it in such unfavourable weather. But he made no observation
on the subject: his attention being devoted to a little pile of new
bookson which Miss Blimber appeared to have been recently engaged.

'These are yoursDombey' said Miss Blimber.

'All of 'emMa'am?' said Paul.

'Yes' returned Miss Blimber; 'and Mr Feeder will look you out some
more very soonif you are as studious as I expect you will be
Dombey.'

'Thank youMa'am' said Paul.

'I am going out for a constitutional' resumed Miss Blimber; 'and
while I am gonethat is to say in the interval between this and
breakfastDombeyI wish you to read over what I have marked in these
booksand to tell me if you quite understand what you have got to
learn. Don't lose timeDombeyfor you have none to sparebut take
them downstairsand begin directly.'

'YesMa'am' answered Paul.

There were so many of themthat although Paul put one hand under
the bottom book and his other hand and his chin on the top bookand
hugged them all closelythe middle book slipped out before he reached
the doorand then they all tumbled down on the floor. Miss Blimber
said'OhDombeyDombeythis is really very careless!' and piled
them up afresh for him; and this timeby dint of balancing them with
great nicetyPaul got out of the roomand down a few stairs before
two of them escaped again. But he held the rest so tightthat he only
left one more on the first floorand one in the passage; and when he
had got the main body down into the schoolroomhe set off upstairs
again to collect the stragglers. Having at last amassed the whole
libraryand climbed into his placehe fell to workencouraged by a
remark from Tozer to the effect that he 'was in for it now;' which was
the only interruption he received till breakfast time. At that meal
for which he had no appetiteeverything was quite as solemn and


genteel as at the others; and when it was finishedhe followed Miss
Blimber upstairs.

'NowDombey' said Miss Blimber. 'How have you got on with those
books?'

They comprised a little Englishand a deal of Latin - names of
thingsdeclensions of articles and substantivesexercises thereon
and preliminary rules - a trifle of orthographya glance at ancient
historya wink or two at modern dittoa few tablestwo or three
weights and measuresand a little general information. When poor Paul
had spelt out number twohe found he had no idea of number one;
fragments whereof afterwards obtruded themselves into number three
which slided into number fourwhich grafted itself on to number two.
So that whether twenty Romuluses made a Remusor hic haec hoc was
troy weightor a verb always agreed with an ancient Britonor three
times four was Taurus a bullwere open questions with him.

'OhDombeyDombey!' said Miss Blimber'this is very shocking.'

'If you please' said Paul'I think if I might sometimes talk a
little to old GlubbI should be able to do better.'

'NonsenseDombey' said Miss Blimber. 'I couldn't hear of it. This
is not the place for Glubbs of any kind. You must take the books down
I supposeDombeyone by oneand perfect yourself in the day's
instalment of subject Abefore you turn at all to subject B. I am
sorry to sayDombeythat your education appears to have been very
much neglected.'

'So Papa says' returned Paul; 'but I told you - I have been a weak
child. Florence knows I have. So does Wickam.'

'Who is Wickam?' asked Miss Blimber.

'She has been my nurse' Paul answered.

'I must beg you not to mention Wickam to methen' said Miss
Blimber.'I couldn't allow it'.

'You asked me who she was' said Paul.

'Very well' returned Miss Blimber; 'but this is all very different
indeed from anything of that sortDombeyand I couldn't think of
permitting it. As to having been weakyou must begin to be strong.
And now take away the top bookif you pleaseDombeyand return when
you are master of the theme.'

Miss Blimber expressed her opinions on the subject of Paul's
uninstructed state with a gloomy delightas if she had expected this
resultand were glad to find that they must be in constant
communication. Paul withdrew with the top taskas he was toldand
laboured away at itdown below: sometimes remembering every word of
itand sometimes forgetting it alland everything else besides:
until at last he ventured upstairs again to repeat the lessonwhen it
was nearly all driven out of his head before he beganby Miss
Blimber's shutting up the bookand saying'GoodDombey!' a
proceeding so suggestive of the knowledge inside of herthat Paul
looked upon the young lady with consternationas a kind of learned
Guy Fauxor artificial Boglestuffed full of scholastic straw.

He acquitted himself very wellnevertheless; and Miss Blimber
commending him as giving promise of getting on fastimmediately
provided him with subject B; from which he passed to Cand even D


before dinner. It was hard workresuming his studiessoon after
dinner; and he felt giddy and confused and drowsy and dull. But all
the other young gentlemen had similar sensationsand were obliged to
resume their studies tooif there were any comfort in that. It was a
wonder that the great clock in the hallinstead of being constant to
its first inquirynever said'Gentlemenwe will now resume our
studies' for that phrase was often enough repeated in its
neighbourhood. The studies went round like a mighty wheeland the
young gentlemen were always stretched upon it.

After tea there were exercises againand preparations for next day
by candlelight. And in due course there was bed; wherebut for that
resumption of the studies which took place in dreamswere rest and
sweet forgetfulness.

Oh Saturdays! Oh happy Saturdayswhen Florence always came at
noonand never wouldin any weatherstay awaythough Mrs Pipchin
snarled and growledand worried her bitterly. Those Saturdays were
Sabbaths for at least two little Christians among all the Jewsand
did the holy Sabbath work of strengthening and knitting up a brother's
and a sister's love.

Not even Sunday nights - the heavy Sunday nightswhose shadow
darkened the first waking burst of light on Sunday mornings - could
mar those precious Saturdays. Whether it was the great sea-shore
where they satand strolled together; or whether it was only Mrs
Pipchin's dull back roomin which she sang to him so softlywith his
drowsy head upon her arm; Paul never cared. It was Florence. That was
all he thought of. Soon Sunday nightswhen the Doctor's dark door
stood agape to swallow him up for another weekthe time was come for
taking leave of Florence; no one else.

Mrs Wickam had been drafted home to the house in townand Miss
Nippernow a smart young womanhad come down. To many a single
combat with Mrs Pipchindid Miss Nipper gallantly devote herselfand
if ever Mrs Pipchin in all her life had found her matchshe had found
it now. Miss Nipper threw away the scabbard the first morning she
arose in Mrs Pipchin's house. She asked and gave no quarter. She said
it must be warand war it was; and Mrs Pipchin lived from that time
in the midst of surprisesharassingsand defiancesand skirmishing
attacks that came bouncing in upon her from the passageeven in
unguarded moments of chopsand carried desolation to her very toast.

Miss Nipper had returned one Sunday night with Florencefrom
walking back with Paul to the Doctor'swhen Florence took from her
bosom a little piece of paperon which she had pencilled down some
words.

'See hereSusan' she said. 'These are the names of the little
books that Paul brings home to do those long exercises withwhen he
is so tired. I copied them last night while he was writing.'

'Don't show 'em to meMiss Floyif you please' returned Nipper
'I'd as soon see Mrs Pipchin.'

'I want you to buy them for meSusanif you willtomorrow
morning. I have money enough' said Florence.

'Whygoodness gracious meMiss Floy' returned Miss Nipper'how
can you talk like thatwhen you have books upon books alreadyand
masterses and mississes a teaching of you everything continualthough
my belief is that your PaMiss Dombeynever would have learnt you
nothingnever would have thought of itunless you'd asked him - when
he couldn't well refuse; but giving consent when askedand offering


when unaskedMissis quite two things; I may not have my objections
to a young man's keeping company with meand when he puts the
questionmay say "yes but that's not saying would you be so kind
as like me."'

'But you can buy me the booksSusan; and you willwhen you know
why I want them.'

'WellMissand why do you want 'em?' replied Nipper; addingin a
lower voice'If it was to fling at Mrs Pipchin's headI'd buy a
cart-load.'

'Paul has a great deal too much to doSusan' said Florence'I am
sure of it.'

'And well you may beMiss' returned her maid'and make your mind
quite easy that the willing dear is worked and worked away. If those
is Latin legs' exclaimed Miss Nipperwith strong feeling - in
allusion to Paul's; 'give me English ones.'

'I am afraid he feels lonely and lost at Doctor Blimber'sSusan'
pursued Florenceturning away her face.

'Ah' said Miss Nipperwith great sharpness'Ohthem "Blimbers"'

'Don't blame anyone' said Florence. 'It's a mistake.'

'I say nothing about blameMiss' cried Miss Nipper'for I know
that you objectbut I may wishMissthat the family was set to work
to make new roadsand that Miss Blimber went in front and had the
pickaxe.'

After this speechMiss Nipperwho was perfectly seriouswiped
her eyes.

'I think I could perhaps give Paul some helpSusanif I had these
books' said Florence'and make the coming week a little easier to
him. At least I want to try. So buy them for medearand I will
never forget how kind it was of you to do it!'

It must have been a harder heart than Susan Nipper's that could
have rejected the little purse Florence held out with these wordsor
the gentle look of entreaty with which she seconded her petition.
Susan put the purse in her pocket without replyand trotted out at
once upon her errand.

The books were not easy to procure; and the answer at several shops
waseither that they were just out of themor that they never kept
themor that they had had a great many last monthor that they
expected a great many next week But Susan was not easily baffled in
such an enterprise; and having entrapped a white-haired youthin a
black calico apronfrom a library where she was knownto accompany
her in her questshe led him such a life in going up and downthat
he exerted himself to the utmostif it were only to get rid of her;
and finally enabled her to return home in triumph.

With these treasures thenafter her own daily lessons were over
Florence sat down at night to track Paul's footsteps through the
thorny ways of learning; and being possessed of a naturally quick and
sound capacityand taught by that most wonderful of mastersloveit
was not long before she gained upon Paul's heelsand caught and
passed him.

Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs Pipchin: but many a night


when they were all in bedand when Miss Nipperwith her hair in
papers and herself asleep in some uncomfortable attitudereposed
unconscious by her side; and when the chinking ashes in the grate were
cold and grey; and when the candles were burnt down and guttering out;

-Florence tried so hard to be a substitute for one small Dombeythat
her fortitude and perseverance might have almost won her a free right
to bear the name herself.
And high was her rewardwhen one Saturday eveningas little Paul
was sitting down as usual to 'resume his studies' she sat down by his
sideand showed him all that was so roughmade smoothand all that
was so darkmade clear and plainbefore him. It was nothing but a
startled look in Paul's wan face - a flush - a smile - and then a
close embrace - but God knows how her heart leapt up at this rich
payment for her trouble.

'OhFloy!' cried her brother'how I love you! How I love you
Floy!'

'And I youdear!'

'Oh! I am sure of thatFloy.'

He said no more about itbut all that evening sat close by her
very quiet; and in the night he called out from his little room within
hersthree or four timesthat he loved her.

Regularlyafter thatFlorence was prepared to sit down with Paul
on Saturday nightand patiently assist him through so much as they
could anticipate together of his next week's work. The cheering
thought that he was labouring on where Florence had just toiled before
himwouldof itselfhave been a stimulant to Paul in the perpetual
resumption of his studies; but coupled with the actual lightening of
his loadconsequent on this assistanceit saved himpossiblyfrom
sinking underneath the burden which the fair Cornelia Blimber piled
upon his back.

It was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard upon himor that
Doctor Blimber meant to bear too heavily on the young gentlemen in
general. Cornelia merely held the faith in which she had been bred;
and the Doctorin some partial confusion of his ideasregarded the
young gentlemen as if they were all Doctorsand were born grown up.
Comforted by the applause of the young gentlemen's nearest relations
and urged on by their blind vanity and ill-considered hasteit would
have been strange if Doctor Blimber had discovered his mistakeor
trimmed his swelling sails to any other tack.

Thus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber said he made great
progress and was naturally cleverMr Dombey was more bent than ever
on his being forced and crammed. In the case of Briggswhen Doctor
Blimber reported that he did not make great progress yetand was not
naturally cleverBriggs senior was inexorable in the same purpose. In
shorthowever high and false the temperature at which the Doctor kept
his hothousethe owners of the plants were always ready to lend a
helping hand at the bellowsand to stir the fire.

Such spirits as he had in the outsetPaul soon lost of course. But
he retained all that was strangeand oldand thoughtful in his
character: and under circumstances so favourable to the development of
those tendenciesbecame even more strangeand oldand thoughtful
than before.

The only difference wasthat he kept his character to himself. He
grew more thoughtful and reservedevery day; and had no such


curiosity in any living member of the Doctor's householdas he had
had in Mrs Pipchin. He loved to be alone; and in those short intervals
when he was not occupied with his booksliked nothing so well as
wandering about the house by himselfor sitting on the stairs
listening to the great clock in the hall. He was intimate with all the
paperhanging in the house; saw things that no one else saw in the
patterns; found out miniature tigers and lions running up the bedroom
wallsand squinting faces leering in the squares and diamonds of the
floor-cloth.

The solitary child lived onsurrounded by this arabesque work of
his musing fancyand no one understood him. Mrs Blimber thought him
'odd' and sometimes the servants said among themselves that little
Dombey 'moped;' but that was all.

Unless young Toots had some idea on the subjectto the expression
of which he was wholly unequal. Ideaslike ghosts (according to the
common notion of ghosts)must be spoken to a little before they will
explain themselves; and Toots had long left off asking any questions
of his own mind. Some mist there may have beenissuing from that
leaden caskethis craniumwhichif it could have taken shape and
formwould have become a genie; but it could not; and it only so far
followed the example of the smoke in the Arabian storyas to roll out
in a thick cloudand there hang and hover. But it left a little
figure visible upon a lonely shoreand Toots was always staring at
it.

'How are you?' he would say to Paulfifty times a day. 'Quite
wellSirthank you' Paul would answer. 'Shake hands' would be
Toots's next advance.

Which Paulof coursewould immediately do. Mr Toots generally
said againafter a long interval of staring and hard breathing'How
are you?' To which Paul again replied'Quite wellSirthank you.'

One evening Mr Toots was sitting at his deskoppressed by
correspondencewhen a great purpose seemed to flash upon him. He laid
down his penand went off to seek Paulwhom he found at lastafter
a long searchlooking through the window of his little bedroom.

'I say!' cried Tootsspeaking the moment he entered the roomlest
he should forget it; 'what do you think about?'

'Oh! I think about a great many things' replied Paul.

'Do youthough?' said Tootsappearing to consider that fact in
itself surprising. 'If you had to die' said Paullooking up into his
face - Mr Toots startedand seemed much disturbed.

'Don't you think you would rather die on a moonlight nightwhen
the sky was quite clearand the wind blowingas it did last night?'

Mr Toots saidlooking doubtfully at Pauland shaking his head
that he didn't know about that.

'Not blowingat least' said Paul'but sounding in the air like
the sea sounds in the shells. It was a beautiful night. When I had
listened to the water for a long timeI got up and looked out. There
was a boat over therein the full light of the moon; a boat with a
sail.'

The child looked at him so steadfastlyand spoke so earnestly
that Mr Tootsfeeling himself called upon to say something about this
boatsaid'Smugglers.' But with an impartial remembrance of there


being two sides to every questionhe added'or Preventive.'

'A boat with a sail' repeated Paul'in the full light of the
moon. The sail like an armall silver. It went away into the
distanceand what do you think it seemed to do as it moved with the
waves?'

'Pitch' said Mr Toots.

'It seemed to beckon' said the child'to beckon me to come! -
There she is! There she is!'

Toots was almost beside himself with dismay at this sudden
exclamationafter what had gone beforeand cried 'Who?'

'My sister Florence!' cried Paul'looking up hereand waving her
hand. She sees me - she sees me! Good-nightdeargood-night
good-night.'

His quick transition to a state of unbounded pleasureas he stood
at his windowkissing and clapping his hands: and the way in which
the light retreated from his features as she passed out of his view
and left a patient melancholy on the little face: were too remarkable
wholly to escape even Toots's notice. Their interview being
interrupted at this moment by a visit from Mrs Pipchinwho usually
brought her black skirts to bear upon Paul just before duskonce or
twice a weekToots had no opportunity of improving the occasion: but
it left so marked an impression on his mind that he twice returned
after having exchanged the usual salutationsto ask Mrs Pipchin how
she did. This the irascible old lady conceived to be a deeply devised
and long-meditated insultoriginating in the diabolical invention of
the weak-eyed young man downstairsagainst whom she accordingly
lodged a formal complaint with Doctor Blimber that very night; who
mentioned to the young man that if he ever did it againhe should be
obliged to part with him.

The evenings being longer nowPaul stole up to his window every
evening to look out for Florence. She always passed and repassed at a
certain timeuntil she saw him; and their mutual recognition was a
gleam of sunshine in Paul's daily life. Often after darkone other
figure walked alone before the Doctor's house. He rarely joined them
on the Saturdays now. He could not bear it. He would rather come
unrecognisedand look up at the windows where his son was qualifying
for a man; and waitand watchand planand hope.

Oh! could he but have seenor seen as others didthe slight spare
boy abovewatching the waves and clouds at twilightwith his earnest
eyesand breasting the window of his solitary cage when birds flew
byas if he would have emulated themand soared away!

CHAPTER 13.

Shipping Intelligence and Office Business

Mr Dombey's offices were in a court where there was an
old-established stall of choice fruit at the corner: where
perambulating merchantsof both sexesoffered for sale at any time
between the hours of ten and fiveslipperspocket-bookssponges
dogs' collarsand Windsor soap; and sometimes a pointer or an
oil-painting.


The pointer always came that waywith a view to the Stock
Exchangewhere a sporting taste (originating generally in bets of new
hats) is much in vogue. The other commodities were addressed to the
general public; but they were never offered by the vendors to Mr
Dombey. When he appearedthe dealers in those wares fell off
respectfully. The principal slipper and dogs' collar man - who
considered himself a public characterand whose portrait was screwed
on to an artist's door in Cheapside - threw up his forefinger to the
brim of his hat as Mr Dombey went by. The ticket-porterif he were
not absent on a jobalways ran officiously beforeto open Mr
Dombey's office door as wide as possibleand hold it openwith his
hat offwhile he entered.

The clerks within were not a whit behind-hand in their
demonstrations of respect. A solemn hush prevailedas Mr Dombey
passed through the outer office. The wit of the Counting-House became
in a moment as mute as the row of leathern fire-buckets hanging up
behind him. Such vapid and flat daylight as filtered through the
ground-glass windows and skylightsleaving a black sediment upon the
panesshowed the books and papersand the figures bending over them
enveloped in a studious gloomand as much abstracted in appearance
from the world withoutas if they were assembled at the bottom of the
sea; while a mouldy little strong room in the obscure perspective
where a shaded lamp was always burningmight have represented the
cavern of some ocean monsterlooking on with a red eye at these
mysteries of the deep.

When Perch the messengerwhose place was on a little bracketlike
a timepiecesaw Mr Dombey come in - or rather when he felt that he
was comingfor he had usually an instinctive sense of his approach he
hurried into Mr Dombey's roomstirred the firecarried fresh
coals from the bowels of the coal-boxhung the newspaper to air upon
the fenderput the chair readyand the screen in its placeand was
round upon his heel on the instant of Mr Dombey's entranceto take
his great-coat and hatand hang them up. Then Perch took the
newspaperand gave it a turn or two in his hands before the fireand
laid itdeferentiallyat Mr Dombey's elbow. And so little objection
had Perch to being deferential in the last degreethat if he might
have laid himself at Mr Dombey's feetor might have called him by
some such title as used to be bestowed upon the Caliph Haroun
Alraschidhe would have been all the better pleased.

As this honour would have been an innovation and an experiment
Perch was fain to content himself by expressing as well as he could
in his mannerYou are the light of my Eyes. You are the Breath of my
Soul. You are the commander of the Faithful Perch! With this imperfect
happiness to cheer himhe would shut the door softlywalk away on
tiptoeand leave his great chief to be stared atthrough a
dome-shaped window in the leadsby ugly chimney-pots and backs of
housesand especially by the bold window of a hair-cutting saloon on
a first floorwhere a waxen effigybald as a Mussulman in the
morningand coveredafter eleven o'clock in the daywith luxuriant
hair and whiskers in the latest Christian fashionshowed him the
wrong side of its head for ever.

Between Mr Dombey and the common worldas it was accessible
through the medium of the outer office - to which Mr Dombey's presence
in his own room may be said to have struck like dampor cold air there
were two degrees of descent. Mr Carker in his own office was the
first step; Mr Morfinin his own officewas the second. Each of
these gentlemen occupied a little chamber like a bath-roomopening
from the passage outside Mr Dombey's door. Mr Carkeras Grand Vizier
inhabited the room that was nearest to the Sultan. Mr Morfinas an


officer of inferior stateinhabited the room that was nearest to the
clerks.

The gentleman last mentioned was a cheerful-lookinghazel-eyed
elderly bachelor: gravely attiredas to his upper manin black; and
as to his legsin pepper-and-salt colour. His dark hair was just
touched here and there with specks of grayas though the tread of
Time had splashed it; and his whiskers were already white. He had a
mighty respect for Mr Dombeyand rendered him due homage; but as he
was of a genial temper himselfand never wholly at his ease in that
stately presencehe was disquieted by no jealousy of the many
conferences enjoyed by Mr Carkerand felt a secret satisfaction in
having duties to dischargewhich rarely exposed him to be singled out
for such distinction. He was a great musical amateur in his way after
business; and had a paternal affection for his violoncello
which was once in every week transported from Islingtonhis place of
abodeto a certain club-room hard by the Bankwhere quartettes of
the most tormenting and excruciating nature were executed every
Wednesday evening by a private party.

Mr Carker was a gentleman thirty-eight or forty years oldof a
florid complexionand with two unbroken rows of glistening teeth
whose regularity and whiteness were quite distressing. It was
impossible to escape the observation of themfor he showed them
whenever he spoke; and bore so wide a smile upon his countenance (a
smilehoweververy rarelyindeedextending beyond his mouth)that
there was something in it like the snarl of a cat. He affected a stiff
white cravatafter the example of his principaland was always
closely buttoned up and tightly dressed. His manner towards Mr Dombey
was deeply conceived and perfectly expressed. He was familiar with
himin the very extremity of his sense of the distance between them.
'Mr Dombeyto a man in your position from a man in minethere is no
show of subservience compatible with the transaction of business
between usthat I should think sufficient. I frankly tell youSirI
give it up altogether. I feel that I could not satisfy my own mind;
and Heaven knowsMr Dombeyyou can afford to dispense with the
endeavour.' If he had carried these words about with him printed on a
placardand had constantly offered it to Mr Dombey's perusal on the
breast of his coathe could not have been more explicit than he was.

This was Carker the Manager. Mr Carker the JuniorWalter's friend
was his brother; two or three years older than hebut widely removed
in station. The younger brother's post was on the top of the official
ladder; the elder brother's at the bottom. The elder brother never
gained a staveor raised his foot to mount one. Young men passed
above his headand rose and rose; but he was always at the bottom. He
was quite resigned to occupy that low condition: never complained of
it: and certainly never hoped to escape from it.

'How do you do this morning?' said Mr Carker the Managerentering
Mr Dombey's room soon after his arrival one day: with a bundle of
papers in his hand.

'How do you doCarker?' said Mr Dombey.

'Coolish!' observed Carkerstirring the fire.

'Rather' said Mr Dombey.

'Any news of the young gentleman who is so important to us all?'
asked Carkerwith his whole regiment of teeth on parade.

'Yes - not direct news- I hear he's very well' said Mr Dombey. Who
had come from Brighton over-night. But no one knew It.


'Very welland becoming a great scholarno doubt?' observed the
Manager.

'I hope so' returned Mr Dombey.

'Egad!' said Mr Carkershaking his head'Time flies!'

'I think sosometimes' returned Mr Dombeyglancing at his
newspaper.

'Oh! You! You have no reason to think so' observed Carker. 'One
who sits on such an elevation as yoursand can sit thereunmovedin
all seasons - hasn't much reason to know anything about the flight of
time. It's men like myselfwho are low down and are not superior in
circumstancesand who inherit new masters in the course of Timethat
have cause to look about us. I shall have a rising sun to worship
soon.'

'Time enoughtime enoughCarker!' said Mr Dombeyrising from his
chairand standing with his back to the fire. 'Have you anything
there for me?'

'I don't know that I need trouble you' returned Carkerturning
over the papers in his hand. 'You have a committee today at threeyou
know.'

'And one at threethree-quarters' added Mr Dombey.

'Catch you forgetting anything!' exclaimed Carkerstill turning
over his papers. 'If Mr Paul inherits your memoryhe'll be a
troublesome customer in the House. One of you is enough'

'You have an accurate memory of your own' said Mr Dombey.

'Oh! I!' returned the manager. 'It's the only capital of a man like
me.'

Mr Dombey did not look less pompous or at all displeasedas he
stood leaning against the chimney-piecesurveying his (of course
unconscious) clerkfrom head to foot. The stiffness and nicety of Mr
Carker's dressand a certain arrogance of mannereither natural to
him or imitated from a pattern not far offgave great additional
effect to his humility. He seemed a man who would contend against the
power that vanquished himif he couldbut who was utterly borne down
by the greatness and superiority of Mr Dombey.

'Is Morfin here?' asked Mr Dombey after a short pauseduring which
Mr Carker had been fluttering his papersand muttering little
abstracts of their contents to himself.

'Morfin's here' he answeredlooking up with his widest and almost
sudden smile; 'humming musical recollections - of his last night's
quartette partyI suppose - through the walls between usand driving
me half mad. I wish he'd make a bonfire of his violoncelloand burn
his music-books in it.'

'You respect nobodyCarkerI think' said Mr Dombey.

'No?' inquired Carkerwith another wide and most feline show of
his teeth. 'Well! Not many peopleI believe. I wouldn't answer
perhaps' he murmuredas if he were only thinking it'for more than
one.'


A dangerous qualityif real; and a not less dangerous oneif
feigned. But Mr Dombey hardly seemed to think soas he still stood
with his back to the firedrawn up to his full heightand looking at
his head-clerk with a dignified composurein which there seemed to
lurk a stronger latent sense of power than usual.

'Talking of Morfin' resumed Mr Carkertaking out one paper from
the rest'he reports a junior dead in the agency at Barbadosand
proposes to reserve a passage in the Son and Heir - she'll sail in a
month or so - for the successor. You don't care who goesI suppose?
We have nobody of that sort here.'

Mr Dombey shook his head with supreme indifference.

'It's no very precious appointment' observed Mr Carkertaking up
a penwith which to endorse a memorandum on the back of the paper. 'I
hope he may bestow it on some orphan nephew of a musical friend. It
may perhaps stop his fiddle-playingif he has a gift that way. Who's
that? Come in!'

'I beg your pardonMr Carker. I didn't know you were hereSir'
answered Walter; appearing with some letters in his handunopened
and newly arrived. 'Mr Carker the juniorSir - '

At the mention of this nameMr Carker the Manager was or affected
to betouched to the quick with shame and humiliation. He cast his
eyes full on Mr Dombey with an altered and apologetic lookabased
them on the groundand remained for a moment without speaking.

'I thoughtSir' he said suddenly and angrilyturning on Walter
'that you had been before requested not to drag Mr Carker the Junior
into your conversation.'

'I beg your pardon' returned Walter. 'I was only going to say that
Mr Carker the Junior had told me he believed you were gone outor I
should not have knocked at the door when you were engaged with Mr
Dombey. These are letters for Mr DombeySir.'

'Very wellSir' returned Mr Carker the Managerplucking them
sharply from his hand. 'Go about your business.'

But in taking them with so little ceremonyMr Carker dropped one
on the floorand did not see what he had done; neither did Mr Dombey
observe the letter lying near his feet. Walter hesitated for a moment
thinking that one or other of them would notice it; but finding that
neither didhe stoppedcame backpicked it upand laid it himself
on Mr Dombey's desk. The letters were post-letters; and it happened
that the one in question was Mrs Pipchin's regular reportdirected as
usual - for Mrs Pipchin was but an indifferent penwoman - by Florence.
Mr Dombeyhaving his attention silently called to this letter by
Walterstartedand looked fiercely at himas if he believed that he
had purposely selected it from all the rest.

'You can leave the roomSir!' said Mr Dombeyhaughtily.

He crushed the letter in his hand; and having watched Walter out at
the doorput it in his pocket without breaking the seal.

'These continual references to Mr Carker the Junior' Mr Carker the
Manager beganas soon as they were alone'areto a man in my
positionuttered before one in yoursso unspeakably distressing - '

'NonsenseCarker' Mr Dombey interrupted. 'You are too sensitive.'


'I am sensitive' he returned. 'If one in your position could by
any possibility imagine yourself in my place: which you cannot: you
would be so too.'

As Mr Dombey's thoughts were evidently pursuing some other subject
his discreet ally broke off hereand stood with his teeth ready to
present to himwhen he should look up.

'You want somebody to send to the West Indiesyou were saying'
observed Mr Dombeyhurriedly.

'Yes' replied Carker.

'Send young Gay.'

'Goodvery good indeed. Nothing easier' said Mr Carkerwithout
any show of surpriseand taking up the pen to re-endorse the letter
as coolly as he had done before. '"Send young Gay."'

'Call him back' said Mr Dombey.

Mr Carker was quick to do soand Walter was quick to return.

'Gay' said Mr Dombeyturning a little to look at him over his
shoulder. 'Here is a


'An opening' said Mr Carkerwith his mouth stretched to the
utmost.

'In the West Indies. At Barbados. I am going to send you' said Mr
Dombeyscorning to embellish the bare truth'to fill a junior
situation in the counting-house at Barbados. Let your Uncle know from
methat I have chosen you to go to the West Indies.'

Walter's breath was so completely taken away by his astonishment
that he could hardly find enough for the repetition of the words 'West
Indies.'

'Somebody must go' said Mr Dombey'and you are young and healthy
and your Uncle's circumstances are not good. Tell your Uncle that you
are appointed. You will not go yet. There will be an interval of a
month - or two perhaps.'

'Shall I remain thereSir?' inquired Walter.

'Will you remain thereSir!' repeated Mr Dombeyturning a little
more round towards him. 'What do you mean? What does he meanCarker?'

'Live thereSir' faltered Walter.

'Certainly' returned Mr Dombey.

Walter bowed.

'That's all' said Mr Dombeyresuming his letters. 'You will
explain to him in good time about the usual outfit and so forth
Carkerof course. He needn't waitCarker.'

'You needn't waitGay' observed Mr Carker: bare to the gums.

'Unless' said Mr Dombeystopping in his reading without looking
off the letterand seeming to listen. 'Unless he has anything to
say.'


'NoSir' returned Walteragitated and confusedand almost
stunnedas an infinite variety of pictures presented themselves to
his mind; among which Captain Cuttlein his glazed hattransfixed
with astonishment at Mrs MacStinger'sand his uncle bemoaning his
loss in the little back parlourheld prominent places. 'I hardly know

-I - I am much obligedSir.'
'He needn't waitCarker' said Mr Dombey.

And as Mr Carker again echoed the wordsand also collected his
papers as if he were going away tooWalter felt that his lingering
any longer would be an unpardonable intrusion - especially as he had
nothing to say - and therefore walked out quite confounded.

Going along the passagewith the mingled consciousness and
helplessness of a dreamhe heard Mr Dombey's door shut againas Mr
Carker came out: and immediately afterwards that gentleman called to
him.

'Bring your friend Mr Carker the Junior to my roomSirif you
please.'

Walter went to the outer office and apprised Mr Carker the Junior
of his errandwho accordingly came out from behind a partition where
he sat alone in one cornerand returned with him to the room of Mr
Carker the Manager.

That gentleman was standing with his back to the fireand his
hands under his coat-tailslooking over his white cravatas
unpromisingly as Mr Dombey himself could have looked. He received them
without any change in his attitude or softening of his harsh and black
expression: merely signing to Walter to close the door.

'John Carker' said the Managerwhen this was doneturning
suddenly upon his brotherwith his two rows of teeth bristling as if
he would have bitten him'what is the league between you and this
young manin virtue of which I am haunted and hunted by the mention
of your name? Is it not enough for youJohn Carkerthat I am your
near relationand can't detach myself from that - '

'Say disgraceJames' interposed the other in a low voicefinding
that he stammered for a word. 'You mean itand have reasonsay
disgrace.'

'From that disgrace' assented his brother with keen emphasis'but
is the fact to be blurted out and trumpetedand proclaimed
continually in the presence of the very House! In moments of
confidence too? Do you think your name is calculated to harmonise in
this place with trust and confidenceJohn Carker?'

'No' returned the other. 'NoJames. God knows I have no such
thought.'

'What is your thoughtthen?' said his brother'and why do you
thrust yourself in my way? Haven't you injured me enough already?'

'I have never injured youJameswilfully.'

'You are my brother' said the Manager. 'That's injury enough.'

'I wish I could undo itJames.'

'I wish you could and would.'


During this conversationWalter had looked from one brother to the
otherwith pain and amazement. He who was the Senior in yearsand
Junior in the Housestoodwith his eyes cast upon the groundand
his head bowedhumbly listening to the reproaches of the other.
Though these were rendered very bitter by the tone and look with which
they were accompaniedand by the presence of Walter whom they so much
surprised and shockedhe entered no other protest against them than
by slightly raising his right hand in a deprecatory manneras if he
would have said'Spare me!' Sohad they been blowsand he a brave
manunder strong constraintand weakened by bodily sufferinghe
might have stood before the executioner.

Generous and quick in all his emotionsand regarding himself as
the innocent occasion of these tauntsWalter now struck inwith all
the earnestness he felt.

'Mr Carker' he saidaddressing himself to the Manager. 'Indeed
indeedthis is my fault solely. In a kind of heedlessnessfor which
I cannot blame myself enoughI haveI have no doubtmentioned Mr
Carker the Junior much oftener than was necessary; and have allowed
his name sometimes to slip through my lipswhen it was against your
expressed wish. But it has been my own mistakeSir. We have never
exchanged one word upon the subject - very fewindeedon any
subject. And it has not been' added Walterafter a moment's pause
'all heedlessness on my partSir; for I have felt an interest in Mr
Carker ever since I have been hereand have hardly been able to help
speaking of him sometimeswhen I have thought of him so much!'

Walter said this from his souland with the very breath of honour.
For he looked upon the bowed headand the downcast eyesand upraised
handand thought'I have felt it; and why should I not avow it in
behalf of this unfriendedbroken man!'

Mr Carker the Manager looked at himas he spokeand when he had
finished speakingwith a smile that seemed to divide his face into
two parts.

'You are an excitable youthGay' he said; 'and should endeavour
to cool down a little nowfor it would be unwise to encourage
feverish predispositions. Be as cool as you canGay. Be as cool as
you can. You might have asked Mr John Carker himself (if you have not
done so) whether he claims to beor isan object of such strong
interest.'

'Jamesdo me justice' said his brother. 'I have claimed nothing;
and I claim nothing. Believe meon my


'Honour?' said his brotherwith another smileas he warmed
himself before the fire.

'On my Me - on my fallen life!' returned the otherin the same low
voicebut with a deeper stress on his words than he had yet seemed
capable of giving them. 'Believe meI have held myself aloofand
kept alone. This has been unsought by me. I have avoided him and
everyone.

'Indeedyou have avoided meMr Carker' said Walterwith the
tears rising to his eyes; so true was his compassion. 'I know itto
my disappointment and regret. When I first came hereand ever since
I am sure I have tried to be as much your friendas one of my age
could presume to be; but it has been of no use.

'And observe' said the Managertaking him up quickly'it will be
of still less useGayif you persist in forcing Mr John Carker's


name on people's attention. That is not the way to befriend Mr John
Carker. Ask him if he thinks it is.'

'It is no service to me' said the brother. 'It only leads to such
a conversation as the presentwhich I need not say I could have well
spared. No one can be a better friend to me:' he spoke here very
distinctlyas if he would impress it upon Walter: 'than in forgetting
meand leaving me to go my wayunquestioned and unnoticed.'

'Your memory not being retentiveGayof what you are told by
others' said Mr Carker the Managerwarming himself with great and
increased satisfaction'I thought it well that you should be told
this from the best authority' nodding towards his brother. 'You are
not likely to forget it nowI hope. That's allGay. You can go.

Walter passed out at the doorand was about to close it after him
whenhearing the voices of the brothers againand also the mention
of his own namehe stood irresolutelywith his hand upon the lock
and the door ajaruncertain whether to return or go away. In this
position he could not help overhearing what followed.

'Think of me more lenientlyif you canJames' said John Carker
'when I tell you I have had - how could I help havingwith my
historywritten here' - striking himself upon the breast - 'my whole
heart awakened by my observation of that boyWalter Gay. I saw in him
when he first came herealmost my other self.'

'Your other self!' repeated the Managerdisdainfully.

'Not as I ambut as I was when I first came here too; as sanguine
giddyyouthfulinexperienced; flushed with the same restless and
adventurous fancies; and full of the same qualitiesfraught with the
same capacity of leading on to good or evil.'

'I hope not' said his brotherwith some hidden and sarcastic
meaning in his tone.

'You strike me sharply; and your hand is steadyand your thrust is
very deep' returned the otherspeaking (or so Walter thought) as if
some cruel weapon actually stabbed him as he spoke. 'I imagined all
this when he was a boy. I believed it. It was a truth to me. I saw him
lightly walking on the edge of an unseen gulf where so many others
walk with equal gaietyand from which

'The old excuse' interrupted his brotheras he stirred the fire.
'So many. Go on. Sayso many fall.'

'From which ONE traveller fell' returned the other'who set
forwardon his waya boy like himand missed his footing more and
moreand slipped a little and a little lower; and went on stumbling
stilluntil he fell headlong and found himself below a shattered man.
Think what I sufferedwhen I watched that boy.'

'You have only yourself to thank for it' returned the brother.

'Only myself' he assented with a sigh. 'I don't seek to divide the
blame or shame.'

'You have divided the shame' James Carker muttered through his
teeth. Andthrough so many and such close teethhe could mutter
well.

'AhJames' returned his brotherspeaking for the first time in
an accent of reproachand seemingby the sound of his voiceto have


covered his face with his hands'I have beensince thena useful
foil to you. You have trodden on me freely in your climbing up. Don't
spurn me with your heel!'

A silence ensued. After a timeMr Carker the Manager was heard
rustling among his papersas if he had resolved to bring the
interview to a conclusion. At the same time his brother withdrew
nearer to the door.

'That's all' he said. 'I watched him with such trembling and such
fearas was some little punishment to meuntil he passed the place
where I first fell; and thenthough I had been his fatherI believe
I never could have thanked God more devoutly. I didn't dare to warn
himand advise him; but if I had seen direct causeI would have
shown him my example. I was afraid to be seen speaking with himlest
it should be thought I did him harmand tempted him to eviland
corrupted him: or lest I really should. There may be such contagion in
me; I don't know. Piece out my historyin connexion with young Walter
Gayand what he has made me feel; and think of me more leniently
Jamesif you can.

With these words he came out to where Walter was standing. He
turned a little paler when he saw him thereand paler yet when Walter
caught him by the handand said in a whisper:

'Mr Carkerpray let me thank you! Let me say how much I feel for
you! How sorry I amto have been the unhappy cause of all this! How I
almost look upon you now as my protector and guardian! How veryvery
muchI feel obliged to you and pity you!' said Waltersqueezing both
his handsand hardly knowingin his agitationwhat he did or said.

Mr Morfin's room being close at hand and emptyand the door wide
openthey moved thither by one accord: the passage being seldom free
from someone passing to or fro. When they were thereand Walter saw
in Mr Carker's face some traces of the emotion withinhe almost felt
as if he had never seen the face before; it was so greatly changed.

'Walter' he saidlaying his hand on his shoulder. 'I am far
removed from youand may I ever be. Do you know what I am?'

'What you are!' appeared to hang on Walter's lipsas he regarded
him attentively.

'It was begun' said Carker'before my twenty-first birthday - led
up tolong beforebut not begun till near that time. I had robbed
them when I came of age. I robbed them afterwards. Before my
twenty-second birthdayit was all found out; and thenWalterfrom
all men's societyI died.'

Again his last few words hung trembling upon Walter's lipsbut he
could neither utter themnor any of his own.

'The House was very good to me. May Heaven reward the old man for
his forbearance! This onetoohis sonwho was then newly in the
Firmwhere I had held great trust! I was called into that room which
is now his - I have never entered it since - and came outwhat you
know me. For many years I sat in my present seatalone as nowbut
then a known and recognised example to the rest. They were all
merciful to meand I lived. Time has altered that part of my poor
expiation; and I thinkexcept the three heads of the Housethere is
no one here who knows my story rightly. Before the little boy grows
upand has it told to himmy corner may be vacant. I would rather
that it might be so! This is the only change to me since that day
when I left all youthand hopeand good men's companybehind me in


that room. God bless youWalter! Keep youand all dear to youin
honestyor strike them dead!'

Some recollection of his trembling from head to footas if with
excessive coldand of his bursting into tearswas all that Walter
could add to thiswhen he tried to recall exactly what had passed
between them.

When Walter saw him nexthe was bending over his desk in his old
silentdroopinghumbled way. Thenobserving him at his workand
feeling how resolved he evidently was that no further intercourse
should arise between themand thinking again and again on all he had
seen and heard that morning in so short a timein connexion with the
history of both the CarkersWalter could hardly believe that he was
under orders for the West Indiesand would soon be lost to Uncle Sol
and Captain Cuttleand to glimpses few and far between of Florence
Dombey - nohe meant Paul - and to all he lovedand likedand
looked forin his daily life.

But it was trueand the news had already penetrated to the outer
office; for while he sat with a heavy heartpondering on these
thingsand resting his head upon his armPerch the messenger
descending from his mahogany bracketand jogging his elbowbegged
his pardonbut wished to say in his earDid he think he could
arrange to send home to England a jar of preserved Gingercheapfor
Mrs Perch's own eatingin the course of her recovery from her next
confinement?

CHAPTER 14.

Paul grows more and more Old-fashionedand goes Home for the Holidays

When the Midsummer vacation approachedno indecent manifestations
of joy were exhibited by the leaden-eyed young gentlemen assembled at
Doctor Blimber's. Any such violent expression as 'breaking up' would
have been quite inapplicable to that polite establishment. The young
gentlemen oozed awaysemi-annuallyto their own homes; but they
never broke up. They would have scorned the action.

Tozerwho was constantly galled and tormented by a starched white
cambric neckerchiefwhich he wore at the express desire of Mrs Tozer
his parentwhodesigning him for the Churchwas of opinion that he
couldn't be in that forward state of preparation too soon - Tozer
saidindeedthat choosing between two evilshe thought he would
rather stay where he wasthan go home. However inconsistent this
declaration might appear with that passage in Tozer's Essay on the
subjectwherein he had observed 'that the thoughts of home and all
its recollectionsawakened in his mind the most pleasing emotions of
anticipation and delight' and had also likened himself to a Roman
Generalflushed with a recent victory over the Icenior laden with
Carthaginian spoiladvancing within a few hours' march of the
Capitolpresupposedfor the purposes of the simileto be the
dwelling-place of Mrs Tozerstill it was very sincerely made. For it
seemed that Tozer had a dreadful Unclewho not only volunteered
examinations of himin the holidayson abstruse pointsbut twisted
innocent events and thingsand wrenched them to the same fell
purpose. So that if this Uncle took him to the Playoron a similar
pretence of kindnesscarried him to see a Giantor a Dwarfor a
Conjuroror anythingTozer knew he had read up some classical
allusion to the subject beforehandand was thrown into a state of


mortal apprehension: not foreseeing where he might break outor what
authority he might not quote against him.

As to Briggshis father made no show of artifice about it. He
never would leave him alone. So numerous and severe were the mental
trials of that unfortunate youth in vacation timethat the friends of
the family (then resident near BayswaterLondon) seldom approached
the ornamental piece of water in Kensington Gardens' without a vague
expectation of seeing Master Briggs's hat floating on the surfaceand
an unfinished exercise lying on the bank. Briggsthereforewas not
at all sanguine on the subject of holidays; and these two sharers of
little Paul's bedroom were so fair a sample of the young gentlemen in
generalthat the most elastic among them contemplated the arrival of
those festive periods with genteel resignation.

It was far otherwise with little Paul. The end of these first
holidays was to witness his separation from Florencebut who ever
looked forward to the end of holidays whose beginning was not yet
come! Not Paulassuredly. As the happy time drew nearthe lions and
tigers climbing up the bedroom walls became quite tame and frolicsome.
The grim sly faces in the squares and diamonds of the floor-cloth
relaxed and peeped out at him with less wicked eyes. The grave old
clock had more of personal interest in the tone of its formal inquiry;
and the restless sea went rolling on all nightto the sounding of a
melancholy strain - yet it was pleasant too - that rose and fell with
the wavesand rocked himas it wereto sleep.

Mr FeederB.A.seemed to think that hetoowould enjoy the
holidays very much. Mr Toots projected a life of holidays from that
time forth; foras he regularly informed Paul every dayit was his
'last half' at Doctor Blimber'sand he was going to begin to come
into his property directly.

It was perfectly understood between Paul and Mr Tootsthat they
were intimate friendsnotwithstanding their distance in point of
years and station. As the vacation approachedand Mr Toots breathed
harder and stared oftener in Paul's societythan he had done before
Paul knew that he meant he was sorry they were going to lose sight of
each otherand felt very much obliged to him for his patronage and
good opinion.

It was even understood by Doctor BlimberMrs Blimberand Miss
Blimberas well as by the young gentlemen in generalthat Toots had
somehow constituted himself protector and guardian of Dombeyand the
circumstance became so notoriouseven to Mrs Pipchinthat the good
old creature cherished feelings of bitterness and jealousy against
Toots; andin the sanctuary of her own homerepeatedly denounced him
as a 'chuckle-headed noodle.' Whereas the innocent Toots had no more
idea of awakening Mrs Pipchin's wraththan he had of any other
definite possibility or proposition. On the contraryhe was disposed
to consider her rather a remarkable characterwith many points of
interest about her. For this reason he smiled on her with so much
urbanityand asked her how she didso oftenin the course of her
visits to little Paulthat at last she one night told him plainly
she wasn't used to itwhatever he might think; and she could notand
she would not bear iteither from himself or any other puppy then
existing: at which unexpected acknowledgment of his civilitiesMr
Toots was so alarmed that he secreted himself in a retired spot until
she had gone. Nor did he ever again face the doughty Mrs Pipchin
under Doctor Blimber's roof.

They were within two or three weeks of the holidayswhenone day
Cornelia Blimber called Paul into her roomand said'DombeyI am
going to send home your analysis.'


'Thank youMa'am' returned Paul.

'You know what I meando youDombey?' inquired Miss Blimber
looking hard at himthrough the spectacles.

'NoMa'am' said Paul.

'DombeyDombey' said Miss Blimber'I begin to be afraid you are
a sad boy. When you don't know the meaning of an expressionwhy don't
you seek for information?'

'Mrs Pipchin told me I wasn't to ask questions' returned Paul.

'I must beg you not to mention Mrs Pipchin to meon any account
Dombey' returned Miss Blimber. 'I couldn't think of allowing it. The
course of study hereis very far removed from anything of that sort.
A repetition of such allusions would make it necessary for me to
request to hearwithout a mistakebefore breakfast-time to-morrow
morningfrom Verbum personale down to simillimia cygno.'

'I didn't meanMa'am - ' began little Paul.

'I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn't meanif you
pleaseDombey' said Miss Blimberwho preserved an awful politeness
in her admonitions. 'That is a line of argument I couldn't dream of
permitting.'

Paul felt it safest to say nothing at allso he only looked at
Miss Blimber's spectacles. Miss Blimber having shaken her head at him
gravelyreferred to a paper lying before her.

'"Analysis of the character of P. Dombey." If my recollection
serves me' said Miss Blimber breaking off'the word analysis as
opposed to synthesisis thus defined by Walker. "The resolution of an
objectwhether of the senses or of the intellectinto its first
elements." As opposed to synthesisyou observe. Now you know what
analysis isDombey.'

Dombey didn't seem to be absolutely blinded by the light let in
upon his intellectbut he made Miss Blimber a little bow.

'"Analysis' resumed Miss Blimber, casting her eye over the paper,
'of the character of P. Dombey." I find that the natural capacity of
Dombey is extremely good; and that his general disposition to study
may be stated in an equal ratio. Thustaking eight as our standard
and highest numberI find these qualities in Dombey stated each at
six three-fourths!'

Miss Blimber paused to see how Paul received this news. Being
undecided whether six three-fourths meant six pounds fifteenor
sixpence three farthingsor six foot threeor three quarters past
sixor six somethings that he hadn't learnt yetwith three unknown
something elses overPaul rubbed his hands and looked straight at
Miss Blimber. It happened to answer as well as anything else he could
have done; and Cornelia proceeded.

'"Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low companyas
evinced in the case of a person named Glubboriginally sevenbut
since reduced. Gentlemanly demeanour fourand improving with
advancing years." Now what I particularly wish to call your attention
toDombeyis the general observation at the close of this analysis.'

Paul set himself to follow it with great care.


'"It may be generally observed of Dombey' said Miss Blimber,
reading in a loud voice, and at every second word directing her
spectacles towards the little figure before her: 'that his abilities
and inclinations are goodand that he has made as much progress as
under the circumstances could have been expected. But it is to be
lamented of this young gentleman that he is singular (what is usually
termed old-fashioned) in his character and conductand thatwithout
presenting anything in either which distinctly calls for reprobation
he is often very unlike other young gentlemen of his age and social
position." NowDombey' said Miss Blimberlaying down the paper'do
you understand that?'

'I think I doMa'am' said Paul.

'This analysisyou seeDombey' Miss Blimber continued'is going
to be sent home to your respected parent. It will naturally be very
painful to him to find that you are singular in your character and
conduct. It is naturally painful to us; for we can't like youyou
knowDombeyas well as we could wish.'

She touched the child upon a tender point. He had secretly become
more and more solicitous from day to dayas the time of his departure
drew more nearthat all the house should like him. From some hidden
reasonvery imperfectly understood by himself - if understood at all

-he felt a gradually increasing impulse of affectiontowards almost
everything and everybody in the place. He could not bear to think that
they would be quite indifferent to him when he was gone. He wanted
them to remember him kindly; and he had made it his business even to
conciliate a great hoarse shaggy dogchained up at the back of the
housewho had previously been the terror of his life: that even he
might miss him when he was no longer there.
Little thinking that in thishe only showed again the difference
between himself and his compeerspoor tiny Paul set it forth to Miss
Blimber as well as he couldand begged herin despite of the
official analysisto have the goodness to try and like him. To Mrs
Blimberwho had joined themhe preferred the same petition: and when
that lady could not forbeareven in his presencefrom giving
utterance to her often-repeated opinionthat he was an odd child
Paul told her that he was sure she was quite right; that he thought it
must be his bonesbut he didn't know; and that he hoped she would
overlook itfor he was fond of them all.

'Not so fond' said Paulwith a mixture of timidity and perfect
franknesswhich was one of the most peculiar and most engaging
qualities of the child'not so fond as I am of Florenceof course;
that could never be. You couldn't expect thatcould youMa'am?'

'Oh! the old-fashioned little soul!' cried Mrs Blimberin a
whisper.

'But I like everybody here very much' pursued Paul'and I should
grieve to go awayand think that anyone was glad that I was goneor
didn't care.'

Mrs Blimber was now quite sure that Paul was the oddest child in
the world; and when she told the Doctor what had passedthe Doctor
did not controvert his wife's opinion. But he saidas he had said
beforewhen Paul first camethat study would do much; and he also
saidas he had said on that occasion'Bring him onCornelia! Bring
him on!'

Cornelia had always brought him on as vigorously as she could; and


Paul had had a hard life of it. But over and above the getting through
his taskshe had long had another purpose always present to himand
to which he still held fast. It wasto be a gentleusefulquiet
little fellowalways striving to secure the love and attachment of
the rest; and though he was yet often to be seen at his old post on
the stairsor watching the waves and clouds from his solitary window
he was oftener foundtooamong the other boysmodestly rendering
them some little voluntary service. Thus it came to passthat even
among those rigid and absorbed young anchoriteswho mortified
themselves beneath the roof of Doctor BlimberPaul was an object of
general interest; a fragile little plaything that they all likedand
that no one would have thought of treating roughly. But he could not
change his natureor rewrite the analysis; and so they all agreed
that Dombey was old-fashioned.

There were some immunitieshoweverattaching to the character
enjoyed by no one else. They could have better spared a
newer-fashioned childand that alone was much. When the others only
bowed to Doctor Blimber and family on retiring for the nightPaul
would stretch out his morsel of a handand boldly shake the Doctor's;
also Mrs Blimber's; also Cornelia's. If anybody was to be begged off
from impending punishmentPaul was always the delegate. The weak-eyed
young man himself had once consulted himin reference to a little
breakage of glass and china. And it was darKly rumoured that the
butlerregarding him with favour such as that stern man had never
shown before to mortal boyhad sometimes mingled porter with his
table-beer to make him strong.

Over and above these extensive privilegesPaul had free right of
entry to Mr Feeder's roomfrom which apartment he had twice led Mr
Toots into the open air in a state of faintnessconsequent on an
unsuccessful attempt to smoke a very blunt cigar: one of a bundle
which that young gentleman had covertly purchased on the shingle from
a most desperate smugglerwho had acknowledgedin confidencethat
two hundred pounds was the price set upon his headdead or aliveby
the Custom House. It was a snug roomMr Feeder'swith his bed in
another little room inside of it; and a flutewhich Mr Feeder
couldn't play yetbut was going to make a point of learninghe said
hanging up over the fireplace. There were some books in ittooand a
fishing-rod; for Mr Feeder said he should certainly make a point of
learning to fishwhen he could find time. Mr Feeder had amassedwith
similar intentionsa beautiful little curly secondhand key-buglea
chess-board and mena Spanish Grammara set of sketching materials
and a pair of boxing-gloves. The art of self-defence Mr Feeder said he
should undoubtedly make a point of learningas he considered it the
duty of every man to do; for it might lead to the protection of a
female in distress. But Mr Feeder's great possession was a large green
jar of snuffwhich Mr Toots had brought down as a presentat the
close of the last vacation; and for which he had paid a high price
having been the genuine property of the Prince Regent. Neither Mr
Toots nor Mr Feeder could partake of this or any other snuffeven in
the most stinted and moderate degreewithout being seized with
convulsions of sneezing. Nevertheless it was their great delight to
moisten a box-full with cold teastir it up on a piece of parchment
with a paper-knifeand devote themselves to its consumption then and
there. In the course of which cramming of their nosesthey endured
surprising torments with the constancy of martyrs: anddrinking
table-beer at intervalsfelt all the glories of dissipation.

To little Paul sitting silent in their companyand by the side of
his chief patronMr Tootsthere was a dread charm in these reckless
occasions: and when Mr Feeder spoke of the dark mysteries of London
and told Mr Toots that he was going to observe it himself closely in
all its ramifications in the approaching holidaysand for that


purpose had made arrangements to board with two old maiden ladies at
PeckhamPaul regarded him as if he were the hero of some book of
travels or wild adventureand was almost afraid of such a slashing
person.

Going into this room one eveningwhen the holidays were very near
Paul found Mr Feeder filling up the blanks in some printed letters
while some othersalready filled up and strewn before himwere being
folded and sealed by Mr Toots. Mr Feeder said'AhaDombeythere you
areare you?' - for they were always kind to himand glad to see him

-and then saidtossing one of the letters towards him'And there
you aretooDombey. That's yours.'
'MineSir?' said Paul.

'Your invitation' returned Mr Feeder.

Paullooking at itfoundin copper-plate printwith the
exception of his own name and the datewhich were in Mr Feeder's
penmanshipthat Doctor and Mrs Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr

P. Dombey's company at an early party on Wednesday Evening the
Seventeenth Instant; and that the hour was half-past seven o'clock;
and that the object was Quadrilles. Mr Toots also showed himby
holding up a companion sheet of paperthat Doctor and Mrs Blimber
requested the pleasure of Mr Toots's company at an early party on
Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth Instantwhen the hour was half-past
seven o'clockand when the object was Quadrilles. He also foundon
glancing at the table where Mr Feeder satthat the pleasure of Mr
Briggs's companyand of Mr Tozer's companyand of every young
gentleman's companywas requested by Doctor and Mrs Blimber on the
same genteel Occasion.
Mr Feeder then told himto his great joythat his sister was
invitedand that it was a half-yearly eventand thatas the
holidays began that dayhe could go away with his sister after the
partyif he likedwhich Paul interrupted him to say he would like
very much. Mr Feeder then gave him to understand that he would be
expected to inform Doctor and Mrs Blimberin superfine small-hand
that Mr P. Dombey would be happy to have the honour of waiting on
themin accordance with their polite invitation. LastlyMr Feeder
saidhe had better not refer to the festive occasionin the hearing
of Doctor and Mrs Blimber; as these preliminariesand the whole of
the arrangementswere conducted on principles of classicality and
high breeding; and that Doctor and Mrs Blimber on the one handand
the young gentlemen on the otherwere supposedin their scholastic
capacitiesnot to have the least idea of what was in the wind.

Paul thanked Mr Feeder for these hintsand pocketing his
invitationsat down on a stool by the side of Mr Tootsas usual. But
Paul's headwhich had long been ailing more or lessand was
sometimes very heavy and painfulfelt so uneasy that nightthat he
was obliged to support it on his hand. And yet it dropped sothat by
little and little it sunk on Mr Toots's kneeand rested thereas if
it had no care to be ever lifted up again.

That was no reason why he should be deaf; but he must have beenhe
thoughtforby and byhe heard Mr Feeder calling in his earand
gently shaking him to rouse his attention. And when he raised his
headquite scaredand looked about himhe found that Doctor Blimber
had come into the room; and that the window was openand that his
forehead was wet with sprinkled water; though how all this had been
done without his knowledgewas very curious indeed.

'Ah! Comecome! That's well! How is my little friend now?' said


Doctor Blimberencouragingly.

'Ohquite wellthank youSir' said Paul.

But there seemed to be something the matter with the floorfor he
couldn't stand upon it steadily; and with the walls toofor they were
inclined to turn round and roundand could only be stopped by being
looked at very hard indeed. Mr Toots's head had the appearance of
being at once bigger and farther off than was quite natural; and when
he took Paul in his armsto carry him upstairsPaul observed with
astonishment that the door was in quite a different place from that in
which he had expected to find itand almost thoughtat firstthat
Mr Toots was going to walk straight up the chimney.

It was very kind of Mr Toots to carry him to the top of the house
so tenderly; and Paul told him that it was. But Mr Toots said he would
do a great deal more than thatif he could; and indeed he did more as
it was: for he helped Paul to undressand helped him to bedin the
kindest manner possibleand then sat down by the bedside and chuckled
very much; while Mr FeederB.A.leaning over the bottom of the
bedsteadset all the little bristles on his head bolt upright with
his bony handsand then made believe to spar at Paul with great
scienceon account of his being all right againwhich was so
uncommonly facetiousand kind too in Mr Feederthat Paulnot being
able to make up his mind whether it was best to laugh or cry at him
did both at once.

How Mr Toots melted awayand Mr Feeder changed into Mrs Pipchin
Paul never thought of asking; neither was he at all curious to know;
but when he saw Mrs Pipchin standing at the bottom of the bedinstead
of Mr Feederhe cried out'Mrs Pipchindon't tell Florence!'

'Don't tell Florence whatmy little Paul?' said Mrs Pipchin
coming round to the bedsideand sitting down in the chair.

'About me' said Paul.

'Nono' said Mrs Pipchin.

'What do you think I mean to do when I grow upMrs Pipchin?'
inquired Paulturning his face towards her on his pillowand resting
his chin wistfully on his folded hands.

Mrs Pipchin couldn't guess.

'I mean' said Paul'to put my money all together in one Bank
never try to get any morego away into the country with my darling
Florencehave a beautiful gardenfieldsand woodsand live there
with her all my life!'

'Indeed!' cried Mrs Pipchin.

'Yes' said Paul. 'That's what I mean to dowhen I - ' He stopped
and pondered for a moment.

Mrs Pipchin's grey eye scanned his thoughtful face.

'If I grow up' said Paul. Then he went on immediately to tell Mrs
Pipchin all about the partyabout Florence's invitationabout the
pride he would have in the admiration that would be felt for her by
all the boysabout their being so kind to him and fond of himabout
his being so fond of themand about his being so glad of it. Then he
told Mrs Pipchin about the analysisand about his being certainly
old-fashionedand took Mrs Pipchin's opinion on that pointand


whether she knew why it wasand what it meant. Mrs Pipchin denied the
fact altogetheras the shortest way of getting out of the difficulty;
but Paul was far from satisfied with that replyand looked so
searchingly at Mrs Pipchin for a truer answerthat she was obliged to
get up and look out of the window to avoid his eyes.

There was a certain calm Apothecary'who attended at the
establishment when any of the young gentlemen were illand somehow he
got into the room and appeared at the bedsidewith Mrs Blimber. How
they came thereor how long they had been therePaul didn't know;
but when he saw themhe sat up in bedand answered all the
Apothecary's questions at full lengthand whispered to him that
Florence was not to know anything about itif he pleasedand that he
had set his mind upon her coming to the party. He was very chatty with
the Apothecaryand they parted excellent friends. Lying down again
with his eyes shuthe heard the Apothecary sayout of the room and
quite a long way off - or he dreamed it - that there was a want of
vital power (what was thatPaul wondered!) and great constitutional
weakness. That as the little fellow had set his heart on parting with
his school-mates on the seventeenthit would be better to indulge the
fancy if he grew no worse. That he was glad to hear from Mrs Pipchin
that the little fellow would go to his friends in London on the
eighteenth. That he would write to Mr Dombeywhen he should have
gained a better knowledge of the caseand before that day. That there
was no immediate cause for - what? Paul lost that word And that the
little fellow had a fine mindbut was an old-fashioned boy.

What old fashion could that bePaul wondered with a palpitating
heartthat was so visibly expressed in him; so plainly seen by so
many people!

He could neither make it outnor trouble himself long with the
effort. Mrs Pipchin was again beside himif she had ever been away
(he thought she had gone out with the Doctorbut it was all a dream
perhaps)and presently a bottle and glass got into her hands
magicallyand she poured out the contents for him. After thathe had
some real good jellywhich Mrs Blimber brought to him herself; and
then he was so wellthat Mrs Pipchin went homeat his urgent
solicitationand Briggs and Tozer came to bed. Poor Briggs grumbled
terribly about his own analysiswhich could hardly have discomposed
him more if it had been a chemical process; but he was very good to
Pauland so was Tozerand so were all the restfor they every one
looked in before going to bedand said'How are you nowDombey?'
'Cheer uplittle Dombey!' and so forth. After Briggs had got into
bedhe lay awake for a long timestill bemoaning his analysisand
saying he knew it was all wrongand they couldn't have analysed a
murderer worseand - how would Doctor Blimber like it if his
pocket-money depended on it? It was very easyBriggs saidto make a
galley-slave of a boy all the half-yearand then score him up idle;
and to crib two dinners a-week out of his boardand then score him up
greedy; but that wasn't going to be submitted tohe believedwas it?
Oh! Ah!

Before the weak-eyed young man performed on the gong next morning
he came upstairs to Paul and told him he was to lie stillwhich Paul
very gladly did. Mrs Pipchin reappeared a little before the
Apothecaryand a little after the good young woman whom Paul had seen
cleaning the stove on that first morning (how long ago it seemed now!)
had brought him his breakfast. There was another consultation a long
way offor else Paul dreamed it again; and then the Apothecary
coming back with Doctor and Mrs Blimbersaid:

'YesI thinkDoctor Blimberwe may release this young gentleman
from his books just now; the vacation being so very near at hand.'


'By all means' said Doctor Blimber. 'My loveyou will inform
Corneliaif you please.'

'Assuredly' said Mrs Blimber.

The Apothecary bending downlooked closely into Paul's eyesand
felt his headand his pulseand his heartwith so much interest and
carethat Paul said'Thank youSir.'

'Our little friend' observed Doctor Blimber'has never
complained.'

'Oh no!' replied the Apothecary. 'He was not likely to complain.'

'You find him greatly better?' said Doctor Blimber.

'Oh! he is greatly betterSir' returned the Apothecary.

Paul had begun to speculatein his own odd wayon the subject
that might occupy the Apothecary's mind just at that moment; so
musingly had he answered the two questions of Doctor Blimber. But the
Apothecary happening to meet his little patient's eyesas the latter
set off on that mental expeditionand coming instantly out of his
abstraction with a cheerful smilePaul smiled in return and abandoned
it.

He lay in bed all that daydozing and dreamingand looking at Mr
Toots; but got up on the nextand went downstairs. Lo and behold
there was something the matter with the great clock; and a workman on
a pair of steps had taken its face offand was poking instruments
into the works by the light of a candle! This was a great event for
Paulwho sat down on the bottom stairand watched the operation
attentively: now and then glancing at the clock faceleaning all
askewagainst the wall hard byand feeling a little confused by a
suspicion that it was ogling him.

The workman on the steps was very civil; and as he saidwhen he
observed Paul'How do you doSir?' Paul got into conversation with
himand told him he hadn't been quite well lately. The ice being thus
brokenPaul asked him a multitude of questions about chimes and
clocks: aswhether people watched up in the lonely church steeples by
night to make them strikeand how the bells were rung when people
diedand whether those were different bells from wedding bellsor
only sounded dismal in the fancies of the living. Finding that his new
acquaintance was not very well informed on the subject of the Curfew
Bell of ancient daysPaul gave him an account of that institution;
and also asked himas a practical manwhat he thought about King
Alfred's idea of measuring time by the burning of candles; to which
the workman repliedthat he thought it would be the ruin of the clock
trade if it was to come up again. In finePaul looked onuntil the
clock had quite recovered its familiar aspectand resumed its sedate
inquiry; when the workmanputting away his tools in a long basket
bade him good dayand went away. Though not before he had whispered
somethingon the door-matto the footmanin which there was the
phrase 'old-fashioned' - for Paul heard it. What could that old
fashion bethat seemed to make the people sorry! What could it be!

Having nothing to learn nowhe thought of this frequently; though
not so often as he might have doneif he had had fewer things to
think of. But he had a great many; and was always thinkingall day
long.

Firstthere was Florence coming to the party. Florence would see


that the boys were fond of him; and that would make her happy. This
was his great theme. Let Florence once be sure that they were gentle
and good to himand that he had become a little favourite among them
and then the would always think of the time he had passed there
without being very sorry. Florence might be all the happier too for
thatperhapswhen he came back.

When he came back! Fifty times a dayhis noiseless little feet
went up the stairs to his own roomas he collected every bookand
scrapand trifle that belonged to himand put them all together
theredown to the minutest thingfor taking home! There was no shade
of coming back on little Paul; no preparation for itor other
reference to itgrew out of anything he thought or didexcept this
slight one in connexion with his sister. On the contraryhe had to
think of everything familiar to himin his contemplative moods and in
his wanderings about the houseas being to be parted with; and hence
the many things he had to think ofall day long.

He had to peep into those rooms upstairsand think how solitary
they would be when he was goneand wonder through how many silent
daysweeksmonthsand yearsthey would continue just as grave and
undisturbed. He had to think - would any other child (old-fashioned
like himself stray there at any timeto whom the same grotesque
distortions of pattern and furniture would manifest themselves; and
would anybody tell that boy of little Dombeywho had been there once?
He had to think of a portrait on the stairswhich always looked
earnestly after him as he went awayeyeing it over his shoulder; and
whichwhen he passed it in the company of anyonestill seemed to
gaze at himand not at his companion. He had much to think ofin
association with a print that hung up in another placewherein the
centre of a wondering groupone figure that he knewa figure with a
light about its head - benignantmildand merciful - stood pointing
upward.

At his own bedroom windowthere were crowds of thoughts that mixed
with theseand came onone upon anotherlike the rolling waves.
Where those wild birds livedthat were always hovering out at sea in
troubled weather; where the clouds rose and first began; whence the
wind issued on its rushing flightand where it stopped; whether the
spot where he and Florence had so often satand watchedand talked
about these thingscould ever be exactly as it used to be without
them; whether it could ever be the same to Florenceif he were in
some distant placeand she were sitting there alone.

He had to thinktooof Mr Tootsand Mr FeederB.A.of all the
boys; and of Doctor BlimberMrs Blimberand Miss Blimber; of home
and of his aunt and Miss Tox; of his father; Dombey and SonWalter
with the poor old Uncle who had got the money he wantedand that
gruff-voiced Captain with the iron hand. Besides all thishe had a
number of little visits to payin the course of the day; to the
schoolroomto Doctor Blimber's studyto Mrs Blimber's private
apartmentto Miss Blimber'sand to the dog. For he was free of the
whole house nowto range it as he chose; andin his desire to part
with everybody on affectionate termshe attendedin his wayto them
all. Sometimes he found places in books for Briggswho was always
losing them; sometimes he looked up words in dictionaries for other
young gentlemen who were in extremity; sometimes he held skeins of
silk for Mrs Blimber to wind; sometimes he put Cornelia's desk to
rights; sometimes he would even creep into the Doctor's studyand
sitting on the carpet near his learned feetturn the globes softly
and go round the worldor take a flight among the far-off stars.

In those days immediately before the holidaysin shortwhen the
other young gentlemen were labouring for dear life through a general


resumption of the studies of the whole half-yearPaul was such a
privileged pupil as had never been seen in that house before. He could
hardly believe it himself; but his liberty lasted from hour to hour
and from day to day; and little Dombey was caressed by everyone.
Doctor Blimber was so particular about himthat he requested Johnson
to retire from the dinner-table one dayfor having thoughtlessly
spoken to him as 'poor little Dombey;' which Paul thought rather hard
and severethough he had flushed at the momentand wondered why
Johnson should pity him. It was the more questionable justicePaul
thoughtin the Doctorfrom his having certainly overheard that great
authority give his assent on the previous eveningto the proposition
(stated by Mrs Blimber) that poor dear little Dombey was more
old-fashioned than ever. And now it was that Paul began to think it
must surely be old-fashioned to be very thinand lightand easily
tiredand soon disposed to lie down anywhere and rest; for he
couldn't help feeling that these were more and more his habits every
day.

At last the party-day arrived; and Doctor Blimber said at
breakfast'Gentlemenwe will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth
of next month.' Mr Toots immediately threw off his allegianceand put
on his ring: and mentioning the Doctor in casual conversation shortly
afterwardsspoke of him as 'Blimber'! This act of freedom inspired
the older pupils with admiration and envy; but the younger spirits
were appalledand seemed to marvel that no beam fell down and crushed
him.

Not the least allusion was made to the ceremonies of the evening
either at breakfast or at dinner; but there was a bustle in the house
all dayand in the course of his perambulationsPaul made
acquaintance with various strange benches and candlesticksand met a
harp in a green greatcoat standing on the landing outside the
drawing-room door. There was something queertooabout Mrs Blimber's
head at dinner-timeas if she had screwed her hair up too tight; and
though Miss Blimber showed a graceful bunch of plaited hair on each
templeshe seemed to have her own little curls in paper underneath
and in a play-bill too; for Paul read 'Theatre Royal' over one of her
sparkling spectaclesand 'Brighton' over the other.

There was a grand array of white waistcoats and cravats in the
young gentlemen's bedrooms as evening approached; and such a smell of
singed hairthat Doctor Blimber sent up the footman with his
complimentsand wished to know if the house was on fire. But it was
only the hairdresser curling the young gentlemenand over-heating his
tongs in the ardour of business.

When Paul was dressed - which was very soon donefor he felt
unwell and drowsyand was not able to stand about it very long - he
went down into the drawing-room; where he found Doctor Blimber pacing
up and down the room full dressedbut with a dignified and
unconcerned demeanouras if he thought it barely possible that one or
two people might drop in by and by. Shortly afterwardsMrs Blimber
appearedlooking lovelyPaul thought; and attired in such a number
of skirts that it was quite an excursion to walk round her. Miss
Blimber came down soon after her Mama; a little squeezed in
appearancebut very charming.

Mr Toots and Mr Feeder were the next arrivals. Each of these
gentlemen brought his hat in his handas if he lived somewhere else;
and when they were announced by the butlerDoctor Blimber said'Ay
ayay! God bless my soul!' and seemed extremely glad to see them. Mr
Toots was one blaze of jewellery and buttons; and he felt the
circumstance so stronglythat when he had shaken hands with the
Doctorand had bowed to Mrs Blimber and Miss Blimberhe took Paul


asideand said'What do you think of thisDombey?'

But notwithstanding this modest confidence in himselfMr Toots
appeared to be involved in a good deal of uncertainty whetheron the
wholeit was judicious to button the bottom button of his waistcoat
and whetheron a calm revision of all the circumstancesit was best
to wear his waistbands turned up or turned down. Observing that Mr
Feeder's were turned upMr Toots turned his up; but the waistbands of
the next arrival being turned downMr Toots turned his down. The
differences in point of waistcoat-buttoningnot only at the bottom
but at the top toobecame so numerous and complicated as the arrivals
thickenedthat Mr Toots was continually fingering that article of
dressas if he were performing on some instrument; and appeared to
find the incessant execution it demandedquite bewildering. All the
young gentlementightly cravattedcurledand pumpedand with their
best hats in their handshaving been at different times announced and
introducedMr Bapsthe dancing-mastercameaccompanied by Mrs
Bapsto whom Mrs Blimber was extremely kind and condescending. Mr
Baps was a very grave gentlemanwith a slow and measured manner of
speaking; and before he had stood under the lamp five minuteshe
began to talk to Toots (who had been silently comparing pumps with
him) about what you were to do with your raw materials when they came
into your ports in return for your drain of gold. Mr Tootsto whom
the question seemed perplexingsuggested 'Cook 'em.' But Mr Baps did
not appear to think that would do.

Paul now slipped away from the cushioned corner of a sofawhich
had been his post of observationand went downstairs into the
tea-room to be ready for Florencewhom he had not seen for nearly a
fortnightas he had remained at Doctor Blimber's on the previous
Saturday and Sundaylest he should take cold. Presently she came:
looking so beautiful in her simple ball dresswith her fresh flowers
in her handthat when she knelt down on the ground to take Paul round
the neck and kiss him (for there was no one therebut his friend and
another young woman waiting to serve out the tea)he could hardly
make up his mind to let her go againor to take away her bright and
loving eyes from his face.

'But what is the matterFloy?' asked Paulalmost sure that he saw
a tear there.

'Nothingdarling; nothing' returned Florence.

Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger - and it was a tear!
'WhyFloy!' said he.

'We'll go home togetherand I'll nurse youlove' said Florence.

'Nurse me!' echoed Paul.

Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with itnor why the
two young women looked on so seriouslynor why Florence turned away
her face for a momentand then turned it backlighted up again with
smiles.

'Floy' said Paulholding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand.
'Tell medearDo you think I have grown old-fashioned?'

His sister laughedand fondled himand told him 'No.'

'Because I know they say so' returned Paul'and I want to know
what they meanFloy.' But a loud double knock coming at the doorand
Florence hurrying to the tablethere was no more said between them.
Paul wondered again when he saw his friend whisper to Florenceas if


she were comforting her; but a new arrival put that out of his head
speedily.

It was Sir Barnet SkettlesLady Skettlesand Master Skettles.
Master Skettles was to be a new boy after the vacationand Fame had
been busyin Mr Feeder's roomwith his fatherwho was in the House
of Commonsand of whom Mr Feeder had said that when he did catch the
Speaker's eye (which he had been expected to do for three or four
years)it was anticipated that he would rather touch up the Radicals.

'And what room is this nowfor instance?' said Lady Skettles to
Paul's friend'Melia.

'Doctor Blimber's studyMa'am' was the reply.

Lady Skettles took a panoramic survey of it through her glassand
said to Sir Barnet Skettleswith a nod of approval'Very good.' Sir
Barnet assentedbut Master Skettles looked suspicious and doubtful.

'And this little creaturenow' said Lady Skettlesturning to
Paul. 'Is he one of the

'Young gentlemenMa'am; yesMa'am' said Paul's friend.

'And what is your namemy pale child?' said Lady Skettles.

'Dombey' answered Paul.

Sir Barnet Skettles immediately interposedand said that he had
had the honour of meeting Paul's father at a public dinnerand that
he hoped he was very well. Then Paul heard him say to Lady Skettles
'City - very rich - most respectable - Doctor mentioned it.' And then
he said to Paul'Will you tell your good Papa that Sir Barnet
Skettles rejoiced to hear that he was very welland sent him his best
compliments?'

'YesSir' answered Paul.

'That is my brave boy' said Sir Barnet Skettles. 'Barnet' to
Master Skettleswho was revenging himself for the studies to comeon
the plum-cake'this is a young gentleman you ought to know. This is a
young gentleman you may knowBarnet' said Sir Barnet Skettleswith
an emphasis on the permission.

'What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!' exclaimed Lady Skettles
softlyas she looked at Florence through her glass. 'My sister' said
Paulpresenting her.

The satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complex And as Lady
Skettles had conceivedat first sighta liking for Paulthey all
went upstairs together: Sir Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence
and young Barnet following.

Young Barnet did not remain long in the background after they had
reached the drawing-roomfor Dr Blimber had him out in no time
dancing with Florence. He did not appear to Paul to be particularly
happyor particularly anything but sulkyor to care much what he was
about; but as Paul heard Lady Skettles say to Mrs Blimberwhile she
beat time with her fanthat her dear boy was evidently smitten to
death by that angel of a childMiss Dombeyit would seem that
Skettles Junior was in a state of blisswithout showing it.

Little Paul thought it a singular coincidence that nobody had
occupied his place among the pillows; and that when he came into the


room againthey should all make way for him to go back to it
remembering it was his. Nobody stood before him eitherwhen they
observed that he liked to see Florence dancingbut they left the
space in front quite clearso that he might follow her with his eyes.
They were so kindtooeven the strangersof whom there were soon a
great manythat they came and spoke to him every now and thenand
asked him how he wasand if his head achedand whether he was tired.
He was very much obliged to them for all their kindness and attention
and reclining propped up in his cornerwith Mrs Blimber and Lady
Skettles on the same sofaand Florence coming and sitting by his side
as soon as every dance was endedhe looked on very happily indeed.

Florence would have sat by him all nightand would not have danced
at all of her own accordbut Paul made herby telling her how much
it pleased him. And he told her the truthtoo; for his small heart
swelledand his face glowedwhen he saw how much they all admired
herand how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room.

From his nest among the pillowsPaul could see and hear almost
everything that passed as if the whole were being done for his
amusement. Among other little incidents that he observedhe observed
Mr Baps the dancing-master get into conversation with Sir Barnet
Skettlesand very soon ask himas he had asked Mr Tootswhat you
were to do with your raw materialswhen they came into your ports in
return for your drain of gold - which was such a mystery to Paul that
he was quite desirous to know what ought to be done with them. Sir
Barnet Skettles had much to say upon the questionand said it; but it
did not appear to solve the questionfor Mr Baps retortedYesbut
supposing Russia stepped in with her tallows; which struck Sir Barnet
almost dumbfor he could only shake his head after thatand sayWhy
then you must fall back upon your cottonshe supposed.

Sir Barnet Skettles looked after Mr Baps when he went to cheer up
Mrs Baps (whobeing quite desertedwas pretending to look over the
music-book of the gentleman who played the harp)as if he thought him
a remarkable kind of man; and shortly afterwards he said so in those
words to Doctor Blimberand inquired if he might take the liberty of
asking who he wasand whether he had ever been in the Board of Trade.
Doctor Blimber answered nohe believed not; and that in fact he was a
Professor of - '

'Of something connected with statisticsI'll swear?' observed Sir
Barnet Skettles.

'Why noSir Barnet' replied Doctor Blimberrubbing his chin.
'Nonot exactly.'

'Figures of some sortI would venture a bet' said Sir Barnet
Skettles.

'Why yes' said Doctor Blimberyesbut not of that sort. Mr Baps
is a very worthy sort of manSir Barnetand - in fact he's our
Professor of dancing.'

Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information quite altered
Sir Barnet Skettles's opinion of Mr Bapsand that Sir Barnet flew
into a perfect rageand glowered at Mr Baps over on the other side of
the room. He even went so far as to D Mr Baps to Lady Skettlesin
telling her what had happenedand to say that it was like his most
con-sum-mate and con-foun-ded impudence.

There was another thing that Paul observed. Mr Feederafter
imbibing several custard-cups of negusbegan to enjoy himself. The
dancing in general was ceremoniousand the music rather solemn - a


little like church music in fact - but after the custard-cupsMr
Feeder told Mr Toots that he was going to throw a little spirit into
the thing. After thatMr Feeder not only began to dance as if he
meant dancing and nothing elsebut secretly to stimulate the music to
perform wild tunes. Furtherhe became particular in his attentions to
the ladies; and dancing with Miss Blimberwhispered to her whispered
to her! - though not so softly but that Paul heard him say
this remarkable poetry

'Had I a heart for falsehood framed

I ne'er could injure You!'
ThisPaul heard him repeat to four young ladiesin succession. Well
might Mr Feeder say to Mr Tootsthat he was afraid he should be the
worse for it to-morrow!

Mrs Blimber was a little alarmed by this - comparatively speaking profligate
behaviour; and especially by the alteration in the
character of the musicwhichbeginning to comprehend low melodies
that were popular in the streetsmight not unnaturally be supposed to
give offence to Lady Skettles. But Lady Skettles was so very kind as
to beg Mrs Blimber not to mention it; and to receive her explanation
that Mr Feeder's spirits sometimes betrayed him into excesses on these
occasionswith the greatest courtesy and politeness; observingthat
he seemed a very nice sort of person for his situationand that she
particularly liked the unassuming style of his hair - which (as
already hinted) was about a quarter of an inch long.

Oncewhen there was a pause in the dancingLady Skettles told
Paul that he seemed very fond of music. Paul repliedthat he was; and
if she was tooshe ought to hear his sisterFlorencesing. Lady
Skettles presently discovered that she was dying with anxiety to have
that gratification; and though Florence was at first very much
frightened at being asked to sing before so many peopleand begged
earnestly to be excusedyeton Paul calling her to himand saying
'DoFloy! Please! For memy dear!' she went straight to the piano
and began. When they all drew a little awaythat Paul might see her;
and when he saw her sitting there all aloneso youngand goodand
beautifuland kind to him; and heard her thrilling voiceso natural
and sweetand such a golden link between him and all his life's love
and happinessrising out of the silence; he turned his face awayand
hid his tears. Notas he told them when they spoke to himnot that
the music was too plaintive or too sorrowfulbut it was so dear to
him.

They all loved Florence. How could they help it! Paul had known
beforehand that they must and would; and sitting in his cushioned
cornerwith calmly folded hands; and one leg loosely doubled under
himfew would have thought what triumph and delight expanded his
childish bosom while he watched heror what a sweet tranquillity he
felt. Lavish encomiums on 'Dombey's sister' reached his ears from all
the boys: admiration of the self-possessed and modest little beauty
was on every lip: reports of her intelligence and accomplishments
floated past himconstantly; andas if borne in upon the air of the
summer nightthere was a half intelligible sentiment diffused around
referring to Florence and himselfand breathing sympathy for both
that soothed and touched him.

He did not know why. For all that the child observedand feltand
thoughtthat night - the present and the absent; what was then and
what had been - were blended like the colours in the rainbowor in
the plumage of rich birds when the sun is shining on themor in the
softening sky when the same sun is setting. The many things he had had
to think of latelypassed before him in the music; not as claiming


his attention over againor as likely evermore to occupy itbut as
peacefully disposed of and gone. A solitary windowgazed through
years agolooked out upon an oceanmiles and miles away; upon its
watersfanciesbusy with him only yesterdaywere hushed and lulled
to rest like broken waves. The same mysterious murmur he had wondered
atwhen lying on his couch upon the beachhe thought he still heard
sounding through his sister's songand through the hum of voicesand
the tread of feetand having some part in the faces flitting byand
even in the heavy gentleness of Mr Tootswho frequently came up to
shake him by the hand. Through the universal kindness he still thought
he heard itspeaking to him; and even his old-fashioned reputation
seemed to be allied to ithe knew not how. Thus little Paul sat
musinglisteninglooking onand dreaming; and was very happy.

Until the time arrived for taking leave: and thenindeedthere
was a sensation in the party. Sir Barnet Skettles brought up Skettles
Junior to shake hands with himand asked him if he would remember to
tell his good Papawith his best complimentsthat heSir Barnet
Skettleshad said he hoped the two young gentlemen would become
intimately acquainted. Lady Skettles kissed himand patted his hair
upon his browand held him in her arms; and even Mrs Baps - poor Mrs
Baps! Paul was glad of that - came over from beside the music-book of
the gentleman who played the harpand took leave of him quite as
heartily as anybody in the room.

'Good-byeDoctor Blimber' said Paulstretching out his hand.

'Good-byemy little friend' returned the Doctor.

'I'm very much obliged to youSir' said Paullooking innocently
up into his awful face. 'Ask them to take care of Diogenesif you
please.'

Diogenes was the dog: who had never in his life received a friend
into his confidencebefore Paul. The Doctor promised that every
attention should he paid to Diogenes in Paul's absenceand Paul
having again thanked himand shaken hands with himbade adieu to Mrs
Blimber and Cornelia with such heartfelt earnestness that Mrs Blimber
forgot from that moment to mention Cicero to Lady Skettlesthough she
had fully intended it all the evening. Corneliataking both Paul's
hands in herssaid'DombeyDombeyyou have always been my favourite
pupil. God bless you!' And it showedPaul thoughthow easily one
might do injustice to a person; for Miss Blimber meant it - though she
was a Forcer - and felt it.

A boy then went round among the young gentlemenof 'Dombey's
going!' 'Little Dombey's going!' and there was a general move after
Paul and Florence down the staircase and into the hallin which the
whole Blimber family were included. Such a circumstanceMr Feeder
said aloudas had never happened in the case of any former young
gentleman within his experience; but it would be difficult to say if
this were sober fact or custard-cups. The servantswith the butler at
their headhad all an interest in seeing Little Dombey go; and even
the weak-eyed young mantaking out his books and trunks to the coach
that was to carry him and Florence to Mrs Pipchin's for the night
melted visibly.

Not even the influence of the softer passion on the young gentlemen

-and they allto a boydoted on Florence - could restrain them from
taking quite a noisy leave of Paul; waving hats after himpressing
downstairs to shake hands with himcrying individually 'Dombeydon't
forget me!' and indulging in many such ebullitions of feeling
uncommon among those young Chesterfields. Paul whispered Florenceas
she wrapped him up before the door was openedDid she hear them?

Would she ever forget it? Was she glad to know it? And a lively
delight was in his eyes as he spoke to her.


Oncefor a last lookhe turned and gazed upon the faces thus
addressed to himsurprised to see how shining and how brightand
numerous they wereand how they were all piled and heaped upas
faces are at crowded theatres. They swam before him as he lookedlike
faces in an agitated glass; and next moment he was in the dark coach
outsideholding close to Florence. From that timewhenever he
thought of Doctor Blimber'sit came back as he had seen it in this
last view; and it never seemed to be a real place againbut always a
dreamfull of eyes.


This was not quite the last of Doctor Blimber'showever. There was
something else. There was Mr Toots. Whounexpectedly letting down one
of the coach-windowsand looking insaidwith a most egregious
chuckle'Is Dombey there?' and immediately put it up againwithout
waiting for an answer. Nor was this quite the last of Mr Tootseven;
for before the coachman could drive offhe as suddenly let down the
other windowand looking in with a precisely similar chucklesaid in
a precisely similar tone of voice'Is Dombey there?' and disappeared
precisely as before.


How Florence laughed! Paul often remembered itand laughed himself
whenever he did so.


But there was muchsoon afterwards - next dayand after that -
which Paul could only recollect confusedly. Aswhy they stayed at Mrs
Pipchin's days and nightsinstead of going home; why he lay in bed
with Florence sitting by his side; whether that had been his father in
the roomor only a tall shadow on the wall; whether he had heard his
doctor sayof someonethat if they had removed him before the
occasion on which he had built up fanciesstrong in proportion to his
own weaknessit was very possible he might have pined away.


He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence
'Oh Floytake me homeand never leave me!' but he thought he had. He
fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating'Take me homeFloy!
take me home!'


But he could rememberwhen he got homeand was carried up the
well-remembered stairsthat there had been the rumbling of a coach
for many hours togetherwhile he lay upon the seatwith Florence
still beside himand old Mrs Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered
his old bed toowhen they laid him down in it: his auntMiss Tox
and Susan: but there was something elseand recent toothat still
perplexed him.


'I want to speak to Florenceif you please' he said. 'To Florence
by herselffor a moment!'


She bent down over himand the others stood away.


'Floymy petwasn't that Papa in the hallwhen they brought me
from the coach?'


'Yesdear.'


'He didn't cryand go into his roomFloydid hewhen he saw me
coming in?'


Florence shook her headand pressed her lips against his cheek.


'I'm very glad he didn't cry' said little Paul. 'I thought he did.



Don't tell them that I asked.'

CHAPTER 15.

Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttleand a new Pursuit for Walter Gay

Walter could notfor several daysdecide what to do in the
Barbados business; and even cherished some faint hope that Mr Dombey
might not have meant what he had saidor that he might change his
mindand tell him he was not to go. But as nothing occurred to give
this idea (which was sufficiently improbable in itself) any touch of
confirmationand as time was slipping byand he had none to losehe
felt that he must actwithout hesitating any longer.

Walter's chief difficulty washow to break the change in his
affairs to Uncle Solto whom he was sensible it would he a terrible
blow. He had the greater difficulty in dashing Uncle Sol's spirits
with such an astounding piece of intelligencebecause they had lately
recovered very muchand the old man had become so cheerfulthat the
little back parlour was itself again. Uncle Sol had paid the first
appointed portion of the debt to Mr Dombeyand was hopeful of working
his way through the rest; and to cast him down afreshwhen he had
sprung up so manfully from his troubleswas a very distressing
necessity.

Yet it would never do to run away from him. He must know of it
beforehand; and how to tell him was the point. As to the question of
going or not goingWalter did not consider that he had any power of
choice in the matter. Mr Dombey had truly told him that he was young
and that his Uncle's circumstances were not good; and Mr Dombey had
plainly expressedin the glance with which he had accompanied that
reminderthat if he declined to go he might stay at home if he chose
but not in his counting-house. His Uncle and he lay under a great
obligation to Mr Dombeywhich was of Walter's own soliciting. He
might have begun in secret to despair of ever winning that gentleman's
favourand might have thought that he was now and then disposed to
put a slight upon himwhich was hardly just. But what would have been
duty without thatwas still duty with it - or Walter thought so- and
duty must be done.

When Mr Dombey had looked at himand told him he was youngand
that his Uncle's circumstances were not goodthere had been an
expression of disdain in his face; a contemptuous and disparaging
assumption that he would be quite content to live idly on a reduced
old manwhich stung the boy's generous soul. Determined to assure Mr
Dombeyin so far as it was possible to give him the assurance without
expressing it in wordsthat indeed he mistook his natureWalter had
been anxious to show even more cheerfulness and activity after the
West Indian interview than he had shown before: if that were possible
in one of his quick and zealous disposition. He was too young and
inexperienced to thinkthat possibly this very quality in him was not
agreeable to Mr Dombeyand that it was no stepping-stone to his good
opinion to be elastic and hopeful of pleasing under the shadow of his
powerful displeasurewhether it were right or wrong. But it may have
been - it may have been- that the great man thought himself defied in
this new exposition of an honest spiritand purposed to bring it
down.

'Well! at last and at leastUncle Sol must be told' thought
Walterwith a sigh. And as Walter was apprehensive that his voice


might perhaps quaver a littleand that his countenance might not be
quite as hopeful as he could wish it to beif he told the old man
himselfand saw the first effects of his communication on his
wrinkled facehe resolved to avail himself of the services of that
powerful mediatorCaptain Cuttle. Sunday coming roundhe set off
thereforeafter breakfastonce more to beat up Captain Cuttle's
quarters.

It was not unpleasant to rememberon the way thitherthat Mrs
MacStinger resorted to a great distance every Sunday morningto
attend the ministry of the Reverend Melchisedech Howlerwhohaving
been one day discharged from the West India Docks on a false suspicion
(got up expressly against him by the general enemy) of screwing
gimlets into puncheonsand applying his lips to the orificehad
announced the destruction of the world for that day two yearsat ten
in the morningand opened a front parlour for the reception of ladies
and gentlemen of the Ranting persuasionupon whomon the first
occasion of their assemblagethe admonitions of the Reverend
Melchisedech had produced so powerful an effectthatin their
rapturous performance of a sacred jigwhich closed the servicethe
whole flock broke through into a kitchen belowand disabled a mangle
belonging to one of the fold.

This the Captainin a moment of uncommon convivialityhad
confided to Walter and his Unclebetween the repetitions of lovely
Pegon the night when Brogley the broker was paid out. The Captain
himself was punctual in his attendance at a church in his own
neighbourhoodwhich hoisted the Union Jack every Sunday morning; and
where he was good enough - the lawful beadle being infirm - to keep an
eye upon the boysover whom he exercised great powerin virtue of
his mysterious hook. Knowing the regularity of the Captain's habits
Walter made all the haste he couldthat he might anticipate his going
out; and he made such good speedthat he had the pleasureon turning
into Brig Placeto behold the broad blue coat and waistcoat hanging
out of the Captain's oPen windowto air in the sun.

It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat could be seen by
mortal eyes without the Captain; but he certainly was not in them
otherwise his legs - the houses in Brig Place not being lofty- would
have obstructed the street doorwhich was perfectly clear. Quite
wondering at this discoveryWalter gave a single knock.

'Stinger' he distinctly heard the Captain sayup in his roomas
if that were no business of his. Therefore Walter gave two knocks.

'Cuttle' he heard the Captain say upon that; and immediately
afterwards the Captainin his clean shirt and braceswith his
neckerchief hanging loosely round his throat like a coil of ropeand
his glazed hat onappeared at the windowleaning out over the broad
blue coat and waistcoat.

'Wal'r!' cried the Captainlooking down upon him in amazement.

'AyayCaptain Cuttle' returned Walter'only me'

'What's the mattermy lad?' inquired the Captainwith great
concern. 'Gills an't been and sprung nothing again?'

'Nono' said Walter. 'My Uncle's all rightCaptain Cuttle.'

The Captain expressed his gratificationand said he would come
down below and open the doorwhich he did.

'Though you're earlyWal'r' said the Captaineyeing him still


doubtfullywhen they got upstairs:

'Whythe fact isCaptain Cuttle' said Waltersitting down'I
was afraid you would have gone outand I want to benefit by your
friendly counsel.'

'So you shall' said the Captain; 'what'll you take?'

'I want to take your opinionCaptain Cuttle' returned Walter
smiling. 'That's the only thing for me.'

'Come on then' said the Captain. 'With a willmy lad!'

Walter related to him what had happened; and the difficulty in
which he felt respecting his Uncleand the relief it would be to him
if Captain Cuttlein his kindnesswould help him to smooth it away;
Captain Cuttle's infinite consternation and astonishment at the
prospect unfolded to himgradually swallowing that gentleman up
until it left his face quite vacantand the suit of bluethe glazed
hatand the hookapparently without an owner.

'You seeCaptain Cuttle' pursued Walter'for myselfI am young
as Mr Dombey saidand not to be considered. I am to fight my way
through the worldI know; but there are two points I was thinkingas
I came alongthat I should be very particular aboutin respect to my
Uncle. I don't mean to say that I deserve to be the pride and delight
of his life - you believe meI know - but I am. Nowdon't you think
I am?'

The Captain seemed to make an endeavour to rise from the depths of
his astonishmentand get back to his face; but the effort being
ineffectualthe glazed hat merely nodded with a muteunutterable
meaning.

'If I live and have my health' said Walter'and I am not afraid
of thatstillwhen I leave England I can hardly hope to see my Uncle
again. He is oldCaptain Cuttle; and besideshis life is a life of
custom - '

'SteadyWal'r! Of a want of custom?' said the Captainsuddenly
reappearing.

'Too true' returned Waltershaking his head: 'but I meant a life
of habitCaptain Cuttle - that sort of custom. And if (as you very
truly saidI am sure) he would have died the sooner for the loss of
the stockand all those objects to which he has been accustomed for
so many yearsdon't you think he might die a little sooner for the
loss of - '

'Of his Nevy' interposed the Captain. 'Right!'

'Well then' said Waltertrying to speak gaily'we must do our
best to make him believe that the separation is but a temporary one
after all; but as I know betteror dread that I know betterCaptain
Cuttleand as I have so many reasons for regarding him with
affectionand dutyand honourI am afraid I should make but a very
poor hand at thatif I tried to persuade him of it. That's my great
reason for wishing you to break it out to him; and that's the first
point.'

'Keep her off a point or so!' observed the Captainin a
comtemplative voice.

'What did you sayCaptain Cuttle?' inquired Walter.


'Stand by!' returned the Captainthoughtfully.

Walter paused to ascertain if the Captain had any particular
information to add to thisbut as he said no morewent on.

'Nowthe second pointCaptain Cuttle. I am sorry to sayI am not
a favourite with Mr Dombey. I have always tried to do my bestand I
have always done it; but he does not like me. He can't help his
likings and dislikingsperhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say
that I am certain he does not like me. He does not send me to this
post as a good one; he disclaims to represent it as being better than
it is; and I doubt very much if it will ever lead me to advancement in
the House - whether it does noton the contrarydispose of me for
everand put me out of the way. Nowwe must say nothing of this to
my UncleCaptain Cuttlebut must make it out to be as favourable and
promising as we can; and when I tell you what it really isI only do
sothat in case any means should ever arise of lending me a handso
far offI may have one friend at home who knows my real situation.

'Wal'rmy boy' replied the Captain'in the Proverbs of Solomon
you will find the following wordsMay we never want a friend in
need, nor a bottle to give him!When foundmake a note of.'

Here the Captain stretched out his hand to Walterwith an air of
downright good faith that spoke volumes; at the same time repeating
(for he felt proud of the accuracy and pointed application of his
quotation)'When foundmake a note of.'

'Captain Cuttle' said Waltertaking the immense fist extended to
him by the Captain in both his handswhich it completely fillednext
to my Uncle SolI love you. There is no one on earth in whom I can
more safely trustI am sure. As to the mere going awayCaptain
CuttleI don't care for that; why should I care for that! If I were
free to seek my own fortune - if I were free to go as a common sailor

-if I were free to venture on my own account to the farthest end of
the world - I would gladly go! I would have gladly goneyears ago
and taken my chance of what might come of it. But it was against my
Uncle's wishesand against the plans he had formed for me; and there
was an end of that. But what I feelCaptain Cuttleis that we have
been a little mistaken all alongand thatso far as any improvement
in my prospects is concernedI am no better off now than I was when I
first entered Dombey's House - perhaps a little worsefor the House
may have been kindly inclined towards me thenand it certainly is not
now.'
'Turn againWhittington' muttered the disconsolate Captainafter
looking at Walter for some time.

'Ay' replied Walterlaughing'and turn a great many timestoo
Captain CuttleI'm afraidbefore such fortune as his ever turns up
again. Not that I complain' he addedin his livelyanimated
energetic way. 'I have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I
can live. When I leave my UncleI leave him to you; and I can leave
him to no one betterCaptain Cuttle. I haven't told you all this
because I despairnot I; it's to convince you that I can't pick and
choose in Dombey's Houseand that where I am sentthere I must go
and what I am offeredthat I must take. It's better for my Uncle that
I should be sent away; for Mr Dombey is a valuable friend to himas
he proved himselfyou know whenCaptain Cuttle; and I am persuaded
he won't be less valuable when he hasn't me thereevery dayto
awaken his dislike. So hurrah for the West IndiesCaptain Cuttle! How
does that tune go that the sailors sing?


'For the Port of BarbadosBoys!

Cheerily!

Leaving old England behind usBoys!

Cheerily!'
Here the Captain roared in chorus


'Oh cheerilycheerily!

Oh cheer-i-ly!'

The last line reaching the quick ears of an ardent skipper not
quite soberwho lodged oppositeand who instantly sprung out of bed
threw up his windowand joined inacross the streetat the top of
his voiceproduced a fine effect. When it was impossible to sustain
the concluding note any longerthe skipper bellowed forth a terrific
'ahoy!' intended in part as a friendly greetingand in part to show
that he was not at all breathed. That donehe shut down his window
and went to bed again.

'And nowCaptain Cuttle' said Walterhanding him the blue coat
and waistcoatand bustling very much'if you'll come and break the
news to Uncle Sol (which he ought to have knowndays upon days ago
by rights)I'll leave you at the dooryou knowand walk about until
the afternoon.'

The Captainhoweverscarcely appeared to relish the commission
or to be by any means confident of his powers of executing it. He had
arranged the future life and adventures of Walter so very differently
and so entirely to his own satisfaction; he had felicitated himself so
often on the sagacity and foresight displayed in that arrangementand
had found it so complete and perfect in all its parts; that to suffer
it to go to pieces all at onceand even to assist in breaking it up
required a great effort of his resolution. The Captaintoofound it
difficult to unload his old ideas upon the subjectand to take a
perfectly new cargo on boardwith that rapidity which the
circumstances requiredor without jumbling and confounding the two.
Consequentlyinstead of putting on his coat and waistcoat with
anything like the impetuosity that could alone have kept pace with
Walter's moodhe declined to invest himself with those garments at
all at present; and informed Walter that on such a serious matterhe
must be allowed to 'bite his nails a bit'

'It's an old habit of mineWal'r' said the Captain'any time
these fifty year. When you see Ned Cuttle bite his nailsWal'rthen
you may know that Ned Cuttle's aground.'

Thereupon the Captain put his iron hook between his teethas if it
were a hand; and with an air of wisdom and profundity that was the
very concentration and sublimation of all philosophical reflection and
grave inquiryapplied himself to the consideration of the subject in
its various branches.

'There's a friend of mine' murmured the Captainin an absent
manner'but he's at present coasting round to Whitbythat would
deliver such an opinion on this subjector any other that could be
namedas would give Parliament six and beat 'em. Been knocked
overboardthat man' said the Captain'twiceand none the worse for
it. Was beat in his apprenticeshipfor three weeks (off and on)
about the head with a ring-bolt. And yet a clearer-minded man don't
walk.'


Despite of his respect for Captain CuttleWalter could not help
inwardly rejoicing at the absence of this sageand devoutly hoping
that his limpid intellect might not be brought to bear on his
difficulties until they were quite settled.

'If you was to take and show that man the buoy at the Nore' said
Captain Cuttle in the same tone'and ask him his opinion of it
Wal'rhe'd give you an opinion that was no more like that buoy than
your Uncle's buttons are. There ain't a man that walks - certainly not
on two legs - that can come near him. Not near him!'

'What's his nameCaptain Cuttle?' inquired Walterdetermined to
be interested in the Captain's friend.

'His name's Bunsbysaid the Captain. 'But Lordit might be
anything for the matter of thatwith such a mind as his!'

The exact idea which the Captain attached to this concluding piece
of praisehe did not further elucidate; neither did Walter seek to
draw it forth. For on his beginning to reviewwith the vivacity
natural to himself and to his situationthe leading points in his own
affairshe soon discovered that the Captain had relapsed into his
former profound state of mind; and that while he eyed him steadfastly
from beneath his bushy eyebrowshe evidently neither saw nor heard
himbut remained immersed in cogitation.

In factCaptain Cuttle was labouring with such great designsthat
far from being agroundhe soon got off into the deepest of waterand
could find no bottom to his penetration. By degrees it became
perfectly plain to the Captain that there was some mistake here; that
it was undoubtedly much more likely to be Walter's mistake than his;
that if there were really any West India scheme afootit was a very
different one from what Walterwho was young and rashsupposed; and
could only be some new device for making his fortune with unusual
celerity. 'Or if there should be any little hitch between 'em'
thought the Captainmeaning between Walter and Mr Dombey'it only
wants a word in season from a friend of both partiesto set it right
and smoothand make all taut again.' Captain Cuttle's deduction from
these considerations wasthat as he already enjoyed the pleasure of
knowing Mr Dombeyfrom having spent a very agreeable half-hour in his
company at Brighton (on the morning when they borrowed the money); and
thatas a couple of men of the worldwho understood each otherand
were mutually disposed to make things comfortablecould easily
arrange any little difficulty of this sortand come at the real
facts; the friendly thing for him to do would bewithout saying
anything about it to Walter at presentjust to step up to Mr Dombey's
house - say to the servant 'Would ye be so goodmy ladas report
Cap'en Cuttle here?' - meet Mr Dombey in a confidential spirit- hook
him by the button-hole - talk it over - make it all right - and come
away triumphant!

As these reflections presented themselves to the Captain's mind
and by slow degrees assumed this shape and formhis visage cleared
like a doubtful morning when it gives place to a bright noon. His
eyebrowswhich had been in the highest degree portentoussmoothed
their rugged bristling aspectand became serene; his eyeswhich had
been nearly closed in the severity of his mental exerciseopened
freely; a smile which had been at first but three specks - one at the
right-hand corner of his mouthand one at the corner of each eye gradually
overspread his whole faceandrippling up into his
foreheadlifted the glazed hat: as if that too had been aground with
Captain Cuttleand were nowlike himhappily afloat again.

Finallythe Captain left off biting his nailsand said'Now


Wal'rmy boyyou may help me on with them slops.' By which the
Captain meant his coat and waistcoat.

Walter little imagined why the Captain was so particular in the
arrangement of his cravatas to twist the pendent ends into a sort of
pigtailand pass them through a massive gold ring with a picture of a
tomb upon itand a neat iron railingand a treein memory of some
deceased friend. Nor why the Captain pulled up his shirt-collar to the
utmost limits allowed by the Irish linen belowand by so doing
decorated himself with a complete pair of blinkers; nor why he changed
his shoesand put on an unparalleled pair of ankle-jackswhich he
only wore on extraordinary occasions. The Captain being at length
attired to his own complete satisfactionand having glanced at
himself from head to foot in a shaving-glass which he removed from a
nail for that purposetook up his knotted stickand said he was
ready.

The Captain's walk was more complacent than usual when they got out
into the street; but this Walter supposed to be the effect of the
ankle-jacksand took little heed of. Before they had gone very far
they encountered a woman selling flowers; when the Captain stopping
shortas if struck by a happy ideamade a purchase of the largest
bundle in her basket: a most glorious nosegayfan-shapedsome two
feet and a half roundand composed of all the jolliest-looking
flowers that blow.

Armed with this little token which he designed for Mr Dombey
Captain Cuttle walked on with Walter until they reached the
Instrument-maker's doorbefore which they both paused.

'You're going in?' said Walter.

'Yes' returned the Captainwho felt that Walter must be got rid
of before he proceeded any furtherand that he had better time his
projected visit somewhat later in the day.

'And you won't forget anything?'

'No' returned the Captain.

'I'll go upon my walk at once' said Walter'and then I shall be
out of the wayCaptain Cuttle.'

'Take a good long 'unmy lad!' replied the Captaincalling after
him. Walter waved his hand in assentand went his way.

His way was nowhere in particular; but he thought he would go out
into the fieldswhere he could reflect upon the unknown life before
himand resting under some treeponder quietly. He knew no better
fields than those near Hampsteadand no better means of getting at
them than by passing Mr Dombey's house.

It was as stately and as dark as everwhen he went by and glanced
up at its frowning front. The blinds were all pulled downbut the
upper windows stood wide openand the pleasant air stirring those
curtains and waving them to and fro was the only sign of animation in
the whole exterior. Walter walked softly as he passedand was glad
when he had left the house a door or two behind.

He looked back then; with the interest he had always felt for the
place since the adventure of the lost childyears ago; and looked
especially at those upper windows. While he was thus engageda
chariot drove to the doorand a portly gentleman in blackwith a
heavy watch-chainalightedand went in. When he afterwards


remembered this gentleman and his equipage togetherWalter had no
doubt be was a physician; and then he wondered who was ill; but the
discovery did not occur to him until he had walked some distance
thinking listlessly of other things.

Though stillof what the house had suggested to him; for Walter
pleased hImself with thinking that perhaps the time might comewhen
the beautiful child who was his old friend and had always been so
grateful to him and so glad to see him sincemight interest her
brother in his behalf and influence his fortunes for the better. He
liked to imagine this - moreat that momentfor the pleasure of
imagining her continued remembrance of himthan for any worldly
profit he might gain: but another and more sober fancy whispered to
him that if he were alive thenhe would be beyond the sea and
forgotten; she marriedrichproudhappy. There was no more reason
why she should remember him with any interest in such an altered state
of thingsthan any plaything she ever had. Nonot so much.

Yet Walter so idealised the pretty child whom he had found
wandering in the rough streetsand so identified her with her
innocent gratitude of that night and the simplicity and truth of its
expressionthat he blushed for himself as a libeller when he argued
that she could ever grow proud. On the other handhis meditations
were of that fantastic order that it seemed hardly less libellous in
him to imagine her grown a woman: to think of her as anything but the
same artlessgentlewinning little creaturethat she had been in
the days of Good Mrs Brown. In a wordWalter found out that to reason
with himself about Florence at allwas to become very unreasonable
indeed; and that he could do no better than preserve her image in his
mind as something preciousunattainableunchangeableand indefinite

-indefinite in all but its power of giving him pleasureand
restraining him like an angel's hand from anything unworthy.
It was a long stroll in the fields that Walter took that day
listening to the birdsand the Sunday bellsand the softened murmur
of the town - breathing sweet scents; glancing sometimes at the dim
horizon beyond which his voyage and his place of destination lay; then
looking round on the green English grass and the home landscape. But
he hardly once thoughteven of going awaydistinctly; and seemed to
put off reflection idlyfrom hour to hourand from minute to minute
while he yet went on reflecting all the time.

Walter had left the fields behind himand was plodding homeward in
the same abstracted moodwhen he heard a shout from a manand then a
woman's voice calling to him loudly by name. Turning quickly in his
surprisehe saw that a hackney-coachgoing in the contrary
directionhad stopped at no great distance; that the coachman was
looking back from his box and making signals to him with his whip; and
that a young woman inside was leaning out of the windowand beckoning
with immense energy. Running up to this coachhe found that the young
woman was Miss Nipperand that Miss Nipper was in such a flutter as
to be almost beside herself.

'Staggs's GardensMr Walter!' said Miss Nipper; 'if you pleaseoh
do!'

'Eh?' cried Walter; 'what is the matter?'

'OhMr WalterStaggs's Gardensif you please!' said Susan.

'There!' cried the coachmanappealing to Walterwith a sort of
exalting despair; 'that's the way the young lady's been a goin' on for
up'ards of a mortal hourand me continivally backing out of no
thoroughfareswhere she would drive up. I've had a many fares in this


coachfirst and lastbut never such a fare as her.'

'Do you want to go to Staggs's GardensSusan?' inquired Walter.

'Ah! She wants to go there! WHERE IS IT?' growled the coachman.

'I don't know where it is!' exclaimed Susanwildly. 'Mr WalterI
was there once myselfalong with Miss Floy and our poor darling
Master Paulon the very day when you found Miss Floy in the Cityfor
we lost her coming homeMrs Richards and meand a mad bulland Mrs
Richards's eldestand though I went there afterwardsI can't
remember where it isI think it's sunk into the ground. OhMr
Walterdon't desert meStaggs's Gardensif you please! Miss Floy's
darling - all our darlings - littlemeekmeek Master Paul! Oh Mr
Walter!'

'Good God!' cried Walter. 'Is he very ill?'

'The pretty flower!' cried Susanwringing her hands'has took the
fancy that he'd like to see his old nurseand I've come to bring her
to his bedsideMrs Staggsof Polly Toodle's Gardenssomeone pray!'

Greatly moved by what he heardand catching Susan's earnestness
immediatelyWalternow that he understood the nature of her errand
dashed into it with such ardour that the coachman had enough to do to
follow closely as he ran beforeinquiring here and there and
everywherethe way to Staggs's Gardens.

There was no such place as Staggs's Gardens. It had vanished from
the earth. Where the old rotten summer-houses once had stoodpalaces
now reared their headsand granite columns of gigantic girth opened a
vista to the railway world beyond. The miserable waste groundwhere
the refuse-matter had been heaped of yorewas swallowed up and gone;
and in its frowsy stead were tiers of warehousescrammed with rich
goods and costly merchandise. The old by-streets now swarmed with
passengers and vehicles of every kind: the new streets that had
stopped disheartened in the mud and waggon-rutsformed towns within
themselvesoriginating wholesome comforts and conveniences belonging
to themselvesand never tried nor thought of until they sprung into
existence. Bridges that had led to nothingled to villasgardens
churcheshealthy public walks. The carcasses of housesand
beginnings of new thoroughfareshad started off upon the line at
steam's own speedand shot away into the country in a monster train.'

As to the neighbourhood which had hesitated to acknowledge the
railroad in its straggling daysthat had grown wise and penitentas
any Christian might in such a caseand now boasted of its powerful
and prosperous relation. There were railway patterns in its drapers'
shopsand railway journals in the windows of its newsmen. There were
railway hotelsoffice-houseslodging-housesboarding-houses;
railway plansmapsviewswrappersbottlessandwich-boxesand
time-tables; railway hackney-coach and stands; railway omnibuses
railway streets and buildingsrailway hangers-on and parasitesand
flatterers out of all calculation. There was even railway time
observed in clocksas if the sun itself had given in. Among the
vanquished was the master chimney-sweeperwhilom incredulous at
Staggs's Gardenswho now lived in a stuccoed house three stories
highand gave himself outwith golden flourishes upon a varnished
boardas contractor for the cleansing of railway chimneys by
machinery.

To and from the heart of this great changeall day and night
throbbing currents rushed and returned incessantly like its life's
blood. Crowds of people and mountains of goodsdeparting and arriving


scores upon scores of times in every four-and-twenty hoursproduced a
fermentation in the place that was always in action. The very houses
seemed disposed to pack up and take trips. Wonderful Members of
Parliamentwholittle more than twenty years beforehad made
themselves merry with the wild railroad theories of engineersand
given them the liveliest rubs in cross-examinationwent down into the
north with their watches in their handsand sent on messages before
by the electric telegraphto say that they were coming. Night and day
the conquering engines rumbled at their distant workoradvancing
smoothly to their journey's endand gliding like tame dragons into
the allotted corners grooved out to the inch for their reception
stood bubbling and trembling theremaking the walls quakeas if they
were dilating with the secret knowledge of great powers yet
unsuspected in themand strong purposes not yet achieved.

But Staggs's Gardens had been cut up root and branch. Oh woe the
day when 'not a rood of English ground' - laid out in Staggs's Gardens

-is secure!
At lastafter much fruitless inquiryWalterfollowed by the
coach and Susanfound a man who had once resided in that vanished
landand who was no other than the master sweep before referred to
grown stoutand knocking a double knock at his own door. He knowed
Toodlehe saidwell. Belonged to the Railroaddidn't he?

'Yes' siryes!' cried Susan Nipper from the coach window.

Where did he live now? hastily inquired Walter.

He lived in the Company's own Buildingssecond turning to the
rightdown the yardcross overand take the second on the right
again. It was number eleven; they couldn't mistake it; but if they
didthey had only to ask for ToodleEngine Firemanand any one
would show them which was his house. At this unexpected stroke of
success Susan Nipper dismounted from the coach with all speedtook
Walter's armand set off at a breathless pace on foot; leaving the
coach there to await their return.

'Has the little boy been long illSusan?' inquired Walteras they
hurried on.

'Ailing for a deal of timebut no one knew how much' said Susan;
addingwith excessive sharpness'Ohthem Blimbers!'

'Blimbers?' echoed Walter.

'I couldn't forgive myself at such a time as thisMr Walter' said
Susan'and when there's so much serious distress to think aboutif I
rested hard on anyoneespecially on them that little darling Paul
speaks well ofbut I may wish that the family was set to work in a
stony soil to make new roadsand that Miss Blimber went in frontand
had the pickaxe!'

Miss Nipper then took breathand went on faster than beforeas if
this extraordinary aspiration had relieved her. Walterwho had by
this time no breath of his own to sparehurried along without asking
any more questions; and they soonin their impatienceburst in at a
little door and came into a clean parlour full of children.

'Where's Mrs Richards?' exclaimed Susan Nipperlooking round. 'Oh
Mrs RichardsMrs Richardscome along with memy dear creetur!'

'Whyif it ain't Susan!' cried Pollyrising with her honest face
and motherly figure from among the groupin great surprIse.


'YesMrs Richardsit's me' said Susan'and I wish it wasn't
though I may not seem to flatter when I say sobut little Master Paul
is very illand told his Pa today that he would like to see the face
of his old nurseand him and Miss Floy hope you'll come along with me

-and Mr WalterMrs Richards - forgetting what is pastand do a
kindness to the sweet dear that is withering away. OhMrs Richards
withering away!' Susan Nipper cryingPolly shed tears to see herand
to hear what she had said; and all the children gathered round
(including numbers of new babies); and Mr Toodlewho had just come
home from Birminghamand was eating his dinner out of a basinlaid
down his knife and forkand put on his wife's bonnet and shawl for
herwhich were hanging up behind the door; then tapped her on the
back; and saidwith more fatherly feeling than eloquence'Polly! cut
away!'
So they got back to the coachlong before the coachman expected
them; and Walterputting Susan and Mrs Richards insidetook his seat
on the box himself that there might be no more mistakesand deposited
them safely in the hall of Mr Dombey's house - whereby the byehe
saw a mighty nosegay lyingwhich reminded him of the one Captain
Cuttle had purchased in his company that morning. He would have
lingered to know more of the young invalidor waited any length of
time to see if he could render the least service; butpainfully
sensible that such conduct would be looked upon by Mr Dombey as
presumptuous and forwardhe turned slowlysadlyanxiouslyaway.

He had not gone five minutes' walk from the doorwhen a man came
running after himand begged him to return. Walter retraced his steps
as quickly as he couldand entered the gloomy house with a sorrowful
foreboding.

CHAPTER 16.

What the Waves were always saying

Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay therelistening
to the noises in the streetquite tranquilly; not caring much how the
time wentbut watching it and watching everything about him with
observing eyes.

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds
and quivered on the opposite wall like golden waterhe knew that
evening was coming onand that the sky was red and beautiful. As the
reflection died awayand a gloom went creeping up the wallhe
watched it deependeependeepeninto night. Then he thought how the
long streets were dotted with lampsand how the peaceful stars were
shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the
riverwhich he knew was flowing through the great city; and now he
thought how black it wasand how deep it would lookreflecting the
hosts of stars - and more than allhow steadily it rolled away to
meet the sea.

As it grew later in the nightand footsteps in the street became
so rare that he could hear them comingcount them as they passedand
lose them in the hollow distancehe would lie and watch the
many-coloured ring about the candleand wait patiently for day. His
only trouble wasthe swift and rapid river. He felt forced
sometimesto try to stop it - to stem it with his childish hands - or
choke its way with sand - and when he saw it coming onresistlesshe


cried out! But a word from Florencewho was always at his side
restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head upon her breasthe
told Floy of his dreamand smiled.

When day began to dawn againhe watched for the sun; and when its
cheerful light began to sparkle in the roomhe pictured to himself pictured!
he saw - the high church towers rising up into the morning
skythe town revivingwakingstarting into life once morethe
river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever)and the
country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees
into the street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy;
faces looked in at the doorand voices asked his attendants softly
how he was. Paul always answered for himself'I am better. I am a
great deal betterthank you! Tell Papa so!'

By little and littlehe got tired of the bustle of the daythe
noise of carriages and cartsand people passing and repassing; and
would fall asleepor be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense
again - the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping
or his waking moments - of that rushing river. 'Whywill it never
stopFloy?' he would sometimes ask her. 'It is bearing me awayI
think!'

But Floy could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his daily
delight to make her lay her head down on his pillowand take some
rest.

'You are always watching meFloylet me watch younow!' They
would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bedand there he
would recline the while she lay beside him: bending forward oftentimes
to kiss herand whispering to those who were near that she was tired
and how she had sat up so many nights beside him.

Thusthe flush of the dayin its heat and lightwould gradually
decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors - they used to
assemble downstairsand come up together - and the room was so quiet
and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody
what they said)that he even knew the difference in the sound of
their watches. But his interest centred in Sir Parker Pepswho always
took his seat on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long
agothat that gentleman had been with his Mama when she clasped
Florence in her armsand died. And he could not forget itnow. He
liked him for it. He was not afraid.

The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first
night at Doctor Blimber's - except Florence; Florence never changed and
what had been Sir Parker Pepswas now his fathersitting with
his head upon his hand. Old Mrs Pipchin dozing in an easy chairoften
changed to Miss Toxor his aunt; and Paul was quite content to shut
his eyes againand see what happened nextwithout emotion. But this
figure with its head upon its hand returned so oftenand remained so
longand sat so still and solemnnever speakingnever being spoken
toand rarely lifting up its facethat Paul began to wonder
languidlyif it were real; and in the night-time saw it sitting
therewith fear.

'Floy!' he said. 'What is that?'

'Wheredearest?'

'There! at the bottom of the bed.'


'There's nothing thereexcept Papa!'

The figure lifted up its headand roseand coming to the bedside
said:

'My own boy! Don't you know me?'

Paul looked it in the faceand thoughtwas this his father? But
the face so altered to his thinkingthrilled while he gazedas if it
were in pain; and before he could reach out both his hands to take it
between themand draw it towards himthe figure turned away quickly
from the little bedand went out at the door.

Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heartbut he knew what
she was going to sayand stopped her with his face against her lips.
The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed
he called to it.

'Don't be sorry for medear Papa! Indeed I am quite happy!'

His father coming and bending down to him - which he did quickly
and without first pausing by the bedside - Paul held him round the
neckand repeated those words to him several timesand very
earnestly; and Paul never saw him in his room again at any time
whether it were day or nightbut he called out'Don't be sorry for
me! Indeed I am quite happy!' This was the beginning of his always
saying in the morning that he was a great deal betterand that they
were to tell his father so.

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall; how many
nights the darkdark river rolled towards the sea in spite of him;
Paul never countednever sought to know. If their kindnessor his
sense of itcould have increasedthey were more kindand he more
grateful every day; but whether they were many days or fewappeared
of little moment nowto the gentle boy.

One night he had been thinking of his motherand her picture in
the drawing-room downstairsand thought she must have loved sweet
Florence better than his father didto have held her in her arms when
she felt that she was dying - for even heher brotherwho had such
dear love for hercould have no greater wish than that. The train of
thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother?
for he could not remember whether they had told himyes or nothe
river running very fastand confusing his mind.

'Floydid I ever see Mama?'

'Nodarlingwhy?'

'Did I ever see any kind facelike Mama'slooking at me when I
was a babyFloy?'

He askedincredulouslyas if he had some vision of a face before
him.

'Oh yesdear!'

'WhoseFloy?'

'Your old nurse's. Often.'

'And where is my old nurse?' said Paul. 'Is she dead too? Floyare
we all deadexcept you?'


There was a hurry in the roomfor an instant - longerperhaps;
but it seemed no more - then all was still again; and Florencewith
her face quite colourlessbut smilingheld his head upon her arm.
Her arm trembled very much.


'Show me that old nurseFloyif you please!'


'She is not heredarling. She shall come to-morrow.'


'Thank youFloy!'


Paul closed his eyes with those wordsand fell asleep. When he
awokethe sun was highand the broad day was clear and He lay a
littlelooking at the windowswhich were openand the curtains
rustling in the airand waving to and fro: then he said'Floyis it
tomorrow? Is she come?'


Someone seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul
thought he heard her telling him when he had closed his eyes again
that she would soon be back; but he did not open them to see. She kept
her word - perhaps she had never been away - but the next thing that
happened was a noise of footsteps on the stairsand then Paul woke -
woke mind and body - and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about
him. There was no grey mist before themas there had been sometimes
in the night. He knew them every oneand called them by their names.


'And who is this? Is this my old nurse?' said the childregarding
with a radiant smilea figure coming in.


Yesyes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of
himand called him her dear boyher pretty boyher own poor
blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bedand
taken up his wasted handand put it to her lips and breastas one
who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so
forgotten everybody there but him and Floyand been so full of
tenderness and pity.


'Floy! this is a kind good face!' said Paul. 'I am glad to see it
again. Don't go awayold nurse! Stay here.'


His senses were all quickenedand he heard a name he knew.


'Who was thatwho said "Walter"?' he askedlooking round.
'Someone said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very much.'


Nobody replied directly; but his father soon said to Susan'Call
him backthen: let him come up!' Alter a short pause of expectation
during which he looked with smiling interest and wonderon his nurse
and saw that she had not forgotten FloyWalter was brought into the
room. His open face and mannerand his cheerful eyeshad always made
him a favourite with Paul; and when Paul saw him' he stretched Out his
handand said 'Good-bye!'


'Good-byemy child!' said Mrs Pipchinhurrying to his bed's head.
'Not good-bye?'


For an instantPaul looked at her with the wistful face with which
he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. 'Yes' he
said placidly'good-bye! Walter deargood-bye!' - turning his head
to where he stoodand putting out his hand again. 'Where is Papa?'


He felt his father's breath upon his cheekbefore the words had
parted from his lips.



'Remember Walterdear Papa' he whisperedlooking in his face.
'Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!' The feeble hand waved in the
airas if it cried 'good-bye!' to Walter once again.

'Now lay me down' he said'andFloycome close to meand let
me see you!'

Sister and brother wound their arms around each otherand the
golden light came streaming inand fell upon themlocked together.

'How fast the river runsbetween its green banks and the rushes
'Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said
so!'

Presently he told her the motion of the boat upon the stream was
lulling him to rest. How green the banks were nowhow bright the
flowers growing on themand how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out
at seabut gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him.
Who stood on the bank! -

He put his hands togetheras he had been used to do at his
prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold
them sobehind her neck.

'Mama is like youFloy. I know her by the face! But tell them that
the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light
about the head is shining on me as I go!'

The golden ripple on the wall came back againand nothing else
stirred in the room. The oldold fashion! The fashion that came in
with our first garmentsand will last unchanged until our race has
run its courseand the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The
oldold fashion - Death!

Oh thank GODall who see itfor that older fashion yetof
Immortality! And look upon usangels of young childrenwith regards
not quite estrangedwhen the swift river bears us to the ocean!

'Dear medear me! To think' said Miss Toxbursting out afresh
that nightas if her heart were broken'that Dombey and Son should
be a Daughter after all!'

CHAPTER 17.

Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People

Captain Cuttlein the exercise of that surprising talent for
deep-laid and unfathomable schemingwith which (as is not unusual in
men of transparent simplicity) he sincerely believed himself to be
endowed by naturehad gone to Mr Dombey's house on the eventful
Sundaywinking all the way as a vent for his superfluous sagacity
and had presented himself in the full lustre of the ankle-jacks before
the eyes of Towlinson. Hearing from that individualto his great
concernof the impending calamityCaptain Cuttlein his delicacy
sheered off again confounded; merely handing in the nosegay as a small
mark of his solicitudeand leaving his respectful compliments for the
family in generalwhich he accompanied with an expression of his hope
that they would lay their heads well to the wind under existing
circumstancesand a friendly intimation that he would 'look up again'
to-morrow.


The Captain's compliments were never heard of any more. The
Captain's nosegayafter lying in the hall all nightwas swept into
the dust-bin next morning; and the Captain's sly arrangementinvolved
in one catastrophe with greater hopes and loftier designswas crushed
to pieces. Sowhen an avalanche bears down a mountain-foresttwigs
and bushes suffer with the treesand all perish together.

When Walter returned home on the Sunday evening from his long walk
and its memorable closehe was too much occupied at first by the
tidings he had to give themand by the emotions naturally awakened in
his breast by the scene through which he had passedto observe either
that his Uncle was evidently unacquainted with the intelligence the
Captain had undertaken to impartor that the Captain made signals
with his hookwarning him to avoid the subject. Not that the
Captain's signals were calculated to have proved very comprehensible
however attentively observed; forlike those Chinese sages who are
said in their conferences to write certain learned words in the air
that are wholly impossible of pronunciationthe Captain made such
waves and flourishes as nobody without a previous knowledge of his
mysterywould have been at all likely to understand.

Captain Cuttlehoweverbecoming cognisant of what had happened
relinquished these attemptsas he perceived the slender chance that
now existed of his being able to obtain a little easy chat with Mr
Dombey before the period of Walter's departure. But in admitting to
himselfwith a disappointed and crestfallen countenancethat Sol
Gills must be toldand that Walter must go - taking the case for the
present as he found itand not having it enlightened or improved
beforehand by the knowing management of a friend - the Captain still
felt an unabated confidence that heNed Cuttlewas the man for Mr
Dombey; and thatto set Walter's fortunes quite squarenothing was
wanted but that they two should come together. For the Captain never
could forget how well he and Mr Dombey had got on at Brighton; with
what nicety each of them had put in a word when it was wanted; how
exactly they had taken one another's measure; nor how Ned Cuttle had
pointed out that resources in the first extremityand had brought the
interview to the desired termination. On all these grounds the Captain
soothed himself with thinking that though Ned Cuttle was forced by the
pressure of events to 'stand by' almost useless for the presentNed
would fetch up with a wet sail in good timeand carry all before him.

Under the influence of this good-natured delusionCaptain Cuttle
even went so far as to revolve in his own bosomwhile he sat looking
at Walter and listening with a tear on his shirt-collar to what he
relatedwhether it might not be at once genteel and politic to give
Mr Dombey a verbal invitationwhenever they should meetto come and
cut his mutton in Brig Place on some day of his own namingand enter
on the question of his young friend's prospects over a social glass.
But the uncertain temper of Mrs MacStingerand the possibility of her
setting up her rest in the passage during such an entertainmentand
there delivering some homily of an uncomplimentary natureoperated as
a check on the Captain's hospitable thoughtsand rendered him timid
of giving them encouragement.

One fact was quite clear to the Captainas Waltersitting
thoughtfully over his untasted dinnerdwelt on all that had happened;
namelythat however Walter's modesty might stand in the way of his
perceiving it himselfhe wasas one might saya member of Mr
Dombey's family. He had beenin his own personconnected with the
incident he so pathetically described; he had been by name remembered
and commended in close association with it; and his fortunes must have
a particular interest in his employer's eyes. If the Captain had any
lurking doubt whatever of his own conclusionshe had not the least


doubt that they were good conclusions for the peace of mind of the
Instrument-maker. Therefore he availed himself of so favourable a
moment for breaking the West Indian intelligence to his friendas a
piece of extraordinary preferment; declaring that for his part he
would freely give a hundred thousand pounds (if he had it) for
Walter's gain in the long-runand that he had no doubt such an
investment would yield a handsome premium.

Solomon Gills was at first stunned by the communicationwhich fell
upon the little back-parlour like a thunderboltand tore up the
hearth savagely. But the Captain flashed such golden prospects before
his dim sight: hinted so mysteriously at 'Whittingtonian consequences;
laid such emphasis on what Walter had just now told them: and appealed
to it so confidently as a corroboration of his predictionsand a
great advance towards the realisation of the romantic legend of Lovely
Peg: that he bewildered the old man. Walterfor his partfeigned to
be so full of hope and ardourand so sure of coming home again soon
and backed up the Captain with such expressive shakings of his head
and rubbings of his handsthat Solomonlooking first at him then at
Captain Cuttlebegan to think he ought to be transported with joy.

'But I'm behind the timeyou understand' he observed in apology
passing his hand nervously down the whole row of bright buttons on his
coatand then up againas if they were beads and he were telling
them twice over: 'and I would rather have my dear boy here. It's an
old-fashioned notionI daresay. He was always fond of the sea He's' and
he looked wistfully at Walter - 'he's glad to go.'

'Uncle Sol!' cried Walterquickly'if you say thatI won't go.
NoCaptain CuttleI won't. If my Uncle thinks I could be glad to
leave himthough I was going to be made Governor of all the Islands
in the West Indiesthat's enough. I'm a fixture.'

'Wal'rmy lad' said the Captain. 'Steady! Sol Gillstake an
observation of your nevy.

Following with his eyes the majestic action of the Captain's hook
the old man looked at Walter.

'Here is a certain craft' said the Captainwith a magnificent
sense of the allegory into which he was soaring'a-going to put out
on a certain voyage. What name is wrote upon that craft indelibly? Is
it The Gay? or' said the Captainraising his voice as much as to
sayobserve the point of this'is it The Gills?'

'Ned' said the old mandrawing Walter to his sideand taking his
arm tenderly through his'I know. I know. Of course I know that Wally
considers me more than himself always. That's in my mind. When I say
he is glad to goI mean I hope he is. Eh? look youNed and you too
Wallymy dearthis is new and unexpected to me; and I'm afraid my
being behind the timeand pooris at the bottom of it. Is it really
good fortune for himdo you tell menow?' said the old manlooking
anxiously from one to the other. 'Really and truly? Is it? I can
reconcile myself to almost anything that advances Wallybut I won't
have Wally putting himself at any disadvantage for meor keeping
anything from me. YouNed Cuttle!' said the old manfastening on the
Captainto the manifest confusion of that diplomatist; 'are you
dealing plainly by your old friend? Speak outNed Cuttle. Is there
anything behind? Ought he to go? How do you know it firstand why?'

As it was a contest of affection and self-denialWalter struck in
with infinite effectto the Captain's relief; and between them they
tolerably reconciled old Sol Gillsby continued talkingto the
project; or rather so confused himthat nothingnot even the pain of


separationwas distinctly clear to his mind.

He had not much time to balance the matter; for on the very next
dayWalter received from Mr Carker the Managerthe necessary
credentials for his passage and outfittogether with the information
that the Son and Heir would sail in a fortnightor within a day or
two afterwards at latest. In the hurry of preparation: which Walter
purposely enhanced as much as possible: the old man lost what little
selfpossession he ever had; and so the time of departure drew on
rapidly.

The Captainwho did not fail to make himself acquainted with all
that passedthrough inquiries of Walter from day to dayfound the
time still tending on towards his going awaywithout any occasion
offering itselfor seeming likely to offer itselffor a better
understanding of his position. It was after much consideration of this
factand much pondering over such an unfortunate combination of
circumstancesthat a bright idea occurred to the Captain. Suppose he
made a call on Mr Carkerand tried to find out from him how the land
really lay!

Captain Cuttle liked this idea very much. It came upon him in a
moment of inspirationas he was smoking an early pipe in Brig Place
after breakfast; and it was worthy of the tobacco. It would quiet his
consciencewhich was an honest oneand was made a little uneasy by
what Walter had confided to himand what Sol Gills had said; and it
would be a deepshrewd act of friendship. He would sound Mr Carker
carefullyand say much or littlejust as he read that gentleman's
characterand discovered that they got on well together or the
reverse.

Accordinglywithout the fear of Walter before his eyes (who he
knew was at home packing)Captain Cuttle again assumed his
ankle-jacks and mourning broochand issued forth on this second
expedition. He purchased no propitiatory nosegay on the present
occasionas he was going to a place of business; but he put a small
sunflower in his button-hole to give himself an agreeable relish of
the country; and with thisand the knobby stickand the glazed hat
bore down upon the offices of Dombey and Son.

After taking a glass of warm rum-and-water at a tavern close byto
collect his thoughtsthe Captain made a rush down the courtlest its
good effects should evaporateand appeared suddenly to Mr Perch.

'Matey' said the Captainin persuasive accents. 'One of your
Governors is named Carker.' Mr Perch admitted it; but gave him to
understandas in official duty boundthat all his Governors were
engagedand never expected to be disengaged any more.

'Look'ee heremate' said the Captain in his ear; 'my name's
Cap'en Cuttle.'

The Captain would have hooked Perch gently to himbut Mr Perch
eluded the attempt; not so much in designas in starting at the
sudden thought that such a weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs Perch
mightin her then conditionbe destructive to that lady's hopes.

'If you'll be so good as just report Cap'en Cuttle herewhen you
get a chance' said the Captain'I'll wait.'

Saying whichthe Captain took his seat on Mr Perch's bracketand
drawing out his handkerchief from the crown of the glazed hat which he
jammed between his knees (without injury to its shapefor nothing
human could bend it)rubbed his head well all overand appeared


refreshed. He subsequently arranged his hair with his hookand sat
looking round the officecontemplating the clerks with a serene
respect.

The Captain's equanimity was so impenetrableand he was altogether
so mysterious a beingthat Perch the messenger was daunted.

'What name was it you said?' asked Mr Perchbending down over him
as he sat on the bracket.

'Cap'en' in a deep hoarse whisper.

'Yes' said Mr Perchkeeping time with his head.

'Cuttle.'

'Oh!' said Mr Perchin the same tonefor he caught itand
couldn't help it; the Captainin his diplomacywas so impressive.
'I'll see if he's disengaged now. I don't know. Perhaps he may be for
a minute.'

'Ayaymy ladI won't detain him longer than a minute' said the
Captainnodding with all the weighty importance that he felt within
him. Perchsoon returningsaid'Will Captain Cuttle walk this way?'

Mr Carker the Managerstanding on the hearth-rug before the empty
fireplacewhich was ornamented with a castellated sheet of brown
paperlooked at the Captain as he came inwith no very special
encouragement.

'Mr Carker?' said Captain Cuttle.

'I believe so' said Mr Carkershowing all his teeth.

The Captain liked his answering with a smile; it looked pleasant.
'You see' began the Captainrolling his eyes slowly round the little
roomand taking in as much of it as his shirt-collar permitted; 'I'm
a seafaring man myselfMr Carkerand Wal'ras is on your books
hereis almost a son of mine.'

'Walter Gay?' said Mr Carkershowing all his teeth again.

'Wal'r Gay it is' replied the Captain'right!' The Captain's
manner expressed a warm approval of Mr Carker's quickness of
perception. 'I'm a intimate friend of his and his Uncle's. Perhaps'
said the Captain'you may have heard your head Governor mention my
name? - Captain Cuttle.'

'No!' said Mr Carkerwith a still wider demonstration than before.

'Well' resumed the Captain'I've the pleasure of his
acquaintance. I waited upon him down on the Sussex coast therewith
my young friend Wal'rwhen - in shortwhen there was a little
accommodation wanted.' The Captain nodded his head in a manner that
was at once comfortableeasyand expressive. 'You rememberI
daresay?'

'I think' said Mr Carker'I had the honour of arranging the
business.'

'To be sure!' returned the Captain. 'Right again! you had. Now I've
took the liberty of coming here


'Won't you sit down?' said Mr Carkersmiling.


'Thank'ee' returned the Captainavailing himself of the offer. 'A
man does get more way upon himselfperhapsin his conversationwhen
he sits down. Won't you take a cheer yourself?'

'No thank you' said the Managerstandingperhaps from the force
of winter habitwith his back against the chimney-pieceand looking
down upon the Captain with an eye in every tooth and gum. 'You have
taken the libertyyou were going to say - though it's none - '

'Thank'ee kindlymy lad' returned the Captain: 'of coming here
on account of my friend Wal'r. Sol Gillshis Uncleis a man of
scienceand in science he may be considered a clipper; but he ain't
what I should altogether call a able seaman - not man of practice.
Wal'r is as trim a lad as ever stepped; but he's a little down by the
head in one respectand that ismodesty. Now what I should wish to
put to you' said the Captainlowering his voiceand speaking in a
kind of confidential growl'in a friendly wayentirely between you
and meand for my own private reckoning'till your head Governor has
wore round a bitand I can come alongside of himis this - Is
everything right and comfortable hereand is Wal'r out'ard bound with
a pretty fair wind?'

'What do you think nowCaptain Cuttle?' returned Carkergathering
up his skirts and settling himself in his position. 'You are a
practical man; what do you think?'

The acuteness and the significance of the Captain's eye as he
cocked it in replyno words short of those unutterable Chinese words
before referred to could describe.

'Come!' said the Captainunspeakably encouraged'what do you say?
Am I right or wrong?'

So much had the Captain expressed in his eyeemboldened and
incited by Mr Carker's smiling urbanitythat he felt himself in as
fair a condition to put the questionas if he had expressed his
sentiments with the utmost elaboration.

'Right' said Mr Carker'I have no doubt.'

'Out'ard bound with fair weatherthenI say' cried Captain
Cuttle.

Mr Carker smiled assent.

'Wind right astarnand plenty of it' pursued the Captain.

Mr Carker smiled assent again.

'Ayay!' said Captain Cuttlegreatly relieved and pleased. 'I
know'd how she headedwell enough; I told Wal'r so. Thank'ee
thank'ee.'

'Gay has brilliant prospects' observed Mr Carkerstretching his
mouth wider yet: 'all the world before him.'

'All the world and his wife tooas the saying is' returned the
delighted Captain.

At the word 'wife' (which he had uttered without design)the
Captain stoppedcocked his eye againand putting the glazed hat on
the top of the knobby stickgave it a twirland looked sideways at
his always smiling friend.


'I'd bet a gill of old Jamaica' said the Captaineyeing him
attentively'that I know what you're a smiling at.'

Mr Carker took his cueand smiled the more.

'It goes no farther?' said the Captainmaking a poke at the door
with the knobby stick to assure himself that it was shut.

'Not an inch' said Mr Carker.

'You're thinking of a capital F perhaps?' said the Captain.

Mr Carker didn't deny it.

'Anything about a L' said the Captain'or a O?'

Mr Carker still smiled.

'Am I rightagain?' inquired the Captain in a whisperwith the
scarlet circle on his forehead swelling in his triumphant joy.

Mr Carkerin replystill smilingand now nodding assentCaptain
Cuttle rose and squeezed him by the handassuring himwarmlythat
they were on the same tackand that as for him (Cuttle) he had laid
his course that way all along. 'He know'd her first' said the
Captainwith all the secrecy and gravity that the subject demanded
'in an uncommon manner - you remember his finding her in the street
when she was a'most a babby - he has liked her ever sinceand she
himas much as two youngsters can. We've always saidSol Gills and
methat they was cut out for each other.'

A cator a monkeyor a hyenaor a death's-headcould not have
shown the Captain more teeth at one timethan Mr Carker showed him at
this period of their interview.

'There's a general indraught that way' observed the happy Captain.
'Wind and water sets in that directionyou see. Look at his being
present t'other day!'

'Most favourable to his hopes' said Mr Carker.

'Look at his being towed along in the wake of that day!' pursued
the Captain. 'Why what can cut him adrift now?'

'Nothing' replied Mr Carker.

'You're right again' returned the Captaingiving his hand another
squeeze. 'Nothing it is. So! steady! There's a son gone: pretty little
creetur. Ain't there?'

'Yesthere's a son gone' said the acquiescent Carker.

'Pass the wordand there's another ready for you' quoth the
Captain. 'Nevy of a scientific Uncle! Nevy of Sol Gills! Wal'r! Wal'r
as is already in your business! And' - said the Captainrising
gradually to a quotation he was preparing for a final burst'who comes
from Sol Gills's dailyto your businessand your buzzums.' The
Captain's complacency as he gently jogged Mr Carker with his elbowon
concluding each of the foregoing short sentencescould be surpassed
by nothing but the exultation with which he fell back and eyed him
when he had finished this brilliant display of eloquence and sagacity;
his great blue waistcoat heaving with the throes of such a
masterpieceand his nose in a state of violent inflammation from the


same cause.

'Am I right?' said the Captain.

'Captain Cuttle' said Mr Carkerbending down at the kneesfor a
momentin an odd manneras if he were falling together to hug the
whole of himself at once'your views in reference to Walter Gay are
thoroughly and accurately right. I understand that we speak together
in confidence.

'Honour!' interposed the Captain. 'Not a word.'

'To him or anyone?' pursued the Manager.

Captain Cuttle frowned and shook his head.

'But merely for your own satisfaction and guidance - and guidance
of course' repeated Mr Carker'with a view to your future
proceedings.'

'Thank'ee kindlyI am sure' said the Captainlistening with
great attention.

'I have no hesitation in sayingthat's the fact. You have hit the
probabilities exactly.'

'And with regard to your head Governor' said the Captain'why an
interview had better come about nat'ral between us. There's time
enough.'

Mr Carkerwith his mouth from ear to earrepeated'Time enough.'
Not articulating the wordsbut bowing his head affablyand forming
them with his tongue and lips.

'And as I know - it's what I always said- that Wal'r's in a way to
make his fortune' said the Captain.

'To make his fortune' Mr Carker repeatedin the same dumb manner.

'And as Wal'r's going on this little voyage isas I may sayin
his day's workand a part of his general expectations here' said the
Captain.

'Of his general expectations here' assented Mr Carkerdumbly as
before.

'Whyso long as I know that' pursued the Captain'there's no
hurryand my mind's at ease.

Mr Carker still blandly assenting in the same voiceless manner
Captain Cuttle was strongly confirmed in his opinion that he was one
of the most agreeable men he had ever metand that even Mr Dombey
might improve himself on such a model. With great heartiness
thereforethe Captain once again extended his enormous hand (not
unlike an old block in colour)and gave him a grip that left upon his
smoother flesh a proof impression of the chinks and crevices with
which the Captain's palm was liberally tattooed.

'Farewell!' said the Captain. 'I ain't a man of many wordsbut I
take it very kind of you to be so friendlyand above-board. You'll
excuse me if I've been at all intrudingwill you?' said the Captain.

'Not at all' returned the other.


'Thank'ee. My berth ain't very roomy' said the Captainturning
back again'but it's tolerably snug; and if you was to find yourself
near Brig Placenumber nineat any time - will you make a note of
it? - and would come upstairswithout minding what was said by the
person at the doorI should be proud to see you.

With that hospitable invitationthe Captain said 'Good day!' and
walked out and shut the door; leaving Mr Carker still reclining
against the chimney-piece. In whose sly look and watchful manner; in
whose false mouthstretched but not laughing; in whose spotless
cravat and very whiskers; even in whose silent passing of his soft
hand over his white linen and his smooth face; there was something
desperately cat-like.

The unconscious Captain walked out in a state of self-glorification
that imparted quite a new cut to the broad blue suit. 'Stand byNed!'
said the Captain to himself. 'You've done a little business for the
youngsters todaymy lad!'

In his exultationand in his familiaritypresent and prospective
with the Housethe Captainwhen he reached the outer officecould
not refrain from rallying Mr Perch a littleand asking him whether he
thought everybody was still engaged. But not to be bitter on a man who
had done his dutythe Captain whispered in his earthat if he felt
disposed for a glass of rum-and-waterand would followhe would be
happy to bestow the same upon him.

Before leaving the premisesthe Captainsomewhat to the
astonishment of the clerkslooked round from a central point of view
and took a general survey of the officers part and parcel of a project
in which his young friend was nearly interested. The strong-room
excited his especial admiration; butthat he might not appear too
particularhe limited himself to an approving glanceandwith a
graceful recognition of the clerks as a bodythat was full of
politeness and patronagepassed out into the court. Being promptly
joined by Mr Perchhe conveyed that gentleman to the tavernand
fulfilled his pledge - hastilyfor Perch's time was precious.

'I'll give you for a toast' said the Captain'Wal'r!'

'Who?' submitted Mr Perch.

'Wal'r!' repeated the Captainin a voice of thunder.

Mr Perchwho seemed to remember having heard in infancy that there
was once a poet of that namemade no objection; but he was much
astonished at the Captain's coming into the City to propose a poet;
indeedif he had proposed to put a poet's statue up - say
Shakespeare's for example - in a civic thoroughfarehe could hardly
have done a greater outrage to Mr Perch's experience. On the wholehe
was such a mysterious and incomprehensible characterthat Mr Perch
decided not to mention him to Mrs Perch at allin case of giving rise
to any disagreeable consequences.

Mysterious and incomprehensiblethe Captainwith that lively
sense upon him of having done a little business for the youngsters
remained all dayeven to his most intimate friends; and but that
Walter attributed his winks and grinsand other such pantomimic
reliefs of himselfto his satisfaction in the success of their
innocent deception upon old Sol Gillshe would assuredly have
betrayed himself before night. As it washoweverhe kept his own
secret; and went home late from the Instrument-maker's housewearing
the glazed hat so much on one sideand carrying such a beaming
expression in his eyesthat Mrs MacStinger (who might have been


brought up at Doctor Blimber'sshe was such a Roman matron) fortified
herselfat the first glimpse of himbehind the open street doorand
refused to come out to the contemplation of her blessed infantsuntil
he was securely lodged in his own room.

CHAPTER 18.

Father and Daughter

There is a hush through Mr Dombey's house. Servants gliding up and
down stairs rustlebut make no sound of footsteps. They talk together
constantlyand sit long at mealsmaking much of their meat and
drinkand enjoying themselves after a grim unholy fashion. Mrs
Wickamwith her eyes suffused with tearsrelates melancholy
anecdotes; and tells them how she always said at Mrs Pipchin's that it
would be soand takes more table-ale than usualand is very sorry
but sociable. Cook's state of mind is similar. She promises a little
fry for supperand struggles about equally against her feelings and
the onions. Towlinson begins to think there's a fate in itand wants
to know if anybody can tell him ofany good that ever came of living in
a corner house. It seems to all of them as having happened a long time
ago; though yet the child liescalm and beautifulupon his little
bed.

After dark there come some visitors - noiseless visitorswith
shoes of felt - who have been there before; and with them comes that
bed of rest which is so strange a one for infant sleepers. All this
timethe bereaved father has not been seen even by his attendant; for
he sits in an inner corner of his own dark room when anyone is there
and never seems to move at other timesexcept to pace it to and fro.
But in the morning it is whispered among the household that he was
heard to go upstairs in the dead nightand that he stayed there - in
the room - until the sun was shining.

At the offices in the Citythe ground-glass windows are made more
dim by shutters; and while the lighted lamps upon the desks are half
extinguished by the day that wanders inthe day is half extinguished
by the lampsand an unusual gloom prevails. There is not much
business done. The clerks are indisposed to work; and they make
assignations to eat chops in the afternoonand go up the river.
Perchthe messengerstays long upon his errands; and finds himself
in bars of public-housesinvited thither by friendsand holding
forth on the uncertainty of human affairs. He goes home to Ball's Pond
earlier in the evening than usualand treats Mrs Perch to a veal
cutlet and Scotch ale. Mr Carker the Manager treats no one; neither is
he treated; but alone in his own room he shows his teeth all day; and
it would seem that there is something gone from Mr Carker's path some
obstacle removed - which clears his way before him.

Now the rosy children living opposite to Mr Dombey's housepeep
from their nursery windows down into the street; for there are four
black horses at his doorwith feathers on their heads; and feathers
tremble on the carriage that they draw; and theseand an array of men
with scarves and stavesattract a crowd. The juggler who was going to
twirl the basinputs his loose coat on again over his fine dress; and
his trudging wifeone-sided with her heavy baby in her armsloiters
to see the company come out. But closer to her dingy breast she
presses her babywhen the burden that is so easily carried is borne
forth; and the youngest of the rosy children at the high window
oppositeneeds no restraining hand to check her in her gleewhen


pointing with her dimpled fingershe looks into her nurse's faceand
asks 'What's that?'

And nowamong the knot of servants dressed in mourningand the
weeping womenMr Dombey passes through the hall to the other carriage
that is waiting to receive him. He is not 'brought down' these
observers thinkby sorrow and distress of mind. His walk is as erect
his bearing is as stiff as ever it has been. He hides his face behind
no handkerchiefand looks before him. But that his face is something
sunk and rigidand is paleit bears the same expression as of old.
He takes his place within the carriageand three other gentlemen
follow. Then the grand funeral moves slowly down the street. The
feathers are yet nodding in the distancewhen the juggler has the
basin spinning on a caneand has the same crowd to admire it. But the
juggler's wife is less alert than usual with the money-boxfor a
child's burial has set her thinking that perhaps the baby underneath
her shabby shawl may not grow up to be a manand wear a sky-blue
fillet round his headand salmon-coloured worsted drawersand tumble
in the mud.

The feathers wind their gloomy way along the streetsand come
within the sound of a church bell. In this same churchthe pretty boy
received all that will soon be left of him on earth - a name. All of
him that is deadthey lay therenear the perishable substance of his
mother. It is well. Their ashes lie where Florence in her walks - oh
lonelylonely walks! - may pass them any day.

The service overand the clergyman withdrawnMr Dombey looks
rounddemanding in a low voicewhether the person who has been
requested to attend to receive instructions for the tabletis there?

Someone comes forwardand says 'Yes.'

Mr Dombey intimates where he would have it placed; and shows him
with his hand upon the wallthe shape and size; and how it is to
follow the memorial to the mother. Thenwith his pencilhe writes
out the inscriptionand gives it to him: adding'I wish to have it
done at once.

'It shall be done immediatelySir.'

'There is really nothing to inscribe but name and ageyou see.'

The man bowsglancing at the paperbut appears to hesitate. Mr
Dombey not observing his hesitationturns awayand leads towards the
porch.

'I beg your pardonSir;' a touch falls gently on his mourning
cloak; 'but as you wish it done immediatelyand it may be put in hand
when I get back - '

'Well?'

'Will you be so good as read it over again? I think there's a
mistake.'

'Where?'

The statuary gives him back the paperand points outwith his
pocket rulethe words'beloved and only child.'

'It should beson,I thinkSir?'

'You are right. Of course. Make the correction.'


The fatherwith a hastier steppursues his way to the coach. When
the other threewho follow closelytake their seatshis face is
hidden for the first time - shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it
any more that day. He alights firstand passes immediately into his
own room. The other mourners (who are only Mr Chickand two of the
medical attendants) proceed upstairs to the drawing-roomto be
received by Mrs Chick and Miss Tox. And what the face isin the
shut-up chamber underneath: or what the thoughts are: what the heart
iswhat the contest or the suffering: no one knows.

The chief thing that they knowbelow stairsin the kitchenis
that 'it seems like Sunday.' They can hardly persuade themselves but
that there is something unbecomingif not wickedin the conduct of
the people out of doorswho pursue their ordinary occupationsand
wear their everyday attire. It is quite a novelty to have the blinds
upand the shutters open; and they make themselves dismally
comfortable over bottles of winewhich are freely broached as on a
festival. They are much inclined to moralise. Mr Towlinson proposes
with a sigh'Amendment to us all!' for whichas Cook says with
another sigh'There's room enoughGod knows.' In the eveningMrs
Chick and Miss Tox take to needlework again. In the evening alsoMr
Towlinson goes out to take the airaccompanied by the housemaidwho
has not yet tried her mourning bonnet. They are very tender to each
other at dusky street-cornersand Towlinson has visions of leading an
altered and blameless existence as a serious greengrocer in Oxford
Market.

There is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr Dombey's house
tonightthan there has been for many nights. The morning sun awakens
the old householdsettled down once more in their old ways. The rosy
children opposite run past with hoops. There is a splendid wedding in
the church. The juggler's wife is active with the money-box in another
quarter of the town. The mason sings and whistles as he chips out
P-A-U-L in the marble slab before him.

And can it be that in a world so full and busythe loss of one
weak creature makes a void in any heartso wide and deep that nothing
but the width and depth of vast eternity can fill it up! Florencein
her innocent afflictionmight have answered'Oh my brotheroh my
dearly loved and loving brother! Only friend and companion of my
slighted childhood! Could any less idea shed the light already dawning
on your early graveor give birth to the softened sorrow that is
springing into life beneath this rain of tears!'

'My dear child' said Mrs Chickwho held it as a duty incumbent on
herto improve the occasion'when you are as old as I am - '

'Which will be the prime of life' observed Miss Tox.

'You will then' pursued Mrs Chickgently squeezing Miss Tox's
hand in acknowledgment of her friendly remark'you will then know
that all grief is unavailingand that it is our duty to submit.'

'I will trydear aunt I do try' answered Florencesobbing.

'I am glad to hear it' said Mrs Chick'because; my loveas our
dear Miss Tox - of whose sound sense and excellent judgmentthere
cannot possibly be two opinions - '

'My dear LouisaI shall really be proudsoon' said Miss Tox

-'will tell youand confirm by her experience' pursued Mrs
Chick'we are called upon on all occasions to make an effort It is

required of us. If any - my dear' turning to Miss Tox'I want a
word. Mis- Mis-'

'Demeanour?' suggested Miss Tox.

'Nonono' said Mrs Chic 'How can you! Goodness meit's onthe
end of my tongue. Mis-'

Placed affection?' suggested Miss Toxtimidly.

'Good graciousLucretia!' returned Mrs Chick 'How very monstrous!
Misanthropeis the word I want. The idea! Misplaced affection! I say
if any misanthrope were to putin my presencethe question "Why were
we born?" I should replyTo make an effort'

'Very good indeed' said Miss Toxmuch impressed by the
originality of the sentiment 'Very good.'

'Unhappily' pursued Mrs Chick'we have a warning under our own
eyes. We have but too much reason to supposemy dear childthat if
an effort had been made in timein this familya train of the most
trying and distressing circumstances might have been avoided. Nothing
shall ever persuade me' observed the good matronwith a resolute
air'but that if that effort had been made by poor dear Fannythe
poor dear darling child would at least have had a stronger
constitution.'

Mrs Chick abandoned herself to her feelings for half a moment; but
as a practical illustration of her doctrinebrought herself up short
in the middle of a soband went on again.

'ThereforeFlorencepray let us see that you have some strength
of mindand do not selfishly aggravate the distress in which your
poor Papa is plunged.'

'Dear aunt!' said Florencekneeling quickly down before herthat
she might the better and more earnestly look into her face. 'Tell me
more about Papa. Pray tell me about him! Is he quite heartbroken?'

Miss Tox was of a tender natureand there was something in this
appeal that moved her very much. Whether she saw it in a succession
on the part of the neglected childto the affectionate concern so
often expressed by her dead brother - or a love that sought to twine
itself about the heart that had loved himand that could not bear to
be shut out from sympathy with such a sorrowin such sad community of
love and grief - or whether the only recognised the earnest and
devoted spirit whichalthough discarded and repulsedwas wrung with
tenderness long unreturnedand in the waste and solitude of this
bereavement cried to him to seek a comfort in itand to give someby
some small response - whatever may have been her understanding of it
it moved Miss Tox. For the moment she forgot the majesty of Mrs Chick
andpatting Florence hastily on the cheekturned aside and suffered
the tears to gush from her eyeswithout waiting for a lead from that
wise matron.

Mrs Chick herself lostfor a momentthe presence of mind on which
she so much prided herself; and remained mutelooking on the
beautiful young face that had so longso steadilyand patiently
been turned towards the little bed. But recovering her voice - which
was synonymous with her presence of mindindeed they were one and the
same thing - she replied with dignity:

'Florencemy dear childyour poor Papa is peculiar at times; and
to question me about himis to question me upon a subject which I


really do not pretend to understand. I believe I have as much
influence with your Papa as anybody has. Stillall I can say isthat
he has said very little to me; and that I have only seen him once or
twice for a minute at a timeand indeed have hardly seen him then
for his room has been dark. I have said to your PapaPaul!- that
is the exact expression I used - "Paul! why do you not take something
stimulating?" Your Papa's reply has always beenLouisa, have the
goodness to leave me. I want nothing. I am better by myself.If I was
to be put upon my oath to-morrowLucretiabefore a magistrate' said
Mrs Chick'I have no doubt I could venture to swear to those
identical words.'

Miss Tox expressed her admiration by saying'My Louisa is ever
methodical!'

'In shortFlorence' resumed her aunt'literally nothing has
passed between your poor Papa and myselfuntil to-day; when I
mentioned to your Papa that Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles had written
exceedingly kind notes - our sweet boy! Lady Skettles loved him like a

-where's my pocket handkerchief?'
Miss Tox produced one.

'Exceedingly kind notesproposing that you should visit them for
change of scene. Mentioning to your Papa that I thought Miss Tox and
myself might now go home (in which he quite agreed)I inquired if he
had any objection to your accepting this invitation. He saidNo,
Louisa, not the least!' Florence raised her tearful eye

'At the same timeif you would prefer staying hereFlorenceto
paying this visit at presentor to going home with me - '

'I should much prefer itaunt' was the faint rejoinder.

'Why thenchild'said Mrs Chick'you can. It's a strange choice
I must say. But you always were strange. Anybody else at your time of
lifeand after what has passed - my dear Miss ToxI have lost my
pocket handkerchief again - would be glad to leave hereone would
suppose.

'I should not like to feel' said Florence'as if the house was
avoided. I should not like to think that the - his - the rooms
upstairs were quite empty and drearyaunt. I would rather stay here
for the present. Oh my brother! oh my brother!'

It was a natural emotionnot to be suppressed; and it would make
way even between the fingers of the hands with which she covered up
her face. The overcharged and heavy-laden breast must some times have
that ventor the poor wounded solitary heart within it would have
fluttered like a bird with broken wingsand sunk down in the dust'

'Wellchild!' said Mrs Chickafter a pause 'I wouldn't on any
account say anything unkind to youand that I'm sure you know. You
will remain herethenand do exactly as you like. No one will
interfere with youFlorenceor wish to interfere with youI'm sure.

Florence shook her head in sad assent'

'I had no sooner begun to advise your poor Papa that he really
ought to seek some distraction and restoration in a temporary change'
said Mrs Chick'than he told me he had already formed the intention
of going into the country for a short time. I'm sure I hope he'll go
very soon. He can't go too soon. But I suppose there are some
arrangements connected with his private papers and so forth


consequent on the affliction that has tried us all so much - I can't
think what's become of mine: Lucretialend me yoursmy dear - that
may occupy him for one or two evenings in his own room. Your Papa's a
Dombeychildif ever there was one' said Mrs Chickdrying both her
eyes at once with great care on opposite corners of Miss Tox's
handkerchief 'He'll make an effort. There's no fear of him.'

'Is there nothingaunt' said Florencetrembling'I might do to
-

'Lordmy dear child' interposed Mrs Chickhastily'what are you
talking about? If your Papa said to Me - I have given you his exact
wordsLouisa, I want nothing; I am better by myself- what do you
think he'd say to you? You mustn't show yourself to himchild. Don't
dream of such a thing.'

'Aunt' said Florence'I will go and lie down on my bed.'

Mrs Chick approved of this resolutionand dismissed her with a
kiss. But Miss Toxon a faint pretence of looking for the mislaid
handkerchiefwent upstairs after her; and tried in a few stolen
minutes to comfort herin spite of great discouragement from Susan
Nipper. For Miss Nipperin her burning zealdisparaged Miss Tox as a
crocodile; yet her sympathy seemed genuineand had at least the
vantage-ground of disinterestedness - there was little favour to be
won by it.

And was there no one nearer and dearer than Susanto uphold the
striving heart in its anguish? Was there no other neck to clasp; no
other face to turn to? no one else to say a soothing word to such deep
sorrow? Was Florence so alone in the bleak world that nothing else
remained to her? Nothing. Stricken motherless and brotherless at once

-for in the loss of little Paulthat first and greatest loss fell
heavily upon her - this was the only help she had. Ohwho can tell
how much she needed help at first!
At firstwhen the house subsided into its accustomed courseand
they had all gone awayexcept the servantsand her father shut up in
his own roomsFlorence could do nothing but weepand wander up and
downand sometimesin a sudden pang of desolate remembrancefly to
her own chamberwring her handslay her face down on her bedand
know no consolation: nothing but the bitterness and cruelty of grief.
This commonly ensued upon the recognition of some spot or object very
tenderly dated with him; and it made the ale houseat firsta place
of agony.

But it is not in the nature of pure love to burn so fiercely and
unkindly long. The flame that in its grosser composition has the taint
of earth may prey upon the breast that gives it shelter; but the fire
from heaven is as gentle in the heartas when it rested on the heads
of the assembled twelveand showed each man his brotherbrightened
and unhurt. The image conjured upthere soon returned the placid
facethe softened voicethe loving looksthe quiet trustfulness and
peace; and Florencethough she wept stillwept more tranquillyand
courted the remembrance.

It was not very long before the golden waterdancing on the wall
in the old placeat the old serene timehad her calm eye fixed upon
it as it ebbed away. It was not very long before that room again knew
heroften; sitting there aloneas patient and as mild as when she
had watched beside the little bed. When any sharp sense of its being
empty smote upon hershe could kneel beside itand pray GOD - it was
the pouring out of her full heart - to let one angel love her and
remember her.


It was not very long beforein the midst of the dismal house so
wide and drearyher low voice in the twilightslowly and stopping
sometimestouched the old air to which he had so often listenedwith
his drooping head upon her arm. And after thatand when it was quite
darka little strain of music trembled in the room: so softly played
and sungthat it was more lIke the mournful recollection of what she
had done at his request on that last nightthan the reality repeated.
But it was repeatedoften - very oftenin the shadowy solitude; and
broken murmurs of the strain still trembled on the keyswhen the
sweet voice was hushed in tears.

Thus she gained heart to look upon the work with which her fingers
had been busy by his side on the sea-shore; and thus it was not very
long before she took to it again - with something of a human love for
itas if it had been sentient and had known him; andsitting in a
windownear her mother's picturein the unused room so long
desertedwore away the thoughtful hours.

Why did the dark eyes turn so often from this work to where the
rosy children lived? They were not immediate!y suggestive of her loss;
for they were all girls: four little sisters. But they were motherless
like her - and had a father.

It was easy to know when he had gone out and was expected homefor
the elder child was always dressed and waiting for him at the
drawing-room windowor n the balcony; and when he appearedher
expectant face lighted up with joywhile the others at the high
windowand always on the watch tooclapped their handsand drummed
them on the silland called to him. The elder child would come down
to the halland put her hand in hisand lead him up the stairs; and
Florence would see her afterwards sitting by his sideor on his knee
or hanging coaxingly about his neck and talking to him: and though
they were always gay togetherhe would often watch her face as if he
thought her like her mother that was dead. Florence would sometimes
look no more at thisand bursting into tears would hide behind the
curtain as if she were frightenedor would hurry from the window. Yet
she could not help returning; and her work would soon fall unheeded
from her hands again.

It was the house that had been emptyyears ago. It had remained so
for a long time. At lastand while she had been away from homethis
family had taken it; and it was repaired and newly painted; and there
were birds and flowers about it; and it looked very different from its
old self. But she never thought of the house. The children and their
father were all in all.

When he had dinedshe could see themthrough the open windowsgo
down with their governess or nurseand cluster round the table; and
in the still summer weatherthe sound of their childish voices and
clear laughter would come ringing across the streetinto the drooping
air of the room in which she sat. Then they would climb and clamber
upstairs with himand romp about him on the sofaor group themselves
at his kneea very nosegay of little faceswhile he seemed to tell
them some story. Or they would come running out into the balcony; and
then Florence would hide herself quicklylest it should check them in
their joyto see her in her black dresssitting there alone.

The elder child remained with her father when the rest had gone
awayand made his tea for him - happy little house-keeper she was
then! - and sat conversing with himsometimes at the window
sometimes in the roomuntil the candles came. He made her his
companionthough she was some years younger than Florence; and she
could be as staid and pleasantly demurewith her little book or


work-boxas a woman. When they had candlesFlorence from her own
dark room was not afraid to look again. But when the time came for the
child to say 'Good-nightPapa' and go to bedFlorence would sob and
tremble as she raised her face to himand could look no more.

Though still she would turnagain and againbefore going to bed
herself from the simple air that had lulled him to rest so oftenlong
agoand from the other low soft broken strain of musicback to that
house. But that she ever thought of itor watched itwas a secret
which she kept within her own young breast.

And did that breast of Florence - Florenceso ingenuous and true so
worthy of the love that he had borne herand had whispered in his
last faint words - whose guileless heart was mirrored in the beauty of
her faceand breathed in every accent of her gentle voice - did that
young breast hold any other secret? Yes. One more.

When no one in the house was stirringand the lights were all
extinguishedshe would softly leave her own roomand with noiseless
feet descend the staircaseand approach her father's door. Against
itscarcely breathingshe would rest her face and headand press
her lipsin the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold
stone floor outside itevery nightto listen even for his breath;
and in her one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some
affectionto be a consolation to himto win him over to the
endurance of some tenderness from herhis solitary childshe would
have knelt down at his feetif she had daredin humble supplication.

No one knew it' No one thought of it. The door was ever closedand
he shut up within. He went out once or twiceand it was said in the
house that he was very soon going on his country journey; but he lived
in those roomsand lived aloneand never saw heror inquired for
her. Perhaps he did not even know that she was in the house.

One dayabout a week after the funeralFlorence was sitting at
her workwhen Susan appearedwith a face half laughing and half
cryingto announce a visitor.

'A visitor! To meSusan!' said Florencelooking up in
astonishment.

'Wellit is a wonderain't it nowMiss Floy?' said Susan; 'but I
wish you had a many visitorsI doindeedfor you'd be all the
better for itand it's my opinion that the sooner you and me goes
even to them old SkettlesesMissthe better for bothI may not wish
to live in crowdsMiss Floybut still I'm not a oyster.'

To do Miss Nipper justiceshe spoke more for her young mistress
than herself; and her face showed it.

'But the visitorSusan' said Florence.

Susanwith an hysterical explosion that was as much a laugh as a
soband as much a sob as a laughanswered

'Mr Toots!'

The smile that appeared on Florence's face passed from it in a
momentand her eyes filled with tears. But at any rate it was a
smileand that gave great satisfaction to Miss Nipper.

'My own feelings exactlyMiss Floy' said Susanputting her apron
to her eyesand shaking her head. 'Immediately I see that Innocent in
the HallMiss FloyI burst out laughing firstand then I choked.'


Susan Nipper involuntarily proceeded to do the like again on the
spot. In the meantime Mr Tootswho had come upstairs after herall
unconscious of the effect he producedannounced himself with his
knuckles on the doorand walked in very brisKly.

'How d'ye doMiss Dombey?' said Mr Toots. 'I'm very wellI thank
you; how are you?'

Mr Toots - than whom there were few better fellows in the world
though there may have been one or two brighter spirits - had
laboriously invented this long burst of discourse with the view of
relieving the feelings both of Florence and himself. But finding that
he had run through his propertyas it werein an injudicious manner
by squandering the whole before taking a chairor before Florence had
uttered a wordor before he had well got in at the doorhe deemed it
advisable to begin again.

'How d'ye doMiss Dombey?' said Mr Toots. 'I'm very wellI thank
you; how are you?'

Florence gave him her handand said she was very well.

'I'm very well indeed' said Mr Tootstaking a chair. 'Very well
indeedI am. I don't remember' said Mr Tootsafter reflecting a
little'that I was ever betterthank you.'

'It's very kind of you to come' said Florencetaking up her work
'I am very glad to see you.'

Mr Toots responded with a chuckle. Thinking that might be too
livelyhe corrected it with a sigh. Thinking that might be too
melancholyhe corrected it with a chuckle. Not thoroughly pleasing
himself with either mode of replyhe breathed hard.

'You were very kind to my dear brother' said Florenceobeying her
own natural impulse to relieve him by saying so. 'He often talked to
me about you.'

'Oh it's of no consequence' said Mr Toots hastily. 'Warmain't
it?'

'It is beautiful weather' replied Florence.

'It agrees with me!' said Mr Toots. 'I don't think I ever was so
well as I find myself at presentI'm obliged to you.

After stating this curious and unexpected factMr Toots fell into
a deep well of silence.

'You have left Dr Blimber'sI think?' said Florencetrying to
help him out.

'I should hope so' returned Mr Toots. And tumbled in again.

He remained at the bottomapparently drownedfor at least ten
minutes. At the expiration of that periodhe suddenly floatedand
said

'Well! Good morningMiss Dombey.'

'Are you going?' asked Florencerising.

'I don't knowthough. Nonot just at present' said Mr Toots


sitting down againmost unexpectedly. 'The fact is - I sayMiss
Dombey!'

'Don't be afraid to speak to me' said Florencewith a quiet
smile'I should he very glad if you would talk about my brother.'

'Would youthough?' retorted Mr Tootswith sympathy in every
fibre of his otherwise expressionless face. 'Poor Dombey! I'm sure I
never thought that Burgess and Co. - fashionable tailors (but very
dear)that we used to talk about - would make this suit of clothes
for such a purpose.' Mr Toots was dressed in mourning. 'Poor Dombey! I
say! Miss Dombey!' blubbered Toots.

'Yes' said Florence.

'There's a friend he took to very much at last. I thought you'd
lIke to have himperhapsas a sort of keepsake. You remember his
remembering Diogenes?'

'Oh yes! oh yes' cried Florence.

'Poor Dombey! So do I' said Mr Toots.

Mr Tootsseeing Florence in tearshad great difficulty in getting
beyond this pointand had nearly tumbled into the well again. But a
chucKle saved him on the brink.

'I say' he proceeded'Miss Dombey! I could have had him stolen
for ten shillingsif they hadn't given him up: and I would: but they
were glad to get rid of himI think. If you'd like to have himhe's
at the door. I brought him on purpose for you. He ain't a lady's dog
you know' said Mr Toots'but you won't mind thatwill you?'

In factDiogenes was at that momentas they presently ascertained
from looking down into the streetstaring through the window of a
hackney cabrioletinto whichfor conveyance to that spothe had
been ensnaredon a false pretence of rats among the straw. Sooth to
sayhe was as unlike a lady's dog as might be; and in his gruff
anxiety to get outpresented an appearance sufficiently unpromising
as he gave short yelps out of one side of his mouthand overbalancing
himself by the intensity of every one of those effortstumbled down
into the strawand then sprung panting up againputting out his
tongueas if he had come express to a Dispensary to be examined for
his health.

But though Diogenes was as ridiculous a dog as one would meet with
on a summer's day; a blunderingill-favouredclumsybullet-headed
dogcontinually acting on a wrong idea that there was an enemy in the
neighbourhoodwhom it was meritorious to bark at; and though he was
far from good-temperedand certainly was not cleverand had hair all
over his eyesand a comic noseand an inconsistent tailand a gruff
voice; he was dearer to Florencein virtue of that parting
remembrance of himand that request that he might be taken care of
than the most valuable and beautiful of his kind. So dearindeedwas
this same ugly Diogenesand so welcome to herthat she took the
jewelled hand of Mr Toots and kissed it in her gratitude. And when
Diogenesreleasedcame tearing up the stairs and bouncing into the
room (such a business as there wasfirstto get him out of the
cabriolet!)dived under all the furnitureand wound a long iron
chainthat dangled from his neckround legs of chairs and tables
and then tugged at it until his eyes became unnaturally visiblein
consequence of their nearly starting out of his head; and when he
growled at Mr Tootswho affected familiarity; and went pell-mell at
Towlinsonmorally convinced that he was the enemy whom he had barked


at round the corner all his life and had never seen yet; Florence was
as pleased with him as if he had been a miracle of discretion.

Mr Toots was so overjoyed by the success of his presentand was so
delighted to see Florence bending down over Diogenessmoothing his
coarse back with her little delicate hand - Diogenes graciously
allowing it from the first moment of their acquaintance - that he felt
it difficult to take leaveand wouldno doubthave been a much
longer time in making up his mind to do soif he had not been
assisted by Diogenes himselfwho suddenly took it into his head to
bay Mr Tootsand to make short runs at him with his mouth open. Not
exactly seeing his way to the end of these demonstrationsand
sensible that they placed the pantaloons constructed by the art of
Burgess and Co. in jeopardyMr Tootswith chuckleslapsed out at
the door: by whichafter looking in again two or three timeswithout
any object at alland being on each occasion greeted with a fresh run
from Diogeneshe finally took himself off and got away.

'ComethenDi! Dear Di! Make friends with your new mistress. Let
us love each otherDi!'said Florencefondling his shaggy head. And
Dithe rough and gruffas if his hairy hide were pervious to the
tear that dropped upon itand his dog's heart melted as it fellput
his nose up to her faceand swore fidelity.

Diogenes the man did not speak plainer to Alexander the Great than
Diogenes the dog spoke to Florence.' He subscribed to the offer of his
little mistress cheerfullyand devoted himself to her service. A
banquet was immediately provided for him in a corner; and when he had
eaten and drunk his fillhe went to the window where Florence was
sittinglooking onrose up on his hind legswith his awkward fore
paws on her shoulderslicked her face and handsnestled his great
head against her heartand wagged his tail till he was tired.
FinallyDiogenes coiled himself up at her feet and went to sleep.

Although Miss Nipper was nervous in regard of dogsand felt it
necessary to come into the room with her skirts carefully collected
about heras if she were crossing a brook on stepping-stones; also to
utter little screams and stand up on chairs when Diogenes stretched
himselfshe was in her own manner affected by the kindness of Mr
Tootsand could not see Florence so alive to the attachment and
society of this rude friend of little Paul'swithout some mental
comments thereupon that brought the water to her eyes. Mr Dombeyas a
part of her reflectionsmay have beenin the association of ideas
connected with the dog; butat any rateafter observing Diogenes and
his mistress all the eveningand after exerting herself with much
good-will to provide Diogenes a bed in an ante-chamber outside his
mistress's doorshe said hurriedly to Florencebefore leaving her
for the night:

'Your Pa's a going offMiss Floytomorrow morning.'

'To-morrow morningSusan?'

'YesMiss; that's the orders. Early.'

'Do you know' asked Florencewithout looking at her'where Papa
is goingSusan?'

'Not exactlyMiss. He's going to meet that precious Major first
and I must say if I was acquainted with any Major myself (which
Heavens forbid)it shouldn't be a blue one!'

'HushSusan!' urged Florence gently.


'WellMiss Floy' returned Miss Nipperwho was full of burning
indignationand minded her stops even less than usual. 'I can't help
itblue he isand while I was a Christianalthough humbleI would
have natural-coloured friendsor none.'

It appeared from what she added and had gleaned downstairsthat
Mrs Chick had proposed the Major for Mr Dombey's companionand that
Mr Dombeyafter some hesitationhad invited him.

'Talk of him being a changeindeed!' observed Miss Nipper to
herself with boundless contempt. 'If he's a changegive me a
constancy.

'Good-nightSusan' said Florence.

'Good-nightmy darling dear Miss Floy.'

Her tone of commiseration smote the chord so often roughly touched
but never listened to while she or anyone looked on. Florence left
alonelaid her head upon her handand pressing the other over her
swelling heartheld free communication with her sorrows.

It was a wet night; and the melancholy rain fell pattering and
dropping with a weary sound. A sluggish wind was blowingand went
moaning round the houseas if it were in pain or grief. A shrill
noise quivered through the trees. While she sat weepingit grew late
and dreary midnight tolled out from the steeples.

Florence was little more than a child in years - not yet fourteenand
the loneliness and gloom of such an hour in the great house where
Death had lately made its own tremendous devastationmight have set
an older fancy brooding on vague terrors. But her innocent imagination
was too full of one theme to admit them. Nothing wandered in her
thoughts but love - a wandering loveindeedand castaway - but
turning always to her father. There was nothing in the dropping of the
rainthe moaning of the windthe shuddering of the treesthe
striking of the solemn clocksthat shook this one thoughtor
diminished its interest' Her recollections of the dear dead boy - and
they were never absent - were itselfthe same thing. And ohto be
shut out: to be so lost: never to have looked into her father's face
or touched himsince that hour!

She could not go to bedpoor childand never had gone yetsince
thenwithout making her nightly pilgrimage to his door. It would have
been a strange sad sightto see her' nowstealing lightly down the
stairs through the thick gloomand stopping at it with a beating
heartand blinded eyesand hair that fell down loosely and unthought
of; and touching it outside with her wet cheek. But the night covered
itand no one knew.

The moment that she touched the door on this nightFlorence found
that it was open. For the first time it stood openthough by but a
hair's-breadth: and there was a light within. The first impulse of the
timid child - and she yielded to it - was to retire swiftly. Her next
to go backand to enter; and this second impulse held her in
irresolution on the staircase.

In its standing openeven by so much as that chinkthere seemed
to be hope. There was encouragement in seeing a ray of light from
withinstealing through the dark stern doorwayand falling in a
thread upon the marble floor. She turned backhardly knowing what she
didbut urged on by the love within herand the trial they had
undergone togetherbut not shared: and with her hands a little raised
and tremblingglided in.


Her father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had been
arranging some papersand destroying othersand the latter lay in
fragile ruins before him. The rain dripped heavily upon the glass
panes in the outer roomwhere he had so often watched poor Paula
baby; and the low complainings of the wind were heard without.

But not by him. He sat with his eyes fixed on the tableso
immersed in thoughtthat a far heavier tread than the light foot of
his child could makemight have failed to rouse him. His face was
turned towards her. By the waning lampand at that haggard hourit
looked worn and dejected; and in the utter loneliness surrounding him
there was an appeal to Florence that struck home.

'Papa! Papa! speak to medear Papa!'

He started at her voiceand leaped up from his seat. She was close
before him' with extended armsbut he fell back.

'What is the matter?' he saidsternly. 'Why do you come here? What
has frightened you?'

If anything had frightened herit was the face he turned upon her.
The glowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before
itand she stood and looked at him as if stricken into stone.

There was not one touch of tenderness or pity in it. There was not
one gleam of interestparental recognitionor relenting in it. There
was a change in itbut not of that kind. The old indifference and
cold constraint had given place to something: whatshe never thought
and did not dare to thinkand yet she felt it in its forceand knew
it well without a name: that as it looked upon herseemed to cast a
shadow on her head.

Did he see before him the successful rival of his sonin health
and life? Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son's
affection? Did a mad jealousy and withered pridepoison sweet
remembrances that should have endeared and made her precious to him?
Could it be possible that it was gall to him to look upon her in her
beauty and her promise: thinking of his infant boy!

Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it is
spurned and hopeless: and hope died out of hersas she stood looking
in her father's face.

'I ask youFlorenceare you frightened? Is there anything the
matterthat you come here?'

'I camePapa - '

'Against my wishes. Why?'

She saw he knew why: it was written broadly on his face: and
dropped her head upon her hands with one prolonged low cry.

Let him remember it in that roomyears to come. It has faded from
the airbefore he breaks the silence. It may pass as quickly from his
brainas he believesbut it is there. Let him remember it in that
roomyears to come!

He took her by the arm. His hand was coldand looseand scarcely
closed upon her.

'You are tiredI daresay' he saidtaking up the lightand


leading her towards the door'and want rest. We all want rest. Go
Florence. You have been dreaming.'

The dream she had hadwas over thenGod help her! and she felt
that it could never more come back

'I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house is
yours above there' said her fatherslowly. 'You are its mistress
now. Good-night!'

Still covering her faceshe sobbedand answered 'Good-nightdear
Papa' and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would
have returned to himbut for fear. It was a mommentary thoughttoo
hopeless to encourage; and her father stood there with the light hard
unresponsivemotionless - until the fluttering dress of his
fair child was lost in the darkness.

Let him remember it in that roomyears to come. The rain that
falls upon the roof: the wind that mourns outside the door: may have
foreknowledge in their melancholy sound. Let him remember it in that
roomyears to come!

The last time he had watched herfrom the same placewinding up
those stairsshe had had her brother in her arms. It did not move his
heart towards her nowit steeled it: but he went into his roomand
locked his doorand sat down in his chairand cried for his lost
boy.

Diogenes was broad awake upon his postand waiting for his little
mistress.

'OhDi! Ohdear Di! Love me for his sake!'

Diogenes already loved her for her ownand didn't care how much he
showed it. So he made himself vastly ridiculous by performing a
variety of uncouth bounces in the ante-chamberand concludedwhen
poor Florence was at last asleepand dreaming of the rosy children
oppositeby scratching open her bedroom door: rolling up his bed into
a pillow: lying down on the boardsat the full length of his tether
with his head towards her: and looking lazily at herupside downout
of the tops of his eyesuntil from winking and winking he fell asleep
himselfand dreamedwith gruff barksof his enemy.

CHAPTER 19.

Walter goes away

The wooden Midshipman at the Instrument-maker's doorlike the
hard-hearted little Midshipman he wasremained supremely indifferent
to Walter's going awayeven when the very last day of his sojourn in
the back parlour was on the decline. With his quadrant at his round
black knob of an eyeand his figure in its old attitude of
indomitable alacritythe Midshipman displayed his elfin small-clothes
to the best advantageandabsorbed in scientific pursuitshad no
sympathy with worldly concerns. He was so far the creature of
circumstancesthat a dry day covered him with dustand a misty day
peppered him with little bits of sootand a wet day brightened up his
tarnished uniform for the momentand a very hot day blistered him;
but otherwise he was a callousobdurateconceited Midshipmanintent
on his own discoveriesand caring as little for what went on about


himterrestriallyas Archimedes at the taking of Syracuse.

Such a Midshipman he seemed to beat leastin the then position
of domestic affairs. Walter eyed him kindly many a time in passing in
and out; and poor old Solwhen Walter was not therewould come and
lean against the doorpostresting his weary wig as near the
shoe-buckles of the guardian genius of his trade and shop as he could.
But no fierce idol with a mouth from ear to earand a murderous
visage made of parrot's featherswas ever more indifferent to the
appeals of its savage votariesthan was the Midshipman to these marks
of attachment.

Walter's heart felt heavy as he looked round his old bedroomup
among the parapets and chimney-potsand thought that one more night
already darkening would close his acquaintance with itperhaps for
ever. Dismantled of his little stock of books and picturesit looked
coldly and reproachfully on him for his desertionand had already a
foreshadowing upon it of its coming strangeness. 'A few hours more'
thought Walter'and no dream I ever had here when I was a schoolboy
will be so little mine as this old room. The dream may come back in my
sleepand I may return waking to this placeit may be: but the dream
at least will serve no other masterand the room may have a score
and every one of them may changeneglectmisuse it.'

But his Uncle was not to be left alone in the little back parlour
where he was then sitting by himself; for Captain Cuttleconsiderate
in his roughnessstayed away against his willpurposely that they
should have some talk together unobserved: so Walternewly returned
home from his last day's bustledescended brisklyto bear him
company.

'Uncle' he said gailylaying his hand upon the old man's
shoulder'what shall I send you home from Barbados?'

'Hopemy dear Wally. Hope that we shall meet againon this side
of the grave. Send me as much of that as you can.'

'So I willUncle: I have enough and to spareand I'll not be
chary of it! And as to lively turtlesand limes for Captain Cuttle's
punchand preserves for you on Sundaysand all that sort of thing
why I'll send you ship-loadsUncle: when I'm rich enough.'

Old Sol wiped his spectaclesand faintly smiled.

'That's rightUncle!' cried Waltermerrilyand clapping him half
a dozen times more upon the shoulder. 'You cheer up me! I'll cheer up
you! We'll be as gay as larks to-morrow morningUncleand we'll fly
as high! As to my anticipationsthey are singing out of sight now.

'Wallymy dear boy' returned the old man'I'll do my bestI'll
do my best.'

'And your bestUncle' said Walterwith his pleasant laugh'is
the best best that I know. You'll not forget what you're to send me
Uncle?'

'NoWallyno' replied the old man; 'everything I hear about Miss
Dombeynow that she is left alonepoor lambI'll write. I fear it
won't be much thoughWally.'

'WhyI'll tell you whatUncle' said Walterafter a moment's
hesitation'I have just been up there.'

'Ayayay?' murmured the old manraising his eyebrowsand his


spectacles with them.

'Not to see her' said Walter'though I could have seen herI
daresayif I had askedMr Dombey being out of town: but to say a
parting word to Susan. I thought I might venture to do thatyou know
under the circumstancesand remembering when I saw Miss Dombey last.'

'Yesmy boyyes' replied his Unclerousing himself from a
temporary abstraction.

'So I saw her' pursued Walter'SusanI mean: and I told her I
was off and away to-morrow. And I saidUnclethat you had always had
an interest in Miss Dombey since that night when she was hereand
always wished her well and happyand always would be proud and glad
to serve her in the least: I thought I might say thatyou knowunder
the circumstances. Don't you think so ?'

'Yesmy boyyes' replied his Unclein the tone as before.

'And I added' pursued Walter'that if she - SusanI mean - could
ever let you knoweither through herselfor Mrs Richardsor anybody
else who might be coming this waythat Miss Dombey was well and
happyyou would take it very kindlyand would write so much to me
and I should take it very kindly too. There! Upon my wordUncle'
said Walter'I scarcely slept all last night through thinking of
doing this; and could not make up my mind when I was outwhether to
do it or not; and yet I am sure it is the true feeling of my heart
and I should have been quite miserable afterwards if I had not
relieved it.'

His honest voice and manner corroborated what he saidand quite
established its ingenuousness.

'Soif you ever see herUncle' said Walter'I mean Miss Dombey
now - and perhaps you maywho knows! - tell her how much I felt for
her; how much I used to think of her when I was here; how I spoke of
herwith the tears in my eyesUncleon this last night before I
went away. Tell her that I said I never could forget her gentle
manneror her beautiful faceor her sweet kind disposition that was
better than all. And as I didn't take them from a woman's feetor a
young lady's: only a little innocent child's' said Walter: 'tell her
if you don't mindUnclethat I kept those shoes - she'll remember
how often they fell offthat night - and took them away with me as a
remembrance!'

They were at that very moment going out at the door in one of
Walter's trunks. A porter carrying off his baggage on a truck for
shipment at the docks on board the Son and Heirhad got possession of
them; and wheeled them away under the very eye of the insensible
Midshipman before their owner had well finished speaking.

But that ancient mariner might have been excused his insensibility
to the treasure as it rolled away. Forunder his eye at the same
momentaccurately within his range of observationcoming full into
the sphere of his startled and intensely wide-awake look-outwere
Florence and Susan Nipper: Florence looking up into his face half
timidlyand receiving the whole shock of his wooden ogling!

More than thisthey passed into the shopand passed in at the
parlour door before they were observed by anybody but the Midshipman.
And Walterhaving his back to the doorwould have known nothing of
their apparition even thenbut for seeing his Uncle spring out of his
own chairand nearly tumble over another.


'WhyUncle!' exclaimed Walter. 'What's the matter?'

Old Solomon replied'Miss Dombey!'

'Is it possible?' cried Walterlooking round and starting up in
his turn. 'Here!'

WhyIt was so possible and so actualthatwhile the words were
on his lipsFlorence hurried past him; took Uncle Sol's
snuff-coloured lapelsone in each hand; kissed him on the cheek; and
turninggave her hand to Walter with a simple truth and earnestness
that was her ownand no one else's in the world!

'Going awayWalter!' said Florence.

'YesMiss Dombey' he repliedbut not so hopefully as he
endeavoured: 'I have a voyage before me.'

'And your Uncle' said Florencelooking back at Solomon. 'He is
sorry you are goingI am sure. Ah! I see he is! Dear WalterI am
very sorry too.'

'Goodness knows' exclaimed Miss Nipper'there's a many we could
spare insteadif numbers is a objectMrs Pipchin as a overseer would
come cheap at her weight in goldand if a knowledge of black slavery
should be requiredthem Blimbers is the very people for the
sitiwation.'

With that Miss Nipper untied her bonnet stringsand alter looking
vacantly for some moments into a little black teapot that was set
forth with the usual homely service on the tableshook her head and a
tin canisterand began unasked to make the tea.

In the meantime Florence had turned again to the Instrument-maker
who was as full of admiration as surprise. 'So grown!' said old Sol.
'So improved! And yet not altered! Just the same!'

'Indeed!' said Florence.

'Ye - yes' returned old Solrubbing his hands slowlyand
considering the matter half aloudas something pensive in the bright
eyes looking at him arrested his attention. 'Yesthat expression was
in the younger facetoo!'

'You remember me' said Florence with a smile'and what a little
creature I was then?'

'My dear young lady' returned the Instrument-maker'how could I
forget youoften as I have thought of you and heard of you since! At
the very momentindeedwhen you came inWally was talking about you
to meand leaving messages for youand - '

'Was he?' said Florence. 'Thank youWalter! Oh thank youWalter!
I was afraid you might be going away and hardly thinking of me;' and
again she gave him her little hand so freely and so faithfully that
Walter held it for some moments in his ownand could not bear to let
it go.

Yet Walter did not hold it as he might have held it oncenor did
its touch awaken those old day-dreams of his boyhood that had floated
past him sometimes even latelyand confused him with their indistinct
and broken shapes. The purity and innocence of her endearing manner
and its perfect trustfulnessand the undisguised regard for him that
lay so deeply seated in her constant eyesand glowed upon her fair


face through the smile that shaded - for alas! it was a smile too sad
to brighten - itwere not of their romantic race. They brought back
to his thoughts the early death-bed he had seen her tendingand the
love the child had borne her; and on the wings of such remembrances
she seemed to rise upfar above his idle fanciesinto clearer and
serener air.

'I - I am afraid I must call you Walter's UncleSir' said
Florence to the old man'if you'll let me.'

'My dear young lady' cried old Sol. 'Let you! Good gracious!'

'We always knew you by that nameand talked of you' said
Florenceglancing roundand sighing gently. 'The nice old parlour!
Just the same! How well I recollect it!'

Old Sol looked first at herthen at his nephewand then rubbed
his handsand rubbed his spectaclesand said below his breath'Ah!
timetimetime!'

There was a short silence; during which Susan Nipper skilfully
impounded two extra cups and saucers from the cupboardand awaited
the drawing of the tea with a thoughtful air.

'I want to tell Walter's Uncle' said Florencelaying her hand
timidly upon the old man's as it rested on the tableto bespeak his
attention'something that I am anxious about. He is going to be left
aloneand if he will allow me - not to take Walter's placefor that
I couldn't dobut to be his true friend and help him if I ever can
while Walter is awayI shall be very much obliged to him indeed. Will
you? May IWalter's Uncle?'

The Instrument-makerwithout speakingput her hand to his lips
and Susan Nipperleaning back with her arms crossedin the chair of
presidency into which she had voted herselfbit one end of her bonnet
stringsand heaved a gentle sigh as she looked up at the skylight.

'You will let me come to see you' said Florence'when I can; and
you will tell me everything about yourself and Walter; and you will
have no secrets from Susan when she comes and I do notbut will
confide in usand trust usand rely upon us. And you'll try to let
us be a comfort to you? Will youWalter's Uncle?'

The sweet face looking into histhe gentle pleading eyesthe soft
voiceand the light touch on his arm made the more winning by a
child's respect and honour for his agethat gave to all an air of
graceful doubt and modest hesitation - theseand her natural
earnestnessso overcame the poor old Instrument-makerthat he only
answered:

'Wally! say a word for memy dear. I'm very grateful.'

'NoWalter' returned Florence with her quiet smile. 'Say nothing
for himif you please. I understand him very welland we must learn
to talk together without youdear Walter.'

The regretful tone in which she said these latter wordstouched
Walter more than all the rest.

'Miss Florence' he repliedwith an effort to recover the cheerful
manner he had preserved while talking with his Uncle'I know no more
than my Unclewhat to say in acknowledgment of such kindnessI am
sure. But what could I sayafter allif I had the power of talking
for an hourexcept that it is like you?'


Susan Nipper began upon a new part of her bonnet stringand nodded
at the skylightin approval of the sentiment expressed.

'Oh! butWalter' said Florence'there is something that I wish
to say to you before you go awayand you must call me Florenceif
you pleaseand not speak like a stranger.'

'Like a stranger!' returned Walter'No. I couldn't speak so. I am
sureat leastI couldn't feel like one.'

'Aybut that is not enoughand is not what I mean. ForWalter'
added Florencebursting into tears'he liked you very muchand said
before he died that he was fond of youand said "Remember Walter!"
and if you'll be a brother to meWalternow that he is gone and I
have none on earthI'll be your sister all my lifeand think of you
like one wherever we may be! This is what I wished to saydear
Walterbut I cannot say it as I wouldbecause my heart is full.'

And in its fulness and its sweet simplicityshe held out both her
hands to him. Walter taking themstooped down and touched the tearful
face that neither shrunk nor turned awaynor reddened as he did so
but looked up at him with confidence and truth. In that one moment
every shadow of doubt or agitation passed away from Walter's soul. It
seemed to him that he responded to her innocent appealbeside the
dead child's bed: andin the solemn presence he had seen there
pledged himself to cherish and protect her very imagein his
banishmentwith brotherly regard; to garner up her simple faith
inviolate; and hold himself degraded if he breathed upon it any
thought that was not in her own breast when she gave it to him.

Susan Nipperwho had bitten both her bonnet strings at onceand
imparted a great deal of private emotion to the skylightduring this
transactionnow changed the subject by inquiring who took milk and
who took sugar; and being enlightened on these pointspoured out the
tea. They all four gathered socially about the little tableand took
tea under that young lady's active superintendence; and the presence
of Florence in the back parlourbrightened the Tartar frigate on the
wall.

Half an hour ago Walterfor his lifewould have hardly called her
by her name. But he could do so now when she entreated him. He could
think of her being therewithout a lurking misgiving that it would
have been better if she had not come. He could calmly think how
beautiful she washow full of promisewhat a home some happy man
would find in such a heart one day. He could reflect upon his own
place in that heartwith pride; and with a brave determinationif
not to deserve it - he still thought that far above him - never to
deserve it less

Some fairy influence must surely have hovered round the hands of
Susan Nipper when she made the teaengendering the tranquil air that
reigned in the back parlour during its discussion. Some
counter-influence must surely have hovered round the hands of Uncle
Sol's chronometerand moved them faster than the Tartar frigate ever
went before the wind. Be this as it maythe visitors had a coach in
waiting at a quiet corner not far off; and the chronometeron being
incidentally referred togave such a positive opinion that it had
been waiting a long timethat it was impossible to doubt the fact
especially when stated on such unimpeachable authority. If Uncle Sol
had been going to be hanged by his own timehe never would have
allowed that the chronometer was too fastby the least fraction of a
second.


Florence at parting recapitulated to the old man all that she had
said beforeand bound him to the compact. Uncle Sol attended her
lovingly to the legs of the wooden Midshipmanand there resigned her
to Walterwho was ready to escort her and Susan Nipper to the coach.

'Walter' said Florence by the way'I have been afraid to ask
before your Uncle. Do you think you will be absent very long?'

'Indeed' said Walter'I don't know. I fear so. Mr Dombey
signified as muchI thoughtwhen he appointed me.'

'Is it a favourWalter?' inquired Florenceafter a moment's
hesitationand looking anxiously in his face.

'The appointment?' returned Walter.

'Yes.'

Walter would have given anything to have answered in the
affirmativebut his face answered before his lips couldand Florence
was too attentive to it not to understand its reply.

'I am afraid you have scarcely been a favourite with Papa' she
saidtimidly.

'There is no reason' replied Waltersmiling'why I should be.'

'No reasonWalter!'

'There was no reason' said Walterunderstanding what she meant.
'There are many people employed in the House. Between Mr Dombey and a
young man like methere's a wide space of separation. If I do my
dutyI do what I oughtand do no more than all the rest.'

Had Florence any misgiving of which she was hardly conscious: any
misgiving that had sprung into an indistinct and undefined existence
since that recent night when she had gone down to her father's room:
that Walter's accidental interest in herand early knowledge of her
might have involved him in that powerful displeasure and dislike? Had
Walter any such ideaor any sudden thought that it was in her mind at
that moment? Neither of them hinted at it. Neither of them spoke at
allfor some short time. Susanwalking on the other side of Walter
eyed them both sharply; and certainly Miss Nipper's thoughts travelled
in that directionand very confidently too.

'You may come back very soon' said Florence'perhapsWalter.'

'I may come back' said Walter'an old manand find you an old
lady. But I hope for better things.'

'Papa' said Florenceafter a moment'will - will recover from
his griefand - speak more freely to me one dayperhaps; and if he
shouldI will tell him how much I wish to see you back againand ask
him to recall you for my sake.'

There was a touching modulation in these words about her father
that Walter understood too well.

The coach being close at handhe would have left her without
speakingfor now he felt what parting was; but Florence held his hand
when she was seatedand then he found there was a little packet in
her own.

'Walter' she saidlooking full upon him with her affectionate


eyes'like youI hope for better things. I will pray for themand
believe that they will arrive. I made this little gift for Paul. Pray
take it with my loveand do not look at it until you are gone away.
And nowGod bless youWalter! never forget me. You are my brother
dear!'

He was glad that Susan Nipper came between themor he might have
left her with a sorrowful remembrance of him. He was glad too that she
did not look out of the coach againbut waved the little hand to him
insteadas long as he could see it.

In spite of her requesthe could not help opening the packet that
night when he went to bed. It was a little purse: and there was was
money in it.

Bright rose the sun next morningfrom his absence in strange
countries and up rose Walter with it to receive the Captainwho was
already at the door: having turned out earlier than was necessaryin
order to get under weigh while Mrs MacStinger was still slumbering.
The Captain pretended to be in tip-top spiritsand brought a very
smoky tongue in one of the pockets of the of the broad blue coat for
breakfast.

'AndWal'r' said the Captainwhen they took their seats at
tableif your Uncle's the man I think himhe'll bring out the last
bottle of the Madeira on the present occasion.'

'NonoNed' returned the old man. 'No! That shall be opened when
Walter comes home again.'

'Well said!' cried the Captain. 'Hear him!'

'There it lies' said Sol Gills'down in the little cellar
covered with dirt and cobwebs. There may be dirt and cobwebs over you
and me perhapsNedbefore it sees the light.'

'Hear him! 'cried the Captain. 'Good morality! Wal'rmy lad. Train
up a fig-tree in the way it should goand when you are old sit under
the shade on it. Overhaul the - Well' said the Captain on second
thoughts'I ain't quite certain where that's to be foundbut when
foundmake a note of. Sol Gillsheave ahead again!'

'But there or somewhereit shall lieNeduntil Wally comes back
to claim it' said the old man. 'That's all I meant to say.'

'And well said too' returned the Captain; 'and if we three don't
crack that bottle in companyI'll give you two leave to.'

Notwithstanding the Captain's excessive jovialityhe made but a
poor hand at the smoky tonguethough he tried very hardwhen anybody
looked at himto appear as if he were eating with a vast apetite. He
was terribly afraidlikewiseof being left alone with either Uncle
or nephew; appearing to consider that his only chance of safety as to
keeping up appearanceswas in there being always three together. This
terror on the part of the Captainreduced him to such ingenious
evasions as running to the doorwhen Solomon went to put his coat on
under pretence of having seen an extraordinary hackney-coach pass: and
darting out into the road when Walter went upstairs to take leave of
the lodgerson a feint of smelling fire in a neighbouring chimney.
These artifices Captain Cuttle deemed inscrutable by any uninspired
observer.

Walter was coming down from his parting expedition upstairsand
was crossing the shop to go back to the little parlourwhen he saw a


faded face he knewlooking in at the doorand darted towards it.

'Mr Carker!' cried Walterpressing the hand of John Carker the
Junior. 'Pray come in! This is kind of youto be here so early to say
good-bye to me. You knew how glad it would make me to shake hands with
youoncebefore going away. I cannot say how glad I am to have this
opportunity. Pray come in.'

'It is not likely that we may ever meet againWalter' returned
the othergently resisting his invitation'and I am glad of this
opportunity too. I may venture to speak to youand to take you by the
handon the eve of separation. I shall not have to resist your frank
approachesWalterany more.

There was a melancholy in his smile as he said itthat showed he
had found some company and friendship for his thoughts even in that.

'AhMr Carker!' returned Walter. 'Why did you resist them? You
could have done me nothing but goodI am very sure.

He shook his head. 'If there were any good' he said'I could do
on this earthI would do itWalterfor you. The sight of you from
day to dayhas been at once happiness and remorse to me. But the
pleasure has outweighed the pain. I know thatnowby knowing what I
lose.'

'Come inMr Carkerand make acquaintance with my good old Uncle'
urged Walter. 'I have often talked to him about youand he will be
glad to tell you all he hears from me. I have not' said Walter
noticing his hesitationand speaking with embarrassment himself: 'I
have not told him anything about our last conversationMr Carker; not
even himbelieve me.

The grey Junior pressed his handand tears rose in his eyes.

'If I ever make acquaintance with himWalter' he returned'it
will be that I may hear tidings of you. Rely on my not wronging your
forbearance and consideration. It would be to wrong itnot to tell
him all the truthbefore I sought a word of confidence from him. But
I have no friend or acquaintance except you: and even for your sake
am little likely to make any.'

'I wish' said Walter'you had suffered me to be your friend
indeed. I always wished itMr Carkeras you know; but never half so
much as nowwhen we are going to part'

'It is enough replied the other'that you have been the friend of
my own breastand that when I have avoided you mostmy heart
inclined the most towards youand was fullest of you. Walter
good-bye!'

'Good-byeMr Carker. Heaven be with youSir!' cried Walter with
emotion.

'If' said the otherretaining his hand while he spoke; 'if when
you come backyou miss me from my old cornerand should hear from
anyone where I am lyingcome and look upon my grave. Think that I
might have been as honest and as happy as you! And let me thinkwhen
I know time is coming onthat some one like my former self may stand
therefor a momentand remember me with pity and forgiveness!
Waltergood-bye!'

His figure crept like a shadow down the brightsun-lighted street
so cheerful yet so solemn in the early summer morning; and slowly


passed away.


The relentless chronometer at last announced that Walter must turn
his back upon the wooden Midshipman: and away they wenthimselfhis
Uncleand the Captainin a hackney-coach to a wharfwhere they were
to take steam-boat for some Reach down the riverthe name of which
as the Captain gave it outwas a hopeless mystery to the ears of
landsmen. Arrived at this Reach (whither the ship had repaired by last
night's tide)they were boarded by various excited watermenand
among others by a dirty Cyclops of the Captain's acquaintancewho
with his one eyehad made the Captain out some mile and a half off
and had been exchanging unintelligible roars with him ever since.
Becoming the lawful prize of this personagewho was frightfully
hoarse and constitutionally in want of shavingthey were all three
put aboard the Son and Heir. And the Son and Heir was in a pretty
state of confusionwith sails lying all bedraggled on the wet decks
loose ropes tripping people upmen in red shirts running barefoot to
and frocasks blockading every foot of spaceandin the thickest of
the fraya black cook in a black caboose up to his eyes in vegetables
and blinded with smoke.


The Captain immediately drew Walter into a cornerand with a great
effortthat made his face very redpulled up the silver watchwhich
was so bigand so tight in his pocketthat it came out like a bung.


'Wal'r' said the Captainhanding it overand shaking him
heartily by the hand'a parting giftmy lad. Put it back half an
hour every morningand about another quarter towards the arternoon
and it's a watch that'll do you credit.'


'Captain Cuttle! I couldn't think of it!' cried Walterdetaining
himfor he was running away. 'Pray take it back. I have one already.'


'ThenWal'r' said the Captainsuddenly diving into one of his
pockets and bringing up the two teaspoons and the sugar-tongswith
which he had armed himself to meet such an objection'take this here
trifle of plateinstead.'


'NonoI couldn't indeed!' cried Walter'a thousand thanks!
Don't throw them awayCaptain Cuttle!' for the Captain was about to
jerk them overboard. 'They'll be of much more use to you than me. Give
me your stick. I have often thought I should like to have it. There!
Good-byeCaptain Cuttle! Take care of my Uncle! Uncle SolGod bless
you!'


They were over the side in the confusionbefore Walter caught
another glimpse of either; and when he ran up to the sternand looked
after themhe saw his Uncle hanging down his head in the boatand
Captain Cuttle rapping him on the back with the great silver watch (it
must have been very painful)and gesticulating hopefully with the
teaspoons and sugar-tongs. Catching sight of WalterCaptain Cuttle
dropped the property into the bottom of the boat with perfect
unconcernbeing evidently oblivious of its existenceand pulling off
the glazed hat hailed him lustily. The glazed hat made quite a show in
the sun with its glisteningand the Captain continued to wave it
until he could be seen no longer. Then the confusion on boardwhich
had been rapidly increasingreached its height; two or three other
boats went away with a cheer; the sails shone bright and full above
as Walter watched them spread their surface to the favourable breeze;
the water flew in sparkles from the prow; and off upon her voyage went
the Son and Heiras hopefully and trippingly as many another son and
heirgone downhad started on his way before her.


Day after dayold Sol and Captain Cuttle kept her reckoning in the



little hack parlour and worked out her coursewith the chart spread
before them on the round table. At nightwhen old Sol climbed
upstairsso lonelyto the attic where it sometimes blew great guns
he looked up at the stars and listened to the windand kept a longer
watch than would have fallen to his lot on board the ship. The last
bottle of the old Madeirawhich had had its cruising daysand known
its dangers of the deeplay silently beneath its dust and cobwebsin
the meanwhileundisturbed.


CHAPTER 20.


Mr Dombey goes upon a Journey


'Mr DombeySir' said Major Bagstock'Joee' B. is not in general
a man of sentimentfor Joseph is tough. But Joe has his feelings
Sirand when they are awakened - DammeMr Dombey? cried the Major
with sudden ferocity'this is weaknessand I won't submit to it]'


Major Bagstock delivered himself of these expressions on receiving
Mr Dombey as his guest at the head of his own staircase in Princess's
Place. Mr Dombey had come to breakfast with the Majorprevious to
their setting forth on their trip; and the ill-starved Native had
already undergone a world of misery arising out of the muffinswhile
in connexion with the general question of boiled eggslife was a
burden to him.


'It is not for an old soldier of the Bagstock breed' observed the
Majorrelapsing into a mild state'to deliver himself upa prey to
his own emotions; but - dammeSir' cried the Majorin another spasm
of ferocity'I condole with you!'


The Major's purple visage deepened in its hueand the Major's
lobster eyes stood out in bolder reliefas he shook Mr Dombey by the
handimparting to that peaceful action as defiant a character as if
it had been the prelude to his immediately boxing Mr Dombey for a
thousand pounds a side and the championship of England. With a
rotatory motion of his headand a wheeze very like the cough of a
horsethe Major then conducted his visitor to the sitting-roomand
there welcomed him (having now composed his feelings) with the freedom
and frankness ofa travelling companion.


'Dombey' said the Major'I'm glad to see you. I'm proud to see
you. There are not many men in Europe to whom J. Bagstock would say
that - for Josh is blunt. Sir: it's his nature - but Joey B. is proud
to see youDombey.'


'Major' returned Mr Dombey'you are very obliging.'


'NoSir' said the Major'Devil a bit! That's not my character.
If that had been Joe's characterJoe might have beenby this time
Lieutenant-General Sir Joseph BagstockK.C.B.and might have
received you in very different quarters. You don't know old Joe yetI
find. But this occasionbeing specialis a source of pride to me. By
the LordSir' said the Major resolutely'it's an honour to me!'


Mr Dombeyin his estimation of himself and his moneyfelt that
this was very trueand therefore did not dispute the point. But the
instinctive recognition of such a truth by the Majorand his plain
avowal of itwere very able. It was a confirmation to Mr Dombeyif
he had required anyof his not being mistaken in the Major. It was an



assurance to him that his power extended beyond his own immediate
sphere; and that the Majoras an officer and a gentlemanhad a no
less becoming sense of itthan the beadle of the Royal Exchange.

And if it were ever consolatory to know thisor the like of this
it was consolatory thenwhen the impotence of his willthe
instability of his hopesthe feebleness of wealthhad been so
direfully impressed upon him. What could it dohis boy had asked him.
Sometimesthinking of the baby questionhe could hardly forbear
inquiringhimselfwhat could it do indeed: what had it done?

But these were lonely thoughtsbred late at night in the sullen
despondency and gloom of his retirementand pride easily found its
reassurance in many testimonies to the truthas unimpeachable and
precious as the Major's. Mr Dombeyin his friendlessnessinclined to
the Major. It cannot be said that he warmed towards himbut he thawed
a littleThe Major had had some part - and not too much - in the days
by the seaside. He was a man of the worldand knew some great people.
He talked muchand told stories; and Mr Dombey was disposed to regard
him as a choice spirit who shone in societyand who had not that
poisonous ingredient of poverty with which choice spirits in general
are too much adulterated. His station was undeniable. Altogether the
Major was a creditable companionwell accustomed to a life of
leisureand to such places as that they were about to visitand
having an air of gentlemanly ease about him that mixed well enough
with his own City characterand did not compete with it at all. If Mr
Dombey had any lingering idea that the Majoras a man accustomedin
the way of his callingto make light of the ruthless hand that had
lately crushed his hopesmight unconsciously impart some useful
philosophy to himand scare away his weak regretshe hid it from
himselfand left it lying at the bottom of his prideunexamined.

'Where is my scoundrel?' said the Majorlooking wrathfully round
the room.

The Nativewho had no particular namebut answered to any
vituperative epithetpresented himself instantly at the door and
ventured to come no nearer.

'You villain!' said the choleric Major'where's the breakfast?'

The dark servant disappeared in search of itand was quickly heard
reascending the stairs in such a tremulous statethat the plates and
dishes on the tray he carriedtrembling sympathetically as he came
rattled againall the way up.

'Dombey' said the Majorglancing at the Native as he arranged the
tableand encouraging him with an awful shake of his fist when he
upset a spoon'here is a devilled grilla savoury piea dish of
kidneysand so forth. Pray sit down. Old Joe can give you nothing but
camp fareyou see.

'Very excellent fareMajor' replied his guest; and not in mere
politeness either; for the Major always took the best possible care of
himselfand indeed ate rather more of rich meats than was good for
himinsomuch that his Imperial complexion was mainly referred by the
faculty to that circumstance.

'You have been looking over the waySir' observed the Major.
'Have you seen our friend?'

'You mean Miss Tox' retorted Mr Dombey. 'No.'

'Charming womanSir' said the Majorwith a fat laugh rising in


his short throatand nearly suffocating him.

'Miss Tox is a very good sort of personI believe' replied Mr
Dombey.

The haughty coldness of the reply seemed to afford Major Bagstock
infinite delight. He swelled and swelledexceedingly: and even laid
down his knife and fork for a momentto rub his hands.

'Old JoeSir' said the Major'was a bit ofa favourite in that
quarter once. But Joe has had his day. J. Bagstock is extinguished outrivalled
- flooredSir.'

'I should have supposed' Mr Dombey replied'that the lady's day
for favourites was over: but perhaps you are jestingMajor.'

'Perhaps you are jestingDombey?' was the Major's rejoinder.

There never was a more unlikely possiblity. It was so clearly
expressed in Mr Dombey's facethat the Major apologised.

'I beg your pardon' he said. 'I see you are in earnest. I tell you
whatDombey.' The Major paused in his eatingand looked mysteriously
indignant. 'That's a de-vilish ambitious womanSir.'

Mr Dombey said 'Indeed?' with frigid indifference: mingled perhaps
with some contemptuous incredulity as to Miss Tox having the
presumption to harbour such a superior quality.

'That womanSir' said the Major'isin her waya Lucifer. Joey

B. has had his daySirbut he keeps his eyes. He seesdoes Joe. His
Royal Highness the late Duke of York observed of Joeyat a levee
that he saw.'
The Major accompanied this with such a lookandbetween eating
drinkinghot teadevilled grillmuffinsand meaningwas
altogether so swollen and inflamed about the headthat even Mr Dombey
showed some anxiety for him.

'That ridiculous old spectacleSir' pursued the Major'aspires.
She aspires sky-highSir. MatrimoniallyDombey.'

'I am sorry for her' said Mr Dombey.

'Don't say thatDombey' returned the Major in a warning voice.

'Why should I notMajor?' said Mr Dombey.

The Major gave no answer but the horse's coughand went on eating
vigorously.

'She has taken an interest in your household' said the Major
stopping short again'and has been a frequent visitor at your house
for some time now.'

'Yes' replied Mr Dombey with great stateliness'Miss Tox was
originally received thereat the time of Mrs Dombey's deathas a
friend of my sister's; and being a well-behaved personand showing a
liking for the poor infantshe was permitted - may I say encouraged to
repeat her visits with my sisterand gradually to occupy a kind of
footing of familiarity in the family. I have' said Mr Dombeyin the
tone of a man who was making a great and valuable concession'I have
a respect for Miss Tox. She his been so obliging as to render many
little services in my house: trifling and insignificant services


perhapsMajorbut not to be disparaged on that account: and I hope I
have had the good fortune to be enabled to acknowledge them by such
attention and notice as it has been in my power to bestow. I hold
myself indebted to Miss ToxMajor' added Mr Dombeywith a slight
wave of his hand'for the pleasure of your acquaintance.'


'Dombey' said the Majorwarmly: 'no! NoSir! Joseph Bagstock can
never permit that assertion to pass uncontradicted. Your knowledge of
old JoeSirsuch as he isand old Joe's knowledge of youSirhad
its origin in a noble fellowSir - in a great creatureSir. Dombey!'
said the Majorwith a struggle which it was not very difficult to
paradehis whole life being a struggle against all kinds of
apoplectic symptoms'we knew each other through your boy.'


Mr Dombey seemed touchedas it is not improbable the Major
designed he should beby this allusion. He looked down and sighed:
and the Majorrousing himself fiercelyagain saidin reference to
the state of mind into which he felt himself in danger of falling
that this was weaknessand nothing should induce him to submit to it.


'Our friend had a remote connexion with that event' said the
Major'and all the credit that belongs to herJ. B. is willing to
give herSir. Notwithstanding whichMa'am' he addedraising his
eyes from his plateand casting them across Princess's Placeto
where Miss Tox was at that moment visible at her window watering her
flowers'you're a scheming jadeMa'amand your ambition is a piece
of monstrous impudence. If it only made yourself ridiculousMa'am'
said the Majorrolling his head at the unconscious Miss Toxwhile
his starting eyes appeared to make a leap towards her'you might do
that to your heart's contentMa'amwithout any objectionI assure
youon the part of Bagstock.' Here the Major laughed frightfully up
in the tips of his ears and in the veins of his head. 'But when
Ma'am' said the Major'you compromise other peopleand generous
unsuspicious people tooas a repayment for their condescensionyou
stir the blood of old Joe in his body.'


'Major' said Mr Dombeyreddening'I hope you do not hint at
anything so absurd on the part of Miss Tox as - '


'Dombey' returned the Major'I hint at nothing. But Joey B. has
lived in the worldSir: lived in the world with his eyes openSir
and his ears cocked: and Joe tells youDombeythat there's a
devilish artful and ambitious woman over the way.'


Mr Dombey involuntarily glanced over the way; and an angry glance
he sent in that directiontoo.


'That's all on such a subject that shall pass the lips of Joseph
Bagstock' said the Major firmly. 'Joe is not a tale-bearerbut there
are times when he must speakwhen he will speak! - confound your
artsMa'am' cried the Majoragain apostrophising his fair
neighbourwith great ire- 'when the provocation is too strong to
admit of his remaining silent.'


The emotion of this outbreak threw the Major into a paroxysm of
horse's coughswhich held him for a long time. On recovering he
added:


'And nowDombeyas you have invited Joe - old Joewho has no
other meritSirbut that he is tough and hearty - to be your guest
and guide at Leamingtoncommand him in any way you pleaseand he is
wholly yours. I don't knowSir' said the Majorwagging his double
chin with a jocose air'what it is you people see in Joe to make you
hold him in such great requestall of you; but this I knowSirthat



if he wasn't pretty toughand obstinate in his refusalsyou'd kill
him among you with your invitations and so forthin double-quick
time.'

Mr Dombeyin a few wordsexpressed his sense of the preference he
received over those other distinguished members of society who were
clamouring for the possession of Major Bagstock. But the Major cut him
short by giving him to understand that he followed his own
inclinationsand that they had risen up in a body and said with one
accord'J. B.Dombey is the man for you to choose as a friend.'

The Major being by this time in a state of repletionwith essence
of savoury pie oozing out at the corners of his eyesand devilled
grill and kidneys tightening his cravat: and the time moreover
approaching for the departure of the railway train to Birminghamby
which they were to leave town: the Native got him into his great-coat
with immense difficultyand buttoned him up until his face looked
staring and gaspingover the top of that garmentas if he were in a
barrel. The Native then handed him separatelyand with a decent
interval between each supplyhis washleather gloveshis thick stick
and his hat; which latter article the Major wore with a rakish air on
one side of his headby way of toning down his remarkable visage. The
Native had previously packedin all possible and impossible parts of
Mr Dombey's chariotwhich was in waitingan unusual quantity of
carpet-bags and small portmanteausno less apoplectic in appearance
than the Major himself: and having filled his own pockets with Seltzer
waterEast India sherrysandwichesshawlstelescopesmapsand
newspapersany or all of which light baggage the Major might require
at any instant of the journeyhe announced that everything was ready.
To complete the equipment of this unfortunate foreigner (currently
believed to be a prince in his own country)when he took his seat in
the rumble by the side of Mr Towlinsona pile of the Major's cloaks
and great-coats was hurled upon him by the landlordwho aimed at him
from the pavement with those great missiles like a Titanand so
covered him upthat he proceededin a living tombto the railroad
station.

But before the carriage moved awayand while the Native was in the
act of sepultureMiss Tox appearing at her windowwaved a lilywhite
handkerchief. Mr Dombey received this parting salutation very coldly very
coldly even for him - and honouring her with the slightest
possible inclination of his headleaned back in the carriage with a
very discontented look. His marked behaviour seemed to afford the
Major (who was all politeness in his recognition of Miss Tox)
unbounded satisfaction; and he sat for a long time afterwards
leeringand chokinglike an over-fed Mephistopheles.

During the bustle of preparation at the railwayMr Dombey and the
Major walked up and down the platform side by side; the former
taciturn and gloomyand the latter entertaining himor entertaining
himselfwith a variety of anecdotes and reminiscencesin most of
which Joe Bagstock was the principal performer. Neither of the two
observed that in the course of these walksthey attracted the
attention of a working man who was standing near the engineand who
touched his hat every time they passed; for Mr Dombey habitually
looked over the vulgar herdnot at them; and the Major was looking
at the timeinto the core of one of his stories. At lengthhowever
this man stepped before them as they turned roundand pulling his hat
offand keeping it offducked his head to Mr Dombey.

'Beg your pardonSir' said the man'but I hope you're a doin'
pretty wellSir.'

He was dressed in a canvas suit abundantly besmeared with coal-dust


and oiland had cinders in his whiskersand a smell of half-slaked
ashes all over him. He was not a bad-looking fellownor even what
could be fairly called a dirty-looking fellowin spite of this; and
in shorthe was Mr Toodleprofessionally clothed.

'I shall have the honour of stokin' of you downSir' said Mr
Toodle. 'Beg your pardonSir. - I hope you find yourself a coming
round?'

Mr Dombey looked at himin return for his tone of interestas if
a man like that would make his very eyesight dirty.

''Scuse the libertySir' said Toodleseeing he was not clearly
remembered'but my wife Pollyas was called Richards in your family

-'
A change in Mr Dombey's facewhich seemed to express recollection
of himand so it didbut it expressed in a much stronger degree an
angry sense of humiliationstopped Mr Toodle short.

'Your wife wants moneyI suppose' said Mr Dombeyputting his
hand in his pocketand speaking (but that he always did) haughtily.

'No thank'eeSir' returned Toodle'I can't say she does. I
don't.'

Mr Dombey was stopped short now in his turn: and awkwardly: with
his hand in his pocket.

'NoSir' said Toodleturning his oilskin cap round and round;
'we're a doin' pretty wellSir; we haven't no cause to complain in
the worldly waySir. We've had four more since thenSirbut we rubs
on.'

Mr Dombey would have rubbed on to his own carriagethough in so
doing he had rubbed the stoker underneath the wheels; but his
attention was arrested by something in connexion with the cap still
going slowly round and round in the man's hand.

'We lost one babby' observed Toodle'there's no denyin'.'

'Lately' added Mr Dombeylooking at the cap.

'NoSirup'ard of three years agobut all the rest is hearty.
And in the matter o readin'Sir' said Toodleducking againas if
to remind Mr Dombey of what had passed between them on that subject
long ago'them boys o' minethey learned meamong 'emarter all.
They've made a wery tolerable scholar of meSirthem boys.'

'ComeMajor!' said Mr Dombey.

'Beg your pardonSir' resumed Toodletaking a step before them
and deferentially stopping them againstill cap in hand: 'I wouldn't
have troubled you with such a pint except as a way of gettin' in the
name of my son Biler - christened Robin - him as you was so good as to
make a Charitable Grinder on.'

'Wellman' said Mr Dombey in his severest manner. 'What about
him?'

'WhySir' returned Toodleshaking his head with a face of great
anxiety and distress'I'm forced to saySirthat he's gone wrong.

'He has gone wronghas he?' said Mr Dombeywith a hard kind of


satisfaction.

'He has fell into bad companyyou seegenelmen' pursued the
fatherlooking wistfully at bothand evidently taking the Major into
the conversation with the hope of having his sympathy. 'He has got
into bad ways. God send he may come to againgenelmenbut he's on
the wrong track now! You could hardly be off hearing of it somehow
Sir' said Toodleagain addressing Mr Dombey individually; 'and it's
better I should out and say my boy's gone rather wrong. Polly's
dreadful down about itgenelmen' said Toodle with the same dejected
lookand another appeal to the Major.

'A son of this man's whom I caused to be educatedMajor' said Mr
Dombeygiving him his arm. 'The usual return!'

'Take advice from plain old Joeand never educate that sort of
peopleSir' returned the Major. 'DammeSirit never does! It
always fails!'

The simple father was beginning to submit that he hoped his son
the quondam Grinderhuffed and cuffedand flogged and badgedand
taughtas parrots areby a brute jobbed into his place of
schoolmaster with as much fitness for it as a houndmight not have
been educated on quite a right plan in some undiscovered respectwhen
Mr Dombey angrily repeating 'The usual return!' led the Major away.
And the Major being heavy to hoist into Mr Dombey's carriageelevated
in mid-airand having to stop and swear that he would flay the Native
aliveand break every bone in his skinand visit other physical
torments upon himevery time he couldn't get his foot on the step
and fell back on that dark exilehad barely time before they started
to repeat hoarsely that it would never do: that it always failed: and
that if he were to educate 'his own vagabond' he would certainly be
hanged.

Mr Dombey assented bitterly; but there was something more in his
bitternessand in his moody way of falling back in the carriageand
looking with knitted brows at the changing objects withoutthan the
failure of that noble educational system administered by the Grinders'
Company. He had seen upon the man's rough cap a piece of new crape
and he had assured himselffrom his manner and his answersthat he
wore it for his son.

So] from high to lowat home or abroadfrom Florence in his great
house to the coarse churl who was feeding the fire then smoking before
themeveryone set up some claim or other to a share in his dead boy
and was a bidder against him! Could he ever forget how that woman had
wept over his pillowand called him her own child! or how hewaking
from his sleephad asked for herand had raised himself in his bed
and brightened when she carne in!

To think of this presumptuous raker among coals and ashes going on
before therewith his sign of mourning! To think that he dared to
entereven by a common show like thatinto the trial and
disappointrnent of a proud gentleman's secret heart! To think that
this lost childwho was to have divided with him his richesand his
projectsand his powerand allied with whom he was to have shut out
all the world as with a double door of goldshould have let in such a
herd to insult him with their knowledge of his defeated hopesand
their boasts of claiming community of feeling with himselfso far
removed: if not of having crept into the place wherein he would have
lorded italone!

He found no pleasure or relief in the journey. Tortured by these
thoughts he carried monotony with himthrough the rushing landscape


and hurried headlongnot through a rich and varied countrybut a
wilderness of blighted plans and gnawing jealousies. The very speed at
which the train was whirled alongmocked the swift course of the
young life that had been borne away so steadily and so inexorably to
its foredoomed end. The power that forced itself upon its iron way its
own - defiant of all paths and roadspiercing through the heart
of every obstacleand dragging living creatures of all classesages
and degrees behind itwas a type of the triumphant monsterDeath.

Awaywith a shriekand a roarand a rattlefrom the town
burrowmg among the dwellings of men and making the streets hum
flashing out into the meadows for a momentmining in through the damp
earthbooming on in darkness and heavy airbursting out again into
the sunny day so bright and wide; awaywith a shriekand a roarand
a rattlethrough the fieldsthrough the woodsthrough the corn
through the haythrough the chalkthrough the mouldthrough the
claythrough the rockamong objects close at hand and almost in the
graspever flying from the travellerand a deceitful distance ever
moving slowly within him: like as in the track of the remorseless
monsterDeath!

Through the hollowon the heightby the heathby the orchardby
the parkby the gardenover the canalacross the riverwhere the
sheep are feedingwhere the mill is goingwhere the barge is
floatingwhere the dead are lyingwhere the factory is smoking
where the stream is runningwhere the village clusterswhere the
great cathedral riseswhere the bleak moor liesand the wild breeze
smooths or ruffles it at its inconstant will; awaywith a shriekand
a roarand a rattleand no trace to leave behind but dust and
vapour: like as in the track of the remorseless monsterDeath!

Breasting the wind and lightthe shower and sunshineawayand
still awayit rolls and roarsfierce and rapidsmooth and certain
and great works and massive bridges crossing up abovefall like a
beam of shadow an inch broadupon the eyeand then are lost. Away
and still awayonward and onward ever: glimpses of cottage-homesof
housesmansionsrich estatesof husbandry and handicraftof
peopleof old roads and paths that look desertedsmalland
insignificant as they are left behind: and so they doand what else
is there but such glimpsesin the track of the indomitable monster
Death!

Awaywith a shriekand a roarand a rattleplunging down into
the earth againand working on in such a storm of energy and
perseverancethat amidst the darkness and whirlwind the motion seems
reversedand to tend furiously backwarduntil a ray of light upon
the Wet wall shows its surface flying past like a fierce streamAway
once more into the dayand through the daywith a shrill yell of
exultationroaringrattlingtearing onspurning everything with
its dark breathsometimes pausing for a minute where a crowd of faces
arethat in a minute more are not; sometimes lapping water greedily
and before the spout at which it drinks' has ceased to drip upon the
groundshriekingroaringrattling through the purple distance!

Louder and louder yetit shrieks and cries as it comes tearing on
resistless to the goal: and now its waystill like the way of Death
is strewn with ashes thickly. Everything around is blackened. There
are dark pools of watermuddy lanesand miserable habitations far
below. There are jagged walls and falling houses close at handand
through the battered roofs and broken windowswretched rooms are
seenwhere 'want and fever hide themselves in many wretched shapes
while smoke and crowded gablesand distorted chimneysand deformity
of brick and mortar penning up deformity of mind and bodychoke the
murky distance. As Mr Dombey looks out of his carriage windowit is


never in his thoughts that the monster who has brought him there has
let the light of day in on these things: not made or caused them. It
was the journey's fitting endand might have been the end of
everything; it was so ruinous and dreary.'

Sopursuing the one course of thoughthe had the one relentless
monster still before him. All things looked blackand coldand
deadly upon himand he on them. He found a likeness to his misfortune
everywhere. There was a remorseless triumph going on about himand it
galled and stung him in his pride and jealousywhatever form it took:
though most of all when it divided with him the love and memory of his
lost boy.

There was a face - he had looked upon iton the previous night
and it on him with eyes that read his soulthough they were dim with
tearsand hidden soon behind two quivering hands - that often had
attended him in fancyon this ride. He had seen itwith the
expression of last nighttimidly pleading to him. It was not
reproachfulbut there was something of doubtalmost of hopeful
incredulity in itwhichas he once more saw that fade away into a
desolate certainty of his dislikewas like reproach. It was a trouble
to him to think of this face of Florence.

Because he felt any new compunction towards it? No. Because the
feeling it awakened in him - of which he had had some old
foreshadowing in older times - was full-formed nowand spoke out
plainlymoving him too muchand threatening to grow too strong for
his composure. Because the face was abroadin the expression of
defeat and persecution that seemed to encircle him like the air.
Because it barbed the arrow of that cruel and remorseless enemy on
which his thoughts so ranand put into its grasp a double-handed
sword. Because he knew full wellin his own breastas he stood
theretinging the scene of transition before him with the morbid
colours of his own mindand making it a ruin and a picture of decay
instead of hopeful changeand promise of better thingsthat life had
quite as much to do with his complainings as death. One child was
goneand one child left. Why was the object of his hope removed
instead of her?

The sweetcalmgentle presence in his fancymoved him to no
reflection but that. She had been unwelcome to him from the first; she
was an aggravation of his bitterness now. If his son had been his only
childand the same blow had fallen on himit would have been heavy
to bear; but infinitely lighter than nowwhen it might have fallen on
her (whom he could have lostor he believed itwithout a pang)and
had not. Her loving and innocent face rising before himhad no
softening or winning influence. He rejected the angeland took up
with the tormenting spirit crouching in his bosom. Her patience
goodnessyouthdevotionlovewere as so many atoms in the ashes
upon which he set his heel. He saw her image in the blight and
blackness all around himnot irradiating but deepening the gloom.
More than once upon this journeyand now again as he stood pondering
at this journey's endtracing figures in the dust with his stickthe
thought came into his mindwhat was there he could interpose between
himself and it?

The Majorwho had been blowing and panting all the way downlike
another engineand whose eye had often wandered from his newspaper to
leer at the prospectas if there were a procession of discomfited
Miss Toxes pouring out in the smoke of the trainand flying away over
the fields to hide themselves in any place of refugearoused his
friends by informing him that the post-horses were harnessed and the
carriage ready.


'Dombey' said the Majorrapping him on the arm with his cane
'don't be thoughtful. It's a bad habitOld JoeSirwouldn't be as
tough as you see himif he had ever encouraged it. You are too great
a manDombeyto be thoughtful. In your positionSiryou're far
above that kind of thing.'

The Major even in his friendly remonstrrncesthus consulting the
dignity and honour of Mr Dombeyand showing a lively sense of their
importanceMr Dombey felt more than ever disposed to defer to a
gentleman possessing so much good sense and such a well-regulated
mind; acoordingly he made an effort to listen to the Major's stories
as they trotted along the turnpike road; and the Majorfinding both
the pace and the road a great deal better adapted to his
conversational powers than the mode of travelling they had just
relinquishedcame out of his entertainment

But still the Majorblunt and tough as he wasand as he so very
often said he wasadministered some palatable catering to his
companion's appetite. He relatedor rather suffered it to escape him
accidentallyand as one might saygrudgingly and against his will
how there was great curiosity and excitement at the clubin regard of
his friend Dombey. How he was suffocated with questionsSir. How old
Joe Bagstock was a greater man than everthereon the strength of
Dombey. How they said'Bagstockyour friend Dombey nowwhat is the
view he takes of such and such a question? Thoughby the RoodSir'
said the Majorwith a broad stare'how they discovered that J. B.
ever came to know youis a mystery!'

In this flow of spirits and conversationonly interrupted by his
usual plethoric symptomsand by intervals of lunchand from time to
time by some violent assault upon the Nativewho wore a pair of
ear-rings in his dark-brown earsand on whom his European clothes sat
with an outlandish impossibility of adjustment - beingof their own
accordand without any reference to the tailor's artlong where they
ought to be shortshort where they ought to be longtight where they
ought to be looseand loose where they ought to be tight - and to
which he imparted a new gracewhenever the Major attacked himby
shrinking into them like a shrivelled nutor a cold monkey - in this
flow of spirits and conversationthe Major continued all day: so that
when evening came onand found them trotting through the green and
leafy road near Leamingtonthe Major's voicewhat with talking and
eating and chuckling and chokingappeared to be in the box under the
rumbleor in some neighbouring hay-stack. Nor did the Major improve
it at the Royal Hotelwhere rooms and dinner had been orderedand
where he so oppressed his organs of speech by eating and drinking
that when he retired to bed he had no voice at allexcept to cough
withand could only make himself intelligible to the dark servant by
gasping at him.

He not only rose next morninghoweverlike a giant refreshedbut
conducted himselfat breakfast like a giant refreshing. At this meal
they arranged their daily habits. The Major was to take the
responsibility of ordering evrything to eat and drink; and they were
to have a late breakfast together every morningand a late dinner
together every day. Mr Dombey would prefer remaining in his own room
or walking in the country by himselfon that first day of their
sojourn at Leamington; but next morning he would be happy to accompany
the Major to the Pump-roomand about the town. So they parted until
dinner-time. Mr Dombey retired to nurse his wholesome thoughts in his
own way. The Majorattended by the Native carrying a camp-stoola
great-coatand an umbrellaswaggered up and down through all the
public places: looking into subscription books to find out who was
therelooking up old ladies by whom he was much admiredreporting J.

B. tougher than everand puffing his rich friend Dombey wherever he

went. There never was a man who stood by a friend more staunchly than
the Majorwhen in puffing himhe puffed himself.

It was surprising how much new conversation the Major had to let
off at dinner-timeand what occasion he gave Mr Dombey to admire his
social qualities. At breakfast next morninghe knew the contents of
the latest newspapers received; and mentioned several subjects in
connexion with themon which his opinion had recently been sought by
persons of such power and mightthat they were only to be obscurely
hinted at. Mr Dombeywho had been so long shut up within himselfand
who had rarelyat any timeoverstepped the enchanted circle within
which the operations of Dombey and Son were conductedbegan to think
this an improvement on his solitary life; and in place of excusing
himself for another dayas he had thought of doing when alonewalked
out with the Major arm-in-arm.

CHAPTER 21.

New Faces

The MAJORmore blue-faced and staring - more over-ripeas it
werethan ever - and giving ventevery now and thento one of the
horse's coughsnot so much of necessity as in a spontaneous explosion
of importancewalked arm-in-arm with Mr Dombey up the sunny side of
the waywith his cheeks swelling over his tight stockhis legs
majestically wide apartand his great head wagging from side to side
as if he were remonstrating within himself for being such a
captivating object. They had not walked many yardsbefore the Major
encountered somebody he knewnor many yards farther before the Major
encountered somebody else he knewbut he merely shook his fingers at
them as he passedand led Mr Dombey on: pointing out the localities
as they wentand enlivening the walk with any current scandal
suggested by them.

In this manner the Major and Mr Dombey were walking arm-in-arm
much to their own satisfactionwhen they beheld advancing towards
thema wheeled chairin which a lady was seatedindolently steering
her carriage by a kind of rudder in frontwhile it was propelled by
some unseen power in the rear. Although the lady was not youngshe
was very blooming in the face - quite rosy- and her dress and attitude
were perfectly juvenile. Walking by the side of the chairand
carrying her gossamer parasol with a proud and weary airas if so
great an effort must be soon abandoned and the parasol dropped
sauntered a much younger ladyvery handsomevery haughtyvery
wilfulwho tossed her head and drooped her eyelidsas thoughif
there were anything in all the world worth looking intosave a
mirrorit certainly was not the earth or sky.

'Whywhat the devil have we hereSir!' cried the Majorstopping
as this little cavalcade drew near.

'My dearest Edith!' drawled the lady in the chair'Major
Bagstock!'

The Major no sooner heard the voicethan he relinquished Mr
Dombey's armdarted forwardtook the hand of the lady in the chair
and pressed it to his lips. With no less gallantrythe Major folded
both his gloves upon his heartand bowed low to the other lady. And
nowthe chair having stoppedthe motive power became visible in the
shape of a flushed page pushing behindwho seemed to have in part


outgrown and in part out-pushed his strengthfor when he stood
upright he was talland wanand thinand his plight appeared the
more forlorn from his having injured the shape of his hatby butting
at the carriage with his head to urge it forwardas is sometimes done
by elephants in Oriental countries.

'Joe Bagstock' said the Major to both ladies'is a proud and
happy man for the rest of his life.'

'You false creature! said the old lady in the chairinsipidly.
'Where do you come from? I can't bear you.'

'Then suffer old Joe to present a friendMa'am' said the Major
promptly'as a reason for being tolerated. Mr DombeyMrs Skewton.'
The lady in the chair was gracious. 'Mr DombeyMrs Granger.' The lady
with the parasol was faintly conscious of Mr Dombey's taking off his
hatand bowing low. 'I am delightedSir' said the Major'to have
this opportunity.'

The Major seemed in earnestfor he looked at all the threeand
leered in his ugliest manner.

'Mrs SkewtonDombey' said the Major'makes havoc in the heart of
old Josh.'

Mr Dombey signified that he didn't wonder at it.

'You perfidious goblin' said the lady in the chair'have done!
How long have you been herebad man?'

'One day' replied the Major.

'And can you be a dayor even a minute' returned the lady
slightly settling her false curls and false eyebrows with her fanand
showing her false teethset off by her false complexion'in the
garden of what's-its-name

'EdenI supposeMama' interrupted the younger ladyscornfully.

'My dear Edith' said the other'I cannot help it. I never can
remember those frightful names - without having your whole Soul and
Being inspired by the sight of Nature; by the perfume' said Mrs
Skewtonrustling a handkerchief that was faint and sickly with
essences'of her artless breathyou creature!'

The discrepancy between Mrs Skewton's fresh enthusiasm of words
and forlornly faded mannerwas hardly less observable than that
between her agewhich was about seventyand her dresswhich would
have been youthful for twenty-seven. Her attitude in the wheeled chair
(which she never varied) was one in which she had been taken in a
barouchesome fifty years beforeby a then fashionable artist who
had appended to his published sketch the name of Cleopatra: in
consequence of a discovery made by the critics of the timethat it
bore an exact resemblance to that Princess as she reclined on board
her galley. Mrs Skewton was a beauty thenand bucks threw
wine-glasses over their heads by dozens in her honour. The beauty and
the barouche had both passed awaybut she still preserved the
attitudeand for this reason expresslymaintained the wheeled chair
and the butting page: there being nothing whateverexcept the
attitudeto prevent her from walking.

'Mr Dombey is devoted to NatureI trust?' said Mrs Skewton
settling her diamond brooch. And by the wayshe chiefly lived upon
the reputation of some diamondsand her family connexions.


'My friend DombeyMa'am' returned the Major'may be devoted to
her in secretbut a man who is paramount in the greatest city in the
universe


'No one can be a stranger' said Mrs Skewton'to Mr Dombey's
immense influence.'

As Mr Dombey acknowledged the compliment with a bend of his head
the younger lady glancing at himmet his eyes.

'You reside hereMadam?' said Mr Dombeyaddressing her.

'Nowe have been to a great many places. To Harrogate and
Scarboroughand into Devonshire. We have been visitingand resting
here and there. Mama likes change.'

'Edith of course does not' said Mrs Skewtonwith a ghastly
archness.

'I have not found that there is any change in such places' was the
answerdelivered with supreme indifference.

'They libel me. There is only one changeMr Dombey' observed Mrs
Skewtonwith a mincing sigh'for which I really careand that I
fear I shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But
seclusion and contemplation are my what-his-name - '

'If you mean ParadiseMamayou had better say soto render
yourself intelligible' said the younger lady.

'My dearest Edith' returned Mrs Skewton'you know that I am
wholly dependent upon you for those odious names. I assure youMr
DombeyNature intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in
society. Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed forhas been to
retreat to a Swiss farmand live entirely surrounded by cows - and
china.'

This curious association of objectssuggesting a remembrance of
the celebrated bull who got by mistake into a crockery shopwas
received with perfect gravity by Mr Dombeywho intimated his opinion
that Nature wasno doubta very respectable institution.

'What I want' drawled Mrs Skewtonpinching her shrivelled throat
'is heart.' It was frightfully true in one senseif not in that in
which she used the phrase. 'What I wantis franknessconfidence
less conventionalityand freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully
artificial.'

We wereindeed.

'In short' said Mrs Skewton'I want Nature everywhere. It would
be so extremely charming.'

'Nature is inviting us away nowMamaif you are ready' said the
younger ladycurling her handsome lip. At this hintthe wan page
who had been surveying the party over the top of the chairvanished
behind itas if the ground had swallowed him up.

'Stop a momentWithers!' said Mrs Skewtonas the chair began to
move; calling to the page with all the languid dignity with which she
had called in days of yore to a coachman with a wigcauliflower
nosegayand silk stockings. 'Where are you stayingabomination?' The
Major was staying at the Royal Hotelwith his friend Dombey.


'You may come and see us any evening when you are good' lisped Mrs
Skewton. 'If Mr Dombey will honour uswe shall be happy. Withersgo
on!'

The Major again pressed to his blue lips the tips of the fingers
that were disposed on the ledge of the wheeled chair with careful
carelessnessafter the Cleopatra model: and Mr Dombey bowed. The
elder lady honoured them both with a very gracious smile and a girlish
wave of her hand; the younger lady with the very slightest inclination
of her head that common courtesy allowed.

The last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the motherwith that
patched colour on it which the sun made infinitely more haggard and
dismal than any want of colour could have beenand of the proud
beauty of the daughter with her graceful figure and erect deportment
engendered such an involuntary disposition on the part of both the
Major and Mr Dombey to look after themthat they both turned at the
same moment. The Pagenearly as much aslant as his own shadowwas
toiling after the chairuphilllike a slow battering-ram; the top of
Cleopatra's bonnet was fluttering in exactly the same corner to the
inch as before; and the Beautyloitering by herself a little in
advanceexpressed in all her elegant formfrom head to footthe
same supreme disregard of everything and everybody.

'I tell you whatSir' said the Majoras they resumed their walk
again. 'If Joe Bagstock were a younger manthere's not a woman in the
world whom he'd prefer for Mrs Bagstock to that woman. By George
Sir!' said the Major'she's superb!'

'Do you mean the daughter?' inquired Mr Dombey.

'Is Joey B. a turnipDombey' said the Major'that he should mean
the mother?'

'You were complimentary to the mother' returned Mr Dombey.

'An ancient flameSir' chuckled Major Bagstock. 'Devilish
ancient. I humour her.'

'She impresses me as being perfectly genteel' said Mr Dombey.

'GenteelSir' said the Majorstopping shortand staring in his
companion's face. 'The Honourable Mrs SkewtonSiris sister to the
late Lord Feenixand aunt to the present Lord. The family are not
wealthy - they're poorindeed - and she lives upon a small jointure;
but if you come to bloodSir!' The Major gave a flourish with his
stick and walked on againin despair of being able to say what you
came toif you came to that.

'You addressed the daughterI observed' said Mr Dombeyafter a
short pause'as Mrs Granger.'

'Edith SkewtonSir' returned the Majorstopping short againand
punching a mark in the ground with his caneto represent her
'married (at eighteen) Granger of Ours;' whom the Major indicated by
another punch. 'GrangerSir' said the Majortapping the last ideal
portraitand rolling his head emphatically'was Colonel of Ours; a
de-vilish handsome fellowSirof forty-one. He diedSirin the
second year of his marriage.' The Major ran the representative of the
deceased Granger through and through the body with his walking-stick
and went on againcarrying his stick over his shoulder.

'How long is this ago?' asked Mr Dombeymaking another halt.


'Edith GrangerSir' replied the Majorshutting one eyeputting
his head on one sidepassing his cane into his left handand
smoothing his shirt-frill with his right'isat this present time
not quite thirty. And dammeSir' said the Majorshouldering his
stick once moreand walking on again'she's a peerless woman!'

'Was there any family?' asked Mr Dombey presently.

'YesSir' said the Major. 'There was a boy.'

Mr Dombey's eyes sought the groundand a shade came over his face.

'Who was drownedSir' pursued the Major. 'When a child of four or
five years old.'

'Indeed?' said Mr Dombeyraising his head.

'By the upsetting of a boat in which his nurse had no business to
have put him' said the Major. 'That's his history. Edith Granger is
Edith Granger still; but if tough old Joey B.Sirwere a little
younger and a little richerthe name of that immortal paragon should
be Bagstock.'

The Major heaved his shouldersand his cheeksand laughed more
like an over-fed Mephistopheles than everas he said the words.

'Provided the lady made no objectionI suppose?' said Mr Dombey
coldly.

'By GadSir' said the Major'the Bagstock breed are not
accustomed to that sort of obstacle. Though it's true enough that
Edith might have married twenty timesbut for being proudSir
proud.'

Mr Dombey seemedby his faceto think no worse of her for that.

'It's a great quality after all' said the Major. 'By the Lord
it's a high quality! Dombey! You are proud yourselfand your friend
Old Joerespects you for itSir.'

With this tribute to the character of his allywhich seemed to be
wrung from him by the force of circumstances and the irresistible
tendency of their conversationthe Major closed the subjectand
glided into a general exposition of the extent to which he had been
beloved and doted on by splendid women and brilliant creatures.

On the next day but oneMr Dombey and the Major encountered the
Honourable Mrs Skewton and her daughter in the Pump-room; on the day
afterthey met them again very near the place where they had met them
first. After meeting them thusthree or four times in allit became
a point of mere civility to old acquaintances that the Major should go
there one evening. Mr Dombey had not originally intended to pay
visitsbut on the Major announcing this intentionhe said he would
have the pleasure of accompanying him. So the Major told the Native to
go round before dinnerand saywith his and Mr Dombey's compliments
that they would have the honour of visiting the ladies that same
eveningif the ladies were alone. In answer to which messagethe
Native brought back a very small note with a very large quantity of
scent about itindited by the Honourable Mrs Skewton to Major
Bagstockand briefly saying'You are a shocking bear and I have a
great mind not to forgive youbut if you are very good indeed' which
was underlined'you may come. Compliments (in which Edith unites) to
Mr Dombey.'


The Honourable Mrs Skewton and her daughterMrs Grangerresided
while at Leamingtonin lodgings that were fashionable enough and dear
enoughbut rather limited in point of space and conveniences; so that
the Honourable Mrs Skewtonbeing in bedhad her feet in the window
and her head in the fireplacewhile the Honourable Mrs Skewton's maid
was quartered in a closet within the drawing-roomso extremely small
thatto avoid developing the whole of its accommodationsshe was
obliged to writhe in and out of the door like a beautiful serpent.
Withersthe wan pageslept out of the house immediately under the
tiles at a neighbouring milk-shop; and the wheeled chairwhich was
the stone of that young Sisyphuspassed the night in a shed belonging
to the same dairywhere new-laid eggs were produced by the poultry
connected with the establishmentwho roosted on a broken donkey-cart
persuadedto all appearancethat it grew thereand was a species of
tree.

Mr Dombey and the Major found Mrs Skewton arrangedas Cleopatra
among the cushions of a sofa: very airily dressed; and certainly not
resembling Shakespeare's Cleopatrawhom age could not wither. On
their way upstairs they had heard the sound of a harpbut it had
ceased on their being announcedand Edith now stood beside it
handsomer and haughtier than ever. It was a remarkable characteristic
of this lady's beauty that it appeared to vaunt and assert itself
without her aidand against her will. She knew that she was
beautiful: it was impossible that it could be otherwise: but she
seemed with her own pride to defy her very self.

Whether she held cheap attractions that could only call forth
admiration that was worthless to heror whether she designed to
render them more precious to admirers by this usage of themthose to
whom they were precious seldom paused to consider.

'I hopeMrs Granger' said Mr Dombeyadvancing a step towards
her'we are not the cause of your ceasing to play?'

'You! oh no!'

'Why do you not go on thenmy dearest Edith?' said Cleopatra.

'I left off as I began - of my own fancy.'

The exquisite indifference of her manner in saying this: an
indifference quite removed from dulness or insensibilityfor it was
pointed with proud purpose: was well set off by the carelessness with
which she drew her hand across the stringsand came from that part of
the room.

'Do you knowMr Dombey' said her languishing motherplaying with
a hand-screen'that occasionally my dearest Edith and myself actually
almost differ - '

'Not quitesometimesMama?' said Edith.

'Oh never quitemy darling! Fiefieit would break my heart'
returned her mothermaking a faint attempt to pat her with the
screenwhich Edith made no movement to meet' - about these old
conventionalities of manner that are observed in little things? Why
are we not more natural? Dear me! With all those yearningsand
gushingsand impulsive throbbings that we have implanted in our
soulsand which are so very charmingwhy are we not more natural?'

Mr Dombey said it was very truevery true.


'We could be more natural I suppose if we tried?' said Mrs Skewton.

Mr Dombey thought it possible.

'Devil a bitMa'am' said the Major. 'We couldn't afford it.
Unless the world was peopled with J.B.'s - tough and blunt old Joes
Ma'amplain red herrings with hard roesSir - we couldn't afford it.
It wouldn't do.'


'You naughty Infidel' said Mrs Skewton'be mute.'


'Cleopatra commands' returned the Majorkissing his hand'and
Antony Bagstock obeys.'


'The man has no sensitiveness' said Mrs Skewtoncruelly holding
up the hand-screen so as to shut the Major out. 'No sympathy. And what
do we live for but sympathy! What else is so extremely charming!
Without that gleam of sunshine on our cold cold earth' said Mrs
Skewtonarranging her lace tuckerand complacently observing the
effect of her bare lean armlooking upward from the wrist'how could
we possibly bear it? In shortobdurate man!' glancing at the Major
round the screen'I would have my world all heart; and Faith is so
excessively charmingthat I won't allow you to disturb itdo you
hear?'


The Major replied that it was hard in Cleopatra to require the
world to be all heartand yet to appropriate to herself the hearts of
all the world; which obliged Cleopatra to remind him that flattery was
insupportable to herand that if he had the boldness to address her
in that strain any moreshe would positively send him home.


Withers the Wanat this periodhanding round the teaMr Dombey
again addressed himself to Edith.


'There is not much company hereit would seem?' said Mr Dombeyin
his own portentous gentlemanly way.


'I believe not. We see none.'


'Why really' observed Mrs Skewton fom her couch'there are no
people here just now with whom we care to associate.'


'They have not enough heart' said Edithwith a smile. The very
twilight of a smile: so singularly were its light and darkness
blended.


'My dearest Edith rallies meyou see!' said her mothershaking
her head: which shook a little of itself sometimesas if the palsy
Bed now and then in opposition to the diamonds. 'Wicked one!'


'You have been here beforeif I am not mistaken?' said Mr Dombey.
Still to Edith.


'Ohseveral times. I think we have been everywhere.'


'A beautiful country!'


'I suppose it is. Everybody says so.'


'Your cousin Feenix raves about itEdith' interposed her mother
from her couch.


The daughter slightly turned her graceful headand raising her
eyebrows by a hair's-breadthas if her cousin Feenix were of all the



mortal world the least to be regardedturned her eyes again towards
Mr Dombey.

'I hopefor the credit of my good tastethat I am tired of the
neighbourhood' she said.

'You have almost reason to beMadam' he repliedglancing at a
variety of landscape drawingsof which he had already recognised
several as representing neighbouring points of viewand which were
strewn abundantly about the room'if these beautiful productions are
from your hand.'

She gave him no replybut sat in a disdainful beautyquite
amazing.

'Have they that interest?' said Mr Dombey. 'Are they yours?'

'Yes.'

'And you playI already know.'

'Yes.'

'And sing?'

'Yes.'

She answered all these questions with a strange reluctance; and
with that remarkable air of opposition to herselfalready noticed as
belonging to her beauty. Yet she was not embarrassedbut wholly
self-possessed. Neither did she seem to wish to avoid the
conversationfor she addressed her faceand - so far as she could her
manner alsoto him; and continued to do sowhen he was silent.

'You have many resources against weariness at least' said Mr
Dombey.

'Whatever their efficiency may be' she returned'you know them
all now. I have no more.

'May I hope to prove them all?' said Mr Dombeywith solemn
gallantrylaying down a drawing he had heldand motioning towards
the harp.

'Oh certainly] If you desire it!'

She rose as she spokeand crossing by her mother's couchand
directing a stately look towards herwhich was instantaneous in its
durationbut inclusive (if anyone had seen it) of a multitude of
expressionsamong which that of the twilight smilewithout the smile
itselfovershadowed all the restwent out of the room.

The Majorwho was quite forgiven by this timehad wheeled a
little table up to Cleopatraand was sitting down to play picquet
with her. Mr Dombeynot knowing the gamesat down to watch them for
his edification until Edith should return.

'We are going to have some musicMr DombeyI hope?' said
Cleopatra.

'Mrs Granger has been kind enough to promise so' said Mr Dombey.

'Ah! That's very nice. Do you proposeMajor?'


'NoMa'am' said the Major. 'Couldn't do it.'

'You're a barbarous being' replied the lady'and my hand's
destroyed. You are fond of musicMr Dombey?'

'Eminently so' was Mr Dombey's answer.

'Yes. It's very nice' said Cleopatralooking at her cards. 'So
much heart in it - undeveloped recollections of a previous state of
existence' - and all that - which is so truly charming. Do you know'
simpered Cleopatrareversing the knave of clubswho had come into
her game with his heels uppermost'that if anything could tempt me to
put a period to my lifeit would be curiosity to find out what it's
all aboutand what it means; there are so many provoking mysteries
reallythat are hidden from us. Majoryou to play.'

The Major played; and Mr Dombeylooking on for his instruction
would soon have been in a state of dire confusionbut that he gave no
attention to the game whateverand sat wondering instead when Edith
would come back.

She came at lastand sat down to her harpand Mr Dombey rose and
stood beside herlistening. He had little taste for musicand no
knowledge of the strain she playedbut he saw her bending over it
and perhaps he heard among the sounding strings some distant music of
his ownthat tamed the monster of the iron roadand made it less
inexorable.

Cleopatra had a sharp eyeverilyat picquet. It glistened like a
bird'sand did not fix itself upon the gamebut pierced the room
from end to endand gleamed on harpperformerlistenereverything.

When the haughty beauty had concludedshe aroseand receiving Mr
Dombey's thanks and compliments in exactly the same manner as before
went with scarcely any pause to the pianoand began there.

Edith Grangerany song but that! Edith Grangeryou are very
handsomeand your touch upon the keys is brilliantand your voice is
deep and rich; but not the air that his neglected daughter sang to his
dead son]

Alashe knows it not; and if he didwhat air of hers would stir
himrigid man! Sleeplonely Florencesleep! Peace in thy dreams
although the night has turned darkand the clouds are gatheringand
threaten to discharge themselves in hail!

CHAPTER 22.

A Trifle of Management by Mr Carker the Manager

Mr Carker the Manager sat at his desksmooth and soft as usual
reading those letters which were reserved for him to openbacking
them occasionally with such memoranda and references as their business
purport requiredand parcelling them out into little heaps for
distribution through the several departments of the House. The post
had come in heavy that morningand Mr Carker the Manager had a good
deal to do.

The general action of a man so engaged - pausing to look over a
bundle of papers in his handdealing them round in various portions


taking up another bundle and examining its contents with knitted brows
and pursed-out lips - dealingand sortingand pondering by turns would
easily suggest some whimsical resemblance to a player at cards.
The face of Mr Carker the Manager was in good keeping with such a
fancy. It was the face of a man who studied his playwarily: who made
himself master of all the strong and weak points of the game: who
registered the cards in his mind as they fell about himknew exactly
what was on themwhat they missedand what they made: who was crafty
to find out what the other players heldand who never betrayed his
own hand.

The letters were in various languagesbut Mr Carker the Manager
read them all. If there had been anything in the offices of Dombey and
Son that he could readthere would have been a card wanting in the
pack. He read almost at a glanceand made combinations of one letter
with another and one business with another as he went onadding new
matter to the heaps - much as a man would know the cards at sightand
work out their combinations in his mind after they were turned.
Something too deep for a partnerand much too deep for an adversary
Mr Carker the Manager sat in the rays of the sun that came down
slanting on him through the skylightplaying his game alone.

And although it is not among the instincts wild or domestic of the
cat tribe to play at cardsfeline from sole to crown was Mr Carker
the Manageras he basked in the strip of summer-light and warmth that
shone upon his table and the ground as if they were a crooked
dial-plateand himself the only figure on it. With hair and whiskers
deficient in colour at all timesbut feebler than common in the rich
sunshineand more like the coat of a sandy tortoise-shell cat; with
long nailsnicely pared and sharpened; with a natural antipathy to
any speck of dirtwhich made him pause sometimes and watch the
falling motes of dustand rub them off his smooth white hand or
glossy linen: Mr Carker the Managersly of mannersharp of tooth
soft of footwatchful of eyeoily of tonguecruel of heartnice of
habitsat with a dainty steadfastness and patience at his workas if
he were waiting at a mouse's hole.

At length the letters were disposed ofexcepting one which he
reserved for a particular audience. Having locked the more
confidential correspondence in a drawerMr Carker the Manager rang
his bell.

'Why do you answer it?' was his reception of his brother.

'The messenger is outand I am the next' was the submissive
reply.

'You are the next?' muttered the Manager. 'Yes! Creditable to me!
There!'

Pointing to the heaps of opened lettershe turned disdainfully
awayin his elbow-chairand broke the seal of that one which he held
in his hand.

'I am sorry to trouble youJames' said the brothergathering
them up'but - '

'Oh! you have something to say. I knew that. Well?'

Mr Carker the Manager did not raise his eyes or turn them on his
brotherbut kept them on his letterthough without opening it.

'Well?' he repeated sharply.


'I am uneasy about Harriet.'

'Harriet who? what Harriet? I know nobody of that name.'

'She is not welland has changed very much of late.'

'She changed very mucha great many years ago' replied the
Manager; 'and that is all I have to say.

'I think if you would hear me


'Why should I hear youBrother John?' returned the Managerlaying
a sarcastic emphasis on those two wordsand throwing up his headbut
not lifting his eyes. 'I tell youHarriet Carker made her choice many
years ago between her two brothers. She may repent itbut she must
abide by it.'

'Don't mistake me. I do not say she does repent it. It would be
black ingratitude in me to hint at such a thing' returned the other.
'Though believe meJamesI am as sorry for her sacrifice as you.'

'As I?' exclaimed the Manager. 'As I?'

'As sorry for her choice - for what you call her choice - as you
are angry at it' said the Junior.

'Angry?' repeated the otherwith a wide show of his teeth.

'Displeased. Whatever word you like best. You know my meaning.
There is no offence in my intention.'

'There is offence in everything you do' replied his brother
glancing at him with a sudden scowlwhich in a moment gave place to a
wider smile than the last. 'Carry those papers awayif you please. I
am busy.

His politeness was so much more cutting than his wraththat the
Junior went to the door. But stopping at itand looking roundhe
said:

'When Harriet tried in vain to plead for me with youon your first
just indignationand my first disgrace; and when she left youJames
to follow my broken fortunesand devote herselfin her mistaken
affectionto a ruined brotherbecause without her he had no oneand
was lost; she was young and pretty. I think if you could see her now if
you would go and see her - she would move your admiration and
compassion.'

The Manager inclined his headand showed his teethas who should
sayin answer to some careless small-talk'Dear me! Is that the
case?' but said never a word.

'We thought in those days: you and I both: that she would marry
youngand lead a happy and light-hearted life' pursued the other.
'Oh if you knew how cheerfully she cast those hopes away; how
cheerfully she has gone forward on the path she tookand never once
looked back; you never could say again that her name was strange in
your ears. Never!'

Again the Manager inclined his head and showed his teethand
seemed to say'Remarkable indeed! You quite surprise me!' And again
he uttered never a word.

'May I go on?' said John Carkermildly.


'On your way?' replied his smiling brother. 'If you will have the
goodness.


John Carkerwith a sighwas passing slowly out at the doorwhen
his brother's voice detained him for a moment on the threshold.


'If she has goneand goesher own way cheerfully' he said
throwing the still unfolded letter on his deskand putting his hands
firmly in his pockets'you may tell her that I go as cheerfully on
mine. If she has never once looked backyou may tell her that I have
sometimesto recall her taking part with youand that my resolution
is no easier to wear away;' he smiled very sweetly here; 'than
marble.'


'I tell her nothing of you. We never speak about you. Once a year
on your birthdayHarriet says alwaysLet us remember James by name,
and wish him happy,but we say no more'


'Tell it thenif you please' returned the other'to yourself.
You can't repeat it too oftenas a lesson to you to avoid the subject
in speaking to me. I know no Harriet Carker. There is no such person.
You may have a sister; make much of her. I have none.'


Mr Carker the Manager took up the letter againand waved it with a
smile of mock courtesy towards the door. Unfolding it as his brother
withdrewand looking darkly aiter him as he left the roomhe once
more turned round in his elbow-chairand applied himself to a
diligent perusal of its contents.


It was in the writing of his great chiefMr Dombeyand dated from
Leamington. Though he was a quick reader of all other lettersMr
Carker read this slowly; weighing the words as he wentand bringing
every tooth in his head to bear upon them. When he had read it through
oncehe turned it over againand picked out these passages. 'I find
myself benefited by the changeand am not yet inclined to name any
time for my return.' 'I wishCarkeryou would arrange to come down
once and see me hereand let me know how things are going onin
person.' 'I omitted to speak to you about young Gay. If not gone per
Son and Heiror if Son and Heir still lying in the Docksappoint
some other young man and keep him in the City for the present. I am
not decided.' 'Now that's unfortunate!' said Mr Carker the Manager
expanding his mouthas if it were made of India-rubber: 'for he's far
away.'


Still that passagewhich was in a postscriptattracted his
attention and his teethonce more.


'I think' he said'my good friend Captain Cuttle mentioned
something about being towed along in the wake of that day. What a pity
he's so far away!'


He refolded the letterand was sitting trifling with itstanding
it long-wise and broad-wise on his tableand turning it over and over
on all sides - doing pretty much the same thingperhapsby its
contents - when Mr Perch the messenger knocked softly at the doorand
coming in on tiptoebending his body at every step as if it were the
delight of his life to bowlaid some papers on the table.


'Would you please to be engagedSir?' asked Mr Perchrubbing his
handsand deferentially putting his head on one sidelike a man who
felt he had no business to hold it up in such a presenceand would
keep it as much out of the way as possible.



'Who wants me?'

'WhySir' said Mr Perchin a soft voice'really nobodySirto
speak of at present. Mr Gills the Ship's Instrument-makerSirhas
looked inabout a little matter of paymenthe says: but I mentioned
to himSirthat you was engaged several deep; several deep.'

Mr Perch coughed once behind his handand waited for further
orders.

'Anybody else?'

'WellSir' said Mr Perch'I wouldn't of my own self take the
liberty of mentioningSirthat there was anybody else; but that same
young lad that was here yesterdaySirand last weekhas been
hanging about the place; and it looksSir' added Mr Perchstopping
to shut the door'dreadful unbusiness-like to see him whistling to
the sparrows down the courtand making of 'em answer him.'

'You said he wanted something to dodidn't youPerch?' asked Mr
Carkerleaning back in his chair and looking at that officer.

'WhySir' said Mr Perchcoughing behind his hand again'his
expression certainly were that he was in wants of a sitiwationand
that he considered something might be done for him about the Docks
being used to fishing with a rod and line: but - ' Mr Perch shook his
head very dubiously indeed.

'What does he say when he comes?' asked Mr Carker.

'IndeedSir' said Mr Perchcoughing another cough behind his
handwhich was always his resource as an expression of humility when
nothing else occurred to him'his observation generally air that he
would humbly wish to see one of the gentlemenand that he wants to
earn a living. But you seeSir' added Perchdropping his voice to a
whisperand turningin the inviolable nature of his confidenceto
give the door a thrust with his hand and kneeas if that would shut
it any more when it was shut already'it's hardly to be boreSir
that a common lad like that should come a prowling hereand saying
that his mother nursed our House's young gentlemanand that he hopes
our House will give him a chance on that account. I am sureSir'
observed Mr Perch'that although Mrs Perch was at that time nursing
as thriving a little girlSiras we've ever took the liberty of
adding to our familyI wouldn't have made so free as drop a hint of
her being capable of imparting nourishmentnot if it was never so!'

Mr Carker grinned at him like a sharkbut in an absentthoughtful
manner.

'Whether' submitted Mr Perchafter a short silenceand another
cough'it mightn't be best for me to tell himthat if he was seen
here any more he would be given into custody; and to keep to it! With
respect to bodily fear' said Mr Perch'I'm so timidmyselfby
natureSirand my nerves is so unstrung by Mrs Perch's statethat I
could take my affidavit easy.'

'Let me see this fellowPerch' said Mr Carker. 'Bring him in!'

'YesSir. Begging your pardonSir' said Mr Perchhesitating at
the door'he's roughSirin appearance.'

'Never mind. If he's therebring him in. I'll see Mr Gills
directly. Ask him to wait.'


Mr Perch bowed; and shutting the dooras precisely and carefully
as if he were not coming back for a weekwent on his quest among the
sparrows in the court. While he was goneMr Carker assumed his
favourite attitude before the fire-placeand stood looking at the
door; presentingwith his under lip tucked into the smile that showed
his whole row of upper teetha singularly crouching apace.

The messenger was not long in returningfollowed by a pair of
heavy boots that came bumping along the passage like boxes. With the
unceremonious words 'Come along with you!' - a very unusual form of
introduction from his lips - Mr Perch then ushered into the presence a
strong-built lad of fifteenwith a round red facea round sleek
headround black eyesround limbsand round bodywhoto carry out
the general rotundity of his appearancehad a round hat in his hand
without a particle of brim to it.

Obedient to a nod from Mr CarkerPerch had no sooner confronted
the visitor with that gentleman than he withdrew. The moment they were
face to face aloneMr Carkerwithout a word of preparationtook him
by the throatand shook him until his head seemed loose upon his
shoulders.

The boywho in the midst of his astonishment could not help
staring wildly at the gentleman with so many white teeth who was
choking himand at the office wallsas though determinedif he were
chokedthat his last look should be at the mysteries for his
intrusion into which he was paying such a severe penaltyat last
contrived to utter


'ComeSir! You let me alonewill you!'

'Let you alone!' said Mr Carker. 'What! I have got youhave I?'
There was no doubt of thatand tightly too. 'You dog' said Mr
Carkerthrough his set jaws'I'll strangle you!'

Biler whimperedwould he though? oh no he wouldn't - and what was
he doing of - and why didn't he strangle some- body of his own size
and not him: but Biler was quelled by the extraordinary nature of his
receptionandas his head became stationaryand he looked the
gentleman in the faceor rather in the teethand saw him snarling at
himhe so far forgot his manhood as to cry.

'I haven't done nothing to youSir' said Bilerotherwise Rob
otherwise Grinderand always Toodle.

'You young scoundrel!' replied Mr Carkerslowly releasing himand
moving back a step into his favourite position. 'What do you mean by
daring to come here?'

'I didn't mean no harmSir' whimpered Robputting one hand to
his throatand the knuckles of the other to his eyes. 'I'll never
come againSir. I only wanted work.'

'Workyoung Cain that you are!' repeated Mr Carkereyeing him
narrowly. 'Ain't you the idlest vagabond in London?'

The impeachmentwhile it much affected Mr Toodle Juniorattached
to his character so justlythat he could not say a word in denial. He
stood looking at the gentlemanthereforewith a frightened
self-convictedand remorseful air. As to his looking at himit may
be observed that he was fascinated by Mr Carkerand never took his
round eyes off him for an instant.

'Ain't you a thief?' said Mr Carkerwith his hands behind him in


his pockets.

'Nosir' pleaded Rob.

'You are!' said Mr Carker.

'I ain't indeedSir' whimpered Rob. 'I never did such a thing as
thieveSirif you'll believe me. I know I've been a going wrong
Sirever since I took to bird-catching' and walking-matching. I'm
sure a cove might think' said Mr Toodle Juniorwith a burst of
penitence'that singing birds was innocent companybut nobody knows
what harm is in them little creeturs and what they brings you down
to.'

They seemed to have brought him down to a velveteen jacket and
trousers very much the worse for weara particularly small red
waistcoat like a gorgetan interval of blue checkand the hat before
mentioned.

'I ain't been home twenty times since them birds got their will of
me' said Rob'and that's ten months. How can I go home when
everybody's miserable to see me! I wonder' said Bilerblubbering
outrightand smearing his eyes with his coat-cuff'that I haven't
been and drownded myself over and over again.'

All of whichincluding his expression of surprise at not having
achieved this last scarce performancethe boy saidjust as if the
teeth of Mr Carker drew it out ofhimand he had no power of
concealing anything with that battery of attraction in full play.

'You're a nice young gentleman!' said Mr Carkershaking his head
at him. 'There's hemp-seed sown for youmy fine fellow!'

'I'm sureSir' returned the wretched Bilerblubbering againand
again having recourse to his coat-cuff: 'I shouldn't caresometimes
if it was growed too. My misfortunes all began in waggingSir; but
what could I doexceptin' wag?'

'Excepting what?' said Mr Carker.

'WagSir. Wagging from school.'

'Do you mean pretending to go thereand not going?' said Mr
Carker.

'YesSirthat's waggingSir' returned the quondam Grindermuch
affected. 'I was chivied through the streetsSirwhen I went there
and pounded when I got there. So I waggedand hid myselfand that
began it.'

'And you mean to tell me' said Mr Carkertaking him by the throat
againholding him out at arm's-lengthand surveying him in silence
for some moments'that you want a placedo you?'

'I should be thankful to be triedSir' returned Toodle Junior
faintly.

Mr Carker the Manager pushed him backward into a corner - the boy
submitting quietlyhardly venturing to breatheand never once
removing his eyes from his face - and rang the bell.

'Tell Mr Gills to come here.'

Mr Perch was too deferential to express surprise or recognition of


the figure in the corner: and Uncle Sol appeared immediately.

'Mr Gills!' said Carkerwith a smile'sit down. How do you do?
You continue to enjoy your healthI hope?'

'Thank youSir' returned Uncle Soltaking out his pocket-book
and handing over some notes as he spoke. 'Nothing ails me in body but
old age. Twenty-fiveSir.'

'You are as punctual and exactMr Gills' replied the smiling
Managertaking a paper from one of his many drawersand making an
endorsement on itwhile Uncle Sol looked over him'as one of your
own chronometers. Quite right.'

'The Son and Heir has not been spokenI find by the listSir'
said Uncle Solwith a slight addition to the usual tremor in his
voice.

'The Son and Heir has not been spoken' returned Carker. 'There
seems to have been tempestuous weatherMr Gillsand she has probably
been driven out of her course.'

'She is safeI trust in Heaven!' said old Sol.

'She is safeI trust in Heaven!' assented Mr Carker in that
voiceless manner of his: which made the observant young Toodle
trernble again. 'Mr Gills' he added aloudthrowing himself back in
his chair'you must miss your nephew very much?'

Uncle Solstanding by himshook his head and heaved a deep sigh.

'Mr Gills' said Carkerwith his soft hand playing round his
mouthand looking up into the Instrument-maker's face'it would be
company to you to have a young fellow in your shop just nowand it
would be obliging me if you would give one house-room for the present.
Noto be sure' he added quicklyin anticipation of what the old man
was going to say'there's not much business doing thereI know; but
you can make him clean the place outpolish up the instruments;
drudgeMr Gills. That's the lad!'

Sol Gills pulled down his spectacles from his forehead to his eyes
and looked at Toodle Junior standing upright in the corner: his head
presenting the appearance (which it always did) of having been newly
drawn out of a bucket of cold water; his small waistcoat rising and
falling quickly in the play of his emotions; and his eyes intently
fixed on Mr Carkerwithout the least reference to his proposed
master.

'Will you give him house-roomMr Gills?' said the Manager.

Old Solwithout being quite enthusiastic on the subjectreplied
that he was glad of any opportunityhowever slightto oblige Mr
Carkerwhose wish on such a point was a command: and that the wooden
Midshipman would consider himself happy to receive in his berth any
visitor of Mr Carker's selecting.

Mr Carker bared himself to the tops and bottoms of his gums: making
the watchful Toodle Junior tremble more and more: and acknowledged the
Instrument-maker's politeness in his most affable manner.

'I'll dispose of him sothenMr Gills' he answeredrisingand
shaking the old man by the hand'until I make up my mind what to do
with himand what he deserves. As I consider myself responsible for
himMr Gills' here he smiled a wide smile at Robwho shook before


it: 'I shall be glad if you'll look sharply after himand report his
behaviour to me. I'll ask a question or two of his parents as I ride
home this afternoon - respectable people - to confirm some particulars
in his own account of himself; and that doneMr GillsI'll send him
round to you to-morrow morning. Goodbye!'

His smile at parting was so full of teeththat it confused old
Soland made him vaguely uncomfortable. He went homethinking of
raging seasfoundering shipsdrowning menan ancient bottle of
Madeira never brought to lightand other dismal matters.

'Nowboy!' said Mr Carkerputting his hand on young Toodle's
shoulderand bringing him out into the middle of the room. 'You have
heard me?'

Rob said'YesSir.'

'Perhaps you understand' pursued his patron'that if you ever
deceive or play tricks with meyou had better have drowned yourself
indeedonce for allbefore you came here?'

There was nothing in any branch of mental acquisition that Rob
seemed to understand better than that.

'If you have lied to me' said Mr Carker'in anythingnever come
in my way again. If notyou may let me find you waiting for me
somewhere near your mother's house this afternoon. I shall leave this
at five o'clockand ride there on horseback. Nowgive me the
address.'

Rob repeated it slowlyas Mr Carker wrote it down. Rob even spelt
it over a second timeletter by letteras if he thought that the
omission of a dot or scratch would lead to his destruction. Mr Carker
then handed him out of the room; and Robkeeping his round eyes fixed
upon his patron to the lastvanished for the time being.

Mr Carker the Manager did a great deal of business in the course of
the dayand stowed his teeth upon a great many people. In the office
in the courtin the streetand on 'Changethey glistened and
bristled to a terrible extent. Five o'clock arrivingand with it Mr
Carker's bay horsethey got on horsebackand went gleaming up
Cheapside.

As no one can easily ride fasteven if inclined to do sothrough
the press and throng of the City at that hourand as Mr Carker was
not inclinedhe went leisurely alongpicking his way among the carts
and carriagesavoiding whenever he could the wetter and more dirty
places in the over-watered roadand taking infinite pains to keep
himself and his steed clean. Glancing at the passersby while he was
thus ambling on his wayhe suddenly encountered the round eyes of the
sleek-headed Rob intently fixed upon his face as if they had never
been taken offwhile the boy himselfwith a pocket-handkerchief
twisted up like a speckled eel and girded round his waistmade a very
conspicuous demonstration of being prepared to attend upon himat
whatever pace he might think proper to go.

This attentionhowever flatteringbeing one of an unusual kind
and attracting some notice from the other passengersMr Carker took
advantage of a clearer thoroughfare and a cleaner roadand broke into
a trot. Rob immediately did the same. Mr Carker presently tried a
canter; Rob Was still in attendance. Then a short gallop; it Was all
one to the boy. Whenever Mr Carker turned his eyes to that side of the
roadhe still saw Toodle Junior holding his courseapparently
without distressand working himself along by the elbows after the


most approved manner of professional gentlemen who get over the ground
for wagers.

Ridiculous as this attendance wasit was a sign of an influence
established over the boyand therefore Mr Carkeraffecting not to
notice itrode away into the neighbourhood of Mr Toodle's house. On
his slackening his pace hereRob appeared before him to point out the
turnings; and when he called to a man at a neighbouring gateway to
hold his horsepending his visit to the buildings that had succeeded
Staggs's GardensRob dutifully held the stirrupwhile the Manager
dismounted.

'NowSir' said Mr Carkertaking him by the shoulder'come
along!'

The prodigal son was evidently nervous of visiting the parental
abode; but Mr Carker pushing him on beforehe had nothing for it but
to open the right doorand suffer himself to be walked into the midst
of his brothers and sistersmustered in overwhelming force round the
family tea-table. At sight of the prodigal in the grasp of a stranger
these tender relations united in a general howlwhich smote upon the
prodigal's breast so sharply when he saw his mother stand up among
thempale and tremblingwith the baby in her armsthat he lent his
own voice to the chorus.

Nothing doubting now that the strangerif not Mr Ketch' in person
was one of that companythe whole of the young family wailed the
louderwhile its more infantine membersunable to control the
transports of emotion appertaining to their time of lifethrew
themselves on their backs like young birds when terrified by a hawk
and kicked violently. At lengthpoor Polly making herself audible
saidwith quivering lips'Oh Robmy poor boywhat have you done at
last!'

'Nothingmother' cried Robin a piteous voice'ask the
gentleman!'

'Don't be alarmed' said Mr Carker'I want to do him good.'

At this announcementPollywho had not cried yetbegan to do so.
The elder Toodleswho appeared to have been meditating a rescue
unclenched their fists. The younger Toodles clustered round their
mother's gownand peeped from under their own chubby arms at their
desperado brother and his unknown friend. Everybody blessed the
gentleman with the beautiful teethwho wanted to do good.

'This fellow' said Mr Carker to Pollygiving him a gentle shake
'is your sonehMa'am?'

'YesSir' sobbed Pollywith a curtsey; 'yesSir.'

'A bad sonI am afraid?' said Mr Carker.

'Never a bad son to meSir' returned Polly.

'To whom then?' demanded Mr Carker.

'He has been a little wildSir' returned Pollychecking the
babywho was making convulsive efforts with his arms and legs to
launch himself on Bilerthrough the ambient air'and has gone with
wrong companions: but I hope he has seen the misery of thatSirand
will do well again.'

Mr Carker looked at Pollyand the clean roomand the clean


childrenand the simple Toodle facecombined of father and mother
that was reflected and repeated everywhere about him - and seemed to
have achieved the real purpose of his visit.

'Your husbandI take itis not at home?' he said.

'NoSir' replied Polly. 'He's down the line at present.'

The prodigal Rob seemed very much relieved to hear it: though still
in the absorption of all his faculties in his patronhe hardly took
his eyes from Mr Carker's faceunless for a moment at a time to steal
a sorrowful glance at his mother.

'Then' said Mr Carker'I'll tell you how I have stumbled on this
boy of yoursand who I amand what I am going to do for him.'

This Mr Carker didin his own way; saying that he at first
intended to have accumulated nameless terrors on his presumptuous
headfor coming to the whereabout of Dombey and Son. That he had
relentedin consideration of his youthhis professed contritionand
his friends. That he was afraid he took a rash step in doing anything
for the boyand one that might expose him to the censure of the
prudent; but that he did it of himself and for himselfand risked the
consequences single-handed; and that his mother's past connexion with
Mr Dombey's family had nothing to do with itand that Mr Dombey had
nothing to do with itbut that heMr Carkerwas the be-all and the
end-all of this business. Taking great credit to himself for his
goodnessand receiving no less from all the family then presentMr
Carker signifiedindirectly but still pretty plainlythat Rob's
implicit fidelityattachmentand devotionwere for evermore his
dueand the least homage he could receive. And with this great truth
Rob himself was so impressedthatstanding gazing on his patron with
tears rolling down his cheekshe nodded his shiny head until it
seemed almost as loose as it had done under the same patron's hands
that morning.

Pollywho had passed Heaven knows how many sleepless nights on
account of this her dissipated firstbornand had not seen him for
weeks and weekscould have almost kneeled to Mr Carker the Manager
as to a Good Spirit - in spite of his teeth. But Mr Carker rising to
departshe only thanked him with her mother's prayers and blessings;
thanks so rich when paid out of the Heart's mintespecially for any
service Mr Carker had renderedthat he might have given back a large
amount of changeand yet been overpaid.

As that gentleman made his way among the crowding children to the
doorRob retreated on his motherand took her and the baby in the
same repentant hug.

'I'll try harddear mothernow. Upon my soul I will!' said Rob.

'Oh domy dear boy! I am sure you willfor our sakes and your
own!' cried Pollykissing him. 'But you're coming back to speak to
mewhen you have seen the gentleman away?'

'I don't knowmother.' Rob hesitatedand looked down. 'Father when's
he coming home?'

'Not till two o'clock to-morrow morning.'

'I'll come backmother dear!' cried Rob. And passing through the
shrill cry of his brothers and sisters in reception of this promise
he followed Mr Carker out.


'What!' said Mr Carkerwho had heard this. 'You have a bad father
have you?'

'NoSir!' returned Robamazed. 'There ain't a better nor a kinder
father goingthan mine is.'

'Why don't you want to see him then?' inquired his patron.

'There's such a difference between a father and a motherSir'
said Robafter faltering for a moment. 'He couldn't hardly believe
yet that I was doing to do better - though I know he'd try to but a
mother - she always believes what's' goodSir; at least I know my
mother doesGod bless her!'

Mr Carker's mouth expandedbut he said no more until he was
mounted on his horseand had dismissed the man who held itwhen
looking down from the saddle steadily into the attentive and watchful
face of the boyhe said:

'You'll come to me tomorrow morningand you shall be shown where
that old gentleman lives; that old gentleman who was with me this
morning; where you are goingas you heard me say.'

'YesSir' returned Rob.

'I have a great interest in that old gentlemanand in serving him
you serve meboydo you understand? Well' he addedinterrupting
himfor he saw his round face brighten when he was told that: 'I see
you do. I want to know all about that old gentlemanand how he goes
on from day to day - for I am anxious to be of service to him - and
especially who comes there to see him. Do you understand?'

Rob nodded his steadfast faceand said 'YesSir' again.

'I should like to know that he has friends who are attentive to
himand that they don't desert him - for he lives very much alone
nowpoor fellow; but that they are fond of himand of his nephew who
has gone abroad. There is a very young lady who may perhaps come to
see him. I want particularly to know all about her.'

'I'll take careSir' said the boy.

'And take care' returned his patronbending forward to advance
his grinning face closer to the boy'sand pat him on the shoulder
with the handle of his whip: 'take care you talk about affairs of mine
to nobody but me.'

'To nobody in the worldSir' replied Robshaking his head.

'Neither there' said Mr CarHerpointing to the place they had
just left'nor anywhere else. I'll try how true and grateful you can
be. I'll prove you!' Making thisby his display of teeth and by the
action of his headas much a threat as a promisehe turned from
Rob's eyeswhich were nailed upon him as if he had won the boy by a
charmbody and souland rode away. But again becoming conscious
after trotting a short distancethat his devoted henchmangirt as
beforewas yielding him the same attendanceto the great amusement
of sundry spectatorshe reined upand ordered him off. To ensure his
obediencehe turned in the saddle and watched him as he retired. It
was curious to see that even then Rob could not keep his eyes wholly
averted from his patron's facebutconstantly turning and turning
again to look after him' involved himself in a tempest of buffetings
and jostlings from the other passengers in the street: of whichin
the pursuit of the one paramount ideahe was perfectly heedless.


Mr Carker the Manager rode on at a foot-pacewith the easy air of
one who had performed all the business of the day in a satisfactory
mannerand got it comfortably off his mind. Complacent and affable as
man could beMr Carker picked his way along the streets and hummed a
soft tune as he went He seemed to purrhe was so glad.

And in some sortMr Carkerin his fancybasked upon a hearth
too. Coiled up snugly at certain feethe was ready for a springOr
for a tearor for a scratchor for a velvet touchas the humour
took him and occasion served. Was there any bird in a cagethat came
in for a share ofhis regards?

'A very young lady!' thought Mr Carker the Managerthrough his
song. 'Ay! when I saw her lastshe was a little child. With dark eyes
and hairI recollectand a good face; a very good face! I daresay
she's pretty.'

More affable and pleasant yetand humming his song until his many
teeth vibrated to itMr Carker picked his way alongand turned at
last into the shady street where Mr Dombey's house stood. He had been
so busywinding webs round good facesand obscuring them with
meshesthat he hardly thought of being at this point of his ride
untilglancing down the cold perspective of tall houseshe reined in
his horse quickly within a few yards of the door. But to explain why
Mr Carker reined in his horse quicklyand what he looked at in no
small surprisea few digressive words are necessary.

Mr Tootsemancipated from the Blimber thraldom and coming into the
possession of a certain portion of his wordly wealth'which' as he
had been wontduring his last half-year's probationto communicate
to Mr Feeder every evening as a new discovery'the executors couldn't
keep him out of' had applied himself with great diligenceto the
science of Life. Fired with a noble emulation to pursue a brilliant
and distinguished careerMr Toots had furnished a choice set of
apartments; had established among them a sporting bowerembellished
with the portraits of winning horsesin which he took no particle of
interest; and a divanwhich made him poorly. In this delicious abode
Mr Toots devoted himself to the cultivation of those gentle arts which
refine and humanise existencehis chief instructor in which was an
interesting character called the Game Chickenwho was always to be
heard of at the bar of the Black Badgerwore a shaggy white
great-coat in the warmest weatherand knocked Mr Toots about the head
three times a weekfor the small consideration of ten and six per
visit.

The Game Chickenwho was quite the Apollo of Mr Toots's Pantheon
had introduced to him a marker who taught billiardsa Life Guard who
taught fencinga jobmaster who taught ridinga Cornish gentleman who
was up to anything in the athletic lineand two or three other
friends connected no less intimately with the fine arts. Under whose
auspices Mr Toots could hardly fail to improve apaceand under whose
tuition he went to work.

But however it came aboutit came to passeven while these
gentlemen had the gloss of novelty upon themthat Mr Toots felthe
didn't know howunsettled and uneasy. There were husks in his corn
that even Game Chickens couldn't peck up; gloomy giants in his
leisurethat even Game Chickens couldn't knock down. Nothing seemed
to do Mr Toots so much good as incessantly leaving cards at Mr
Dombey's door. No taxgatherer in the British Dominions - that
wide-spread territory on which the sun never setsand where the
tax-gatherer never goes to bed - was more regular and persevering in
his calls than Mr Toots.


Mr Toots never went upstairs; and always performed the same
ceremoniesrichly dressed for the purposeat the hall door.

'Oh! Good morning!' would be Mr Toots's first remark to the
servant. 'For Mr Dombey' would be Mr Toots's next remarkas he
handed in a card. 'For Miss Dombey' would be his nextas he handed
in another.

Mr Toots would then turn round as if to go away; but the man knew
him by this timeand knew he wouldn't.

'OhI beg your pardon' Mr Toots would sayas if a thought had
suddenly descended on him. 'Is the young woman at home?'

The man would rather think she was;but wouldn't quite know. Then
he would ring a bell that rang upstairsand would look up the
staircaseand would sayyesshe was at homeand was coming down.
Then Miss Nipper would appearand the man would retire.

'Oh! How de do?' Mr Toots would saywith a chuckle and a blush.

Susan would thank himand say she was very well.

'How's Diogenes going on?' would be Mr Toots's second
interrogation.

Very well indeed. Miss Florence was fonder and fonder of him every
day. Mr Toots was sure to hail this with a burst of chuckleslike the
opening of a bottle of some effervescent beverage.

'Miss Florence is quite wellSir' Susan would add.

Ohit's of no consequencethank'ee' was the invariable reply of
Mr Toots; and when he had said sohe always went away very fast.

Now it is certain that Mr Toots had a filmy something in his mind
which led him to conclude that if he could aspire successfully in the
fulness of timeto the hand of Florencehe would be fortunate and
blest. It is certain that Mr Tootsby some remote and roundabout
roadhad got to that pointand that there he made a stand. His heart
was wounded; he was touched; he was in love. He had made a desperate
attemptone nightand had sat up all night for the purposeto write
an acrostic on Florencewhich affected him to tears in the
conception. But he never proceeded in the execution further than the
words 'For when I gaze' - the flow of imagination in which he had
previously written down the initial letters of the other seven lines
deserting him at that point.

Beyond devising that very artful and politic measure of leaving a
card for Mr Dombey dailythe brain of Mr Toots had not worked much in
reference to the subject that held his feelings prisoner. But deep
consideration at length assured Mr Toots that an important step to
gainwasthe conciliation of Miss Susan Nipperpreparatory to
giving her some inkling of his state of mind.

A little light and playful gallantry towards this lady seemed the
means to employ in that early chapter of the historyfor winning her
to his interests. Not being able quite to make up his mind about it
he consulted the Chicken - without taking that gentleman into his
confidence; merely informing him that a friend in Yorkshire had
written to him (Mr Toots) for his opinion on such a question. The
Chicken replying that his opinion always was'Go in and win' and
further'When your man's before you and your work cut outgo in and


do it' Mr Toots considered this a figurative way of supporting his
own view of the caseand heroically resolved to kiss Miss Nipper next
day.

Upon the next daythereforeMr Tootsputting into requisition
some of the greatest marvels that Burgess and Co. had ever turned out
went off to Mr Dotnbey's upon this design. But his heart failed him so
much as he approached the scene of actionthatalthough he arrived
on the ground at three o'clock in the afternoonit was six before he
knocked at the door.

Everything happened as usualdown to the point where Susan said
her young mistress was welland Mr Toots said it was ofno
consequence. To her amazementMr Tootsinstead of going offlike a
rocketafter that observationlingered and chuckled.

'Perhaps you'd like to walk upstairsSir!' said Susan.

'WellI think I will come in!' said Mr Toots.

But instead of walking upstairsthe bold Toots made an awkward
plunge at Susan when the door was shutand embracing that fair
creaturekissed her on the cheek

'Go along with you!~ cried Susan'or Ill tear your eyes out.'

'Just another!' said Mr Toots.

'Go along with you!' exclaimed Susangiving him a push 'Innocents
like youtoo! Who'll begin next? Go alongSir!'

Susan was not in any serious straitfor she could hardly speak for
laughing; but Diogeneson the staircasehearing a rustling against
the walland a shuffling of feetand seeing through the banisters
that there was some contention going onand foreign invasion in the
houseformed a different opiniondashed down to the rescueand in
the twinkling of an eye had Mr Toots by the leg.

Susan screamedlaughedopened the street-doorand ran
downstairs; the bold Toots tumbled staggering out into the street
with Diogenes holding on to one leg of his pantaioonsas if Burgess
and Co. were his cooksand had provided that dainty morsel for his
holiday entertainment; Diogenes shaken offrolled over and over in
the dustgot up' againwhirled round the giddy Toots and snapped at
him: and all this turmoil Mr Carkerreigning up his horse and sitting
a little at a distancesaw to his amazementissue from the stately
house of Mr Dombey.

Mr Carker remained watching the discomfited Tootswhen Diogenes
was called inand the door shut: and while that gentlemantaking
refuge in a doorway near at handbound up the torn leg of his
pantaloons with a costly silk handkerchief that had formed part of his
expensive outfit for the advent

'I beg your pardonSir' said Mr Carkerriding upwith his most
propitiatory smile. 'I hope you are not hurt?'

'Oh nothank you' replied Mr Tootsraising his flushed face
'it's of no consequence' Mr Toots would have signifiedif he could
that he liked it very much.

'If the dog's teeth have entered the legSir - ' began Carker
with a display of his own'


'Nothank you' said Mr Toots'it's all quite right. It's very
comfortablethank you.'

'I have the pleasure of knowing Mr Dombey' observed Carker.

'Have you though?' rejoined the blushing Took

'And you will allow meperhapsto apologisein his absence'
said Mr Carkertaking off his hat'for such a misadventureand to
wonder how it can possibly have happened.'

Mr Toots is so much gratified by this politenessand the lucky
chance of making frends with a friend of Mr Dombeythat he pulls out
his card-case which he never loses an opportunity of usingand hands
his name and address to Mr Carker: who responds to that courtesy by
giving him his ownand with that they part.

As Mr Carker picks his way so softly past the houselooking up at
the windowsand trying to make out the pensive face behind the
curtain looking at the children oppositethe rough head of Diogenes
came clambering up close by itand the dogregardless of all
soothingbarks and growlsand makes at him from that heightas ifhe
would spring down and tear him limb from limb.

Well spokenDiso near your Mistress! Anotherand another with
your head upyour eyes flashingand your vexed mouth worrying
itselffor want of him! Anotheras he picks his way along! You have
a good scentDi- catsboycats!

CHAPTER 23.

Florence solitaryand the Midshipman mysterious

Florence lived alone in the great dreary houseand day succeeded
dayand still she lived alone; and the blank walls looked down upon
her with a vacant stareas if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare
her youth and beauty into stone.

No magic dwelling-place in magic storyshut up in the heart of a
thick woodwas ever more solitary and deserted to the fancythan was
her father's mansion in its grim realityas it stood lowering on the
street: always by nightwhen lights were shining from neighbouring
windowsa blot upon its scanty brightness; always by daya frown
upon its never-smiling face.

There were not two dragon sentries keeping ward before the gate of
this aboveas in magic legend are usually found on duty over the
wronged innocence imprisoned; but besides a glowering visagewith its
thin lips parted wickedlythat surveyed all comers from above the
archway of the doorthere was a monstrous fantasy of rusty iron
curling and twisting like a petrifaction of an arbour over threshold
budding in spikes and corkscrew pointsand bearingone on either
sidetwo ominous extinguishersthat seemed to say'Who enter here
leave light behind!' There were no talismanic characters engraven on
the portalbut the house was now so neglected in appearancethat
boys chalked the railings and the pavement - particularly round the
corner where the side wall was - and drew ghosts on the stable door;
and being sometimes driven off by Mr Towlinsonmade portraits of him
in returnwith his ears growing out horizontally from under his hat.
Noise ceased to bewithin the shadow of the roof. The brass band that


came into the street once a weekin the morningnever brayed a note
in at those windows; but all such companydown to a poor little
piping organ of weak intellectwith an imbecile party of automaton
dancerswaltzing in and out at folding-doorsfell off from it with
one accordand shunned it as a hopeless place.

The spell upon it was more wasting than the spell that used to set
enchanted houses sleeping once upon a timebut left their waking
freshness unimpaired. The passive desolation of disuse was everywhere
silently manifest about it. Within doorscurtainsdrooping heavily
lost their old folds and shapesand hung like cumbrous palls.
Hecatombs of furniturestill piled and covered upshrunk like
imprisoned and forgotten menand changed insensibly. Mirrors were dim
as with the breath of years. Patterns of carpets faded and became
perplexed and faintlike the memory of those years' trifling
incidents. Boardsstarting at unwonted footstepscreaked and shook.
Keys rusted in the locks of doors. Damp started on the wallsand as
the stains came outthe pictures seemed to go in and secrete
themselves. Mildew and mould began to lurk in closets. Fungus trees
grew in corners of the cellars. Dust accumulatednobody knew whence
nor how; spidersmothsand grubs were heard of every day. An
exploratory blackbeetle now and then was found immovable upon the
stairsor in an upper roomas wondering how he got there. Rats began
to squeak and scuffle in the night timethrough dark galleries they
mined behind the panelling.

The dreary magnificence of the state roomsseen imperfectly by the
doubtful light admitted through closed shutterswould have answered
well enough for an enchanted abode. Such as the tarnished paws of
gilded lionsstealthily put out from beneath their wrappers; the
marble lineaments of busts on pedestalsfearfully revealing
themselves through veils; the clocks that never told the timeorif
wound up by any chancetold it wrongand struck unearthly numbers
which are not upon the dial; the accidental tinklings among the
pendant lustresmore startling than alarm-bells; the softened sounds
and laggard air that made their way among these objectsand a phantom
crowd of othersshrouded and hoodedand made spectral of shape. But
besidesthere was the great staircasewhere the lord of the place so
rarely set his footand by which his little child had gone up to
Heaven. There were other staircases and passages where no one went for
weeks together; there were two closed rooms associated with dead
members of the familyand with whispered recollections of them; and
to all the house but Florencethere was a gentle figure moving
through the solitude and gloomthat gave to every lifeless thing a
touch of present human interest and wonder

For Florence lived alone in the deserted houseand day succeeded
dayand still she lived aloneand the cold walls looked down upon
her with a vacant stareas if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare
her youth and beauty into stone

The grass began to grow upon the roofand in the crevices of the
basement paving. A scaly crumbling vegetation sprouted round the
window-sills. Fragments of mortar lost their hold upon the insides of
the unused chimneysand came dropping down. The two trees with the
smoky trunks were blighted high upand the withered branches
domineered above the leavesThrough the whole building white had
turned yellowyellow nearly black; and since the time when the poor
lady diedit had slowly become a dark gap in the long monotonous
street.

But Florence bloomed therelike the king's fair daughter in the
story. Her booksher musicand her daily teacherswere her only
real companionsSusan Nipper and Diogenes excepted: of whom the


formerin her attendance on the studies of her young mistressbegan
to grow quite learned herselfwhile the lattersoftened possibly by
the same influenceswould lay his head upon the window-ledgeand
placidly open and shut his eyes upon the streetall through a summer
morning; sometimes pricking up his head to look with great
significance after some noisy dog in a cartwho was barking his way
alongand sometimeswith an exasperated and unaccountable
recollection of his supposed enemy in the neighbourhoodrushing to
the doorwhenceafter a deafening disturbancehe would come jogging
back with a ridiculous complacency that belonged to himand lay his
jaw upon the window-ledge againwith the air of a dog who had done a
public service.

So Florence lived in her wilderness of a homewithin the circle of
her innocent pursuits and thoughtsand nothing harmed her. She could
go down to her father's rooms nowand think of himand suffer her
loving heart humbly to approach himwithout fear of repulse. She
could look upon the objects that had surrounded him in his sorrowand
could nestle near his chairand not dread the glance that she so well
remembered. She could render him such little tokens of her duty and
service' as putting everything in order for him with her own hands
binding little nosegays for tablechanging them as one by one they
withered and he did not come backpreparing something for him every'
dayand leaving some timid mark of her presence near his usual seat.
To-dayit was a little painted stand for his watch; tomorrow she
would be afraid to leave itand would substitute some other trifle of
her making not so likely to attract his eye. Waking in the night
perhapsshe would tremble at the thought of his coming home and
angrily rejecting itand would hurry down with slippered feet and
quickly beating heartand bring it away. At another timeshe would
only lay her face upon his deskand leave a kiss thereand a tear.

Still no one knew of this. Unless the household found it out when
she was not there - and they all held Mr Dombey's rooms in awe - it
was as deep a secret in her breast as what had gone before it.
Florence stole into those rooms at twilightearly in the morningand
at times when meals were served downstairs. And although they were in
every nook the better and the brighter for her careshe entered and
passed out as quietly as any sunbeamopting that she left her light
behind.

Shadowy company attended Florence up and down the echoing house
and sat with her in the dismantled rooms. As if her life were an
enchanted visionthere arose out of her solitude ministering
thoughtsthat made it fanciful and unreal. She imagined so often what
her life would have been if her father could have loved her and she
had been a favourite childthat sometimesfor the momentshe almost
believed it was soandborne on by the current of that pensive
fictionseemed to remember how they had watched her brother in his
grave together; how they had freely shared his heart between them; how
they were united in the dear remembrance of him; how they often spoke
about him yet; and her kind fatherlooking at her gentlytold her of
their common hope and trust in God. At other times she pictured to
herself her mother yet alive. And oh the happiness of falling on her
neckand clinging to her with the love and confidence of all her
soul! And oh the desolation of the solitary house againwith evening
coming onand no one there!

But there was one thoughtscarcely shaped out to herselfyet
fervent and strong within herthat upheld Florence when she strove
and filled her true young heartso sorely triedwith constancy of
purpose. Into her mindas 'into all others contending with the great
affliction of our mortal naturethere had stolen solemn wonderings
and hopesarising in the dim world beyond the present lifeand


murmuringlike faint musicof recognition in the far-off land
between her brother and her mother: of some present consciousness in
both of her: some love and commiseration for her: and some knowledge
of her as she went her way upon the earth. It was a soothing
consolation to Florence to give shelter to these thoughtsuntil one
day - it was soon after she had last seen her father in his own room
late at night - the fancy came upon herthatin weeping for his
alienated heartshe might stir the spirits of the dead against him'
Wildweakchildishas it may have been to think soand to tremble
at the half-formed thoughtit was the impulse of her loving nature;
and from that hour Florence strove against the cruel wound in her
breastand tried to think of him whose hand had made itonly with
hope.

Her father did not know - she held to it from that time - how much
she loved him. She was very youngand had no motherand had never
learnedby some fault or misfortunehow to express to him that she
loved him. She would be patientand would try to gain that art in
timeand win him to a better knowledge of his only child.

This became the purpose of her life. The morning sun shone down
upon the faded houseand found the resolution bright and fresh within
the bosom of its solitary mistressThrough all the duties of the day
it animated her; for Florence hoped that the more she knewand the
more accomplished she becamethe more glad he would be when he came
to know and like her. Sometimes she wonderedwith a swelling heart
and rising tearwhether she was proficient enough in anything to
surprise him when they should become companions. Sometimes she tried
to think if there were any kind of knowledge that would bespeak his
interest more readily than another. Always: at her booksher music
and her work: in her morning walksand in her nightly prayers: she
had her engrossing aim in view. Strange study for a childto learn
the road to a hard parent's heart!

There were many careless loungers through the streetas the summer
evening deepened into nightwho glanced across the road at the sombre
houseand saw the youthful figure at the windowsuch a contrast to
itlooking upward at the stars as they began to shinewho would have
slept the worse if they had known on what design she mused so steady.
The reputation of the mansion as a haunted housewould not have been
the gayer with some humble dwellers elsewherewho were struck by its
external gloom in passing and repassing on their daily avocationsand
so named itif they could have read its story in the darkening face.
But Florence held her sacred purposeunsuspected and unaided: and
studied only how to bring her father to the understanding that she
loved himand made no appeal against him in any wandering thought.

Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted houseand day succeeded
dayand still she lived aloneand the monotonous walls looked down
upon her with a stareas if they had a Gorgon-like intent to stare
her youth and beauty into stone.

Susan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one morningas
she folded and sealed a note she had been writing: and showed in her
looks an approving knowledge of its contents.

'Better late than neverdear Miss Floy' said Susan'and I do
saythat even a visit to them old Skettleses will be a Godsend.'

'It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady SkettlesSusan' returned
Florencewith a mild correction of that young lady's familiar mention
of the family in question'to repeat their invitation so kindly.'

Miss Nipperwho was perhaps the most thoroughgoing partisan on the


face of the earthand who carried her partisanship into all matters
great or smalland perpetually waged war with it against society
screwed up her lips and shook her headas a protest against any
recognition of disinterestedness in the Skettlesesand a plea in bar
that they would have valuable consideration for their kindnessin the
company of Florence.

'They know what they're aboutif ever people did' murmured Miss
Nipperdrawing in her breath 'oh! trust them Skettleses for that!'

'I am not very anxious to go to FulhamSusanI confess' said
Florence thoughtfully: 'but it will be right to go. I think it will be
better.'

'Much better' interposed Susanwith another emphatic shake of her
head.

'And so' said Florence'though I would prefer to have gone when
there was no one thereinstead of in this vacation timewhen it
seems there are some young people staying in the houseI have
thankfully said yes.'

'For which I sayMiss FloyOh be joyful!' returned Susan'Ah!

This last ejaculationwith which Miss Nipper frequently wound up a
sentenceat about that epoch of timewas supposed below the level of
the hall to have a general reference to Mr Dombeyand to be
expressive of a yearning in Miss Nipper to favour that gentleman with
a piece of her mind. But she never explained it; and it hadin
consequencethe charm of mysteryin addition to the advantage of the
sharpest expression.

'How long it is before we have any news of WalterSusan!' observed
Florenceafter a moment's silence.

'Long indeedMiss Floy!' replied her maid. 'And Perch saidwhen
he came just now to see for letters - but what signifies what he
says!' exclaimed Susanreddening and breaking off. 'Much he knows
about it!'

Florence raised her eyes quicklyand a flush overspread her face.

'If I hadn't' said Susan Nipperevidently struggling with some
latent anxiety and alarmand looking full at her young mistress
while endeavouring to work herself into a state of resentment with the
unoffending Mr Perch's image'if I hadn't more manliness than that
insipidest of his sexI'd never take pride in my hair againbut turn
it up behind my earsand wear coarse capswithout a bit of border
until death released me from my insignificance. I may not be a Amazon
Miss Floyand wouldn't so demean myself by such disfigurementbut
anyways I'm not a giver upI hope'

'Give up! What?' cried Florencewith a face of terror.

'WhynothingMiss' said Susan. 'Good graciousnothing! It's
only that wet curl-paper of a manPerchthat anyone might almost
make away withwith a touchand really it would be a blessed event
for all parties if someone would take pity on himand would have the
goodness!'

'Does he give up the shipSusan?' inquired Florencevery pale.

'NoMiss' returned Susan'I should like to see' him make so bold
as do it to my face! NoMissbut he goes 'on about some bothering


ginger that Mr Walter was to send to Mrs Perchand shakes his dismal
headand says he hopes it may be coming; anyhowhe saysit can't
come now in time for the intended occasionbut may do for nextwhich
really' said Miss Nipperwith aggravated scorn'puts me out of
patience with the manfor though I can bear a great dealI am not a
camelneither am I' added Susanafter a moment's consideration'if
I know myselfa dromedary neither.'

'What else does he saySusan?' inquired Florenceearnestly.
'Won't you tell me?'

'As if I wouldn't tell you anythingMiss Floyand everything!'
said Susan. 'Whynothing Misshe says that there begins to be a
general talk about the shipand that they have never had a ship on
that voyage half so long unheard ofand that the Captain's wife was
at the office yesterdayand seemed a little put out about itbut
anyone could say thatwe knew nearly that before.'

'I must visit Walter's uncle' said Florencehurriedly'before I
leave home. I will go and see him this morning. Let us walk there
directlySusan.

Miss Nipper having nothing to urge against the proposalbut being
perfectly acquiescentthey were soon equippedand in the streets
and on their way towards the little Midshipman.

The state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to Captain
Cuttle'son the day when Brogley the broker came into possessionand
when there seemed to him to be an execution in the very steepleswas
pretty much the same as that in which Florence now took her way to
Uncle Sol's; with this differencethat Florence suffered the added
pain of thinking that she had beenperhapsthe innocent occasion of
involving Walter in periland all to whom he was dearherself
includedin an agony of suspense. For the restuncertainty and
danger seemed written upon everything. The weathercocks on spires and
housetops were mysterious with hints of stormy windand pointedlike
so many ghostly fingersout to dangerous seaswhere fragments of
great wrecks were driftingperhapsand helpless men were rocked upon
them into a sleep as deep as the unfathomable waters. When Florence
came into the Cityand passed gentlemen who were talking together
she dreaded to hear them speaking of the shipan'd saying it was
lost. Pictures and prints of vessels fighting with the rolling waves
filled her with alarm. The smoke and cloudsthough moving gently
moved too fast for her apprehensionsand made her fear there was a
tempest blowing at that moment on the ocean.

Susan Nipper may or may not have been affected similarlybut
having her attention much engaged in struggles with boyswhenever
there was any press of people - forbetween that grade of human kind
and herselfthere was some natural animosity that invariably broke
outwhenever they came together - it would seem that she had not much
leisure on the road for intellectual operations

Arriving in good time abreast of the wooden Midshipman on the
opposite side of the wayand waiting for an opportunity to cross the
streetthey were a little surprised at first to seeat the
Instrument-maker's doora round-headed ladwith his chubby face
addressed towards the skywhoas they looked at himsuddenly thrust
into his capacious mouth two fingers of each handand with the
assistance of that machinery whistledwith astonishing shrillnessto
some pigeons at a considerable elevation in the air.

'Mrs Richards's eldestMiss!' said Susan'and the worrit of Mrs
Richards's life!'


As Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated prospects of
her son and heirFlorence was prepared for the meeting: soa
favourable moment presenting itselfthey both hastened across
without any further contemplation of Mrs Richards's bane' That
sporting characterunconscious of their approachagain whistled with
his utmost mightand then yelled in a rapture of excitement'Strays!
Whip! Strays!' which identification had such an effect upon the
conscience-stricken pigeonsthat instead of going direct to some town
in the North of Englandas appeared to have been their original
intentionthey began to wheel and falter; whereupon Mrs Richards's
first born pierced them with another whistleand again yelledin a
voice that rose above the turmoil of the street'Strays! Who~oop!
Strays!'

From this transporthe was abruptly recalled to terrestrial
objectsby a poke from Miss Nipperwhich sent him into the shop

'Is this the way you show your penitencewhen Mrs Richards has
been fretting for you months and months?' said Susanfollowing the
poke. 'Where's Mr Gills?'

Robwho smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss Nipper when
he saw Florence followingput his knuckles to his hairin honour of
the latterand said to the formerthat Mr Gills was out'

Fetch him home' said Miss Nipperwith authority'and say that my
young lady's here.'

'I don't know where he's gone' said Rob.

'Is that your penitence?' cried Susanwith stinging sharpness.

'Why how can I go and fetch him when I don't know where to go?'
whimpered the baited Rob. 'How can you be so unreasonable?'

'Did Mr Gills say when he should be home?' asked Florence.

'YesMiss' replied Robwith another application of his knuckles
to his hair. 'He said he should be home early in the afternoon; in
about a couple of hours from nowMiss.'

'Is he very anxious about his nephew?' inquired Susan.

'YesMiss' returned Robpreferring to address himself to
Florence and slighting Nipper; 'I should say he wasvery much so. He
ain't indoorsMissnot a quarter of an hour together. He can't
settle in one place five minutes. He goes aboutlike a - just like a
stray' said Robstooping to get a glimpse of the pigeons through the
windowand checking himselfwith his fingers half-way to his mouth
on the verge of another whistle.

'Do you know a friend of Mr Gillscalled Captain Cuttle?' inquired
Florenceafter a moment's reflection.

'Him with a hookMiss?' rejoined Robwith an illustrative twist
of his left hand. YesMiss. He was here the day before yesterday.'

'Has he not been here since?' asked Susan.

'NoMiss' returned Robstill addressing his reply to Florence.

'Perhaps Walter's Uncle has gone thereSusan' observed Florence
turning to her.


'To Captain Cuttle'sMiss?' interposed Rob; 'nohe's not gone
thereMiss. Because he left particular word that if Captain Cuttle
calledI should tell him how surprised he wasnot to have seen him
yesterdayand should make him stop till he came back'

'Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives?' asked Florence.

Rob replied in the affirmativeand turning to a greasy parchment
book on the shop deskread the address aloud.

Florence again turned to her maid and took counsel with her in a
low voicewhile Rob the round-eyedmindful of his patron's secret
chargelooked on and listened. Florence proposed that they kould go
to Captain Cuttle's house; hear from his own lipswhat he thought of
the absence of any tidings ofthe Son and Heir; and bring himif they
couldto comfort Uncle Sol. Susan at first objected slightlyon the
score of distance; but a hackney-coach being mentioned by her
mistresswithdrew that oppositionand gave in her assent. There were
some minutes of discussion between them before they came to this
conclusionduring which the staring Rob paid close attention to both
speakersand inclined his ear to each by turnsas if he were
appointed arbitrator of the argument.

In timeRob was despatched for a coachthe visitors keeping shop
meanwhile; and when he brought itthey got into itleaving word for
Uncle Sol that they would be sure to call againon their way back.
Rob having stared after the coach until it was as invisible as the
pigeons had now becomesat down behind the desk with a most assiduous
demeanour; and in order that he might forget nothing of what had
transpiredmade notes of it on various small scraps of paperwith a
vast expenditure of ink. There was no danger of these documents
betraying anythingif accidentally lost; for long before a word was
dryit became as profound a mystery to Robas if he had had no part
whatever in its production.

While he was yet busy with these laboursthe hackney-coachafter
encountering unheard-of difficulties from swivel-bridgessoft roads
impassable canalscaravans of caskssettlements of scarlet-beans and
little wash-housesand many such obstacles abounding in that country
stopped at the corner of Brig Place. Alighting hereFlorence and
Susan Nipper walked down the streetand sought out the abode of
Captain Cuttle.

It happened by evil chance to be one of Mrs MacStinger's great
cleaning days. On these occasionsMrs MacStinger was knocked up by
the policeman at a quarter before three in the morningand rarely
such before twelve o'clock next night. The chief object of this
institution appeared to bethat Mrs MacStinger should move all the
furniture into the back garden at early dawnwalk about the house in
pattens all dayand move the furniture back again after dark. These
ceremonies greatly fluttered those doves the young MacStingerswho
were not only unable at such times to find any resting-place for the
soles of their feetbut generally came in for a good deal of pecking
from the maternal bird during the progress of the solemnities.

At the moment when Florence and Susan Nipper presented themselves
at Mrs MacStinger's doorthat worthy but redoubtable female was in
the act of conveying Alexander MacStingeraged two years and three
monthsalong the passagefor forcible deposition in a sitting
posture on the street pavement: Alexander being black in the face with
holding his breath after punishmentand a cool paving-stone being
usually found to act as a powerful restorative in such cases.


The feelings of Mrs MacStingeras a woman and a motherwere
outraged by the look of pity for Alexander which she observed on
Florence's face. ThereforeMrs MacStinger asserting those finest
emotions of our naturein preference to weakly gratifying her
curiosityshook and buffeted Alexander both before and during the
application of the paving-stoneand took no further notice of the
strangers.

'I beg your pardonMa'am' said Florencewhen the child had found
his breath againand was using it. 'Is this Captain Cuttle's house?'

'No' said Mrs MacStinger.

'Not Number Nine?' asked Florencehesitating.

'Who said it wasn't Number Nine?' said Mrs MacStinger.

Susan Nipper instantly struck inand begged to inquire what Mrs
MacStinger meant by thatand if she knew whom she was talking to.

Mrs MacStinger in retortlooked at her all over. 'What do you want
with Captain CuttleI should wish to know?' said Mrs MacStinger.

'Should you? Then I'm sorry that you won't be satisfied' returned
Miss Nipper.

'HushSusan! If you please!' said Florence. 'Perhaps you can have
the goodness to tell us where Captain Cutlle livesMa'am as he don't
live here.'

'Who says he don't live here?' retorted the implacable MacStinger.
'I said it wasn't Cap'en Cuttle's house - and it ain't his house -and
forbid itthat it ever should be his house - for Cap'en Cuttle don't
know how to keep a house - and don't deserve to have a house - it's my
house - and when I let the upper floor to Cap'en Cuttleoh I do a
thankless thingand cast pearls before swine!'

Mrs MacStinger pitched her voice for the upper windows in offering
these remarksand cracked off each clause sharply by itself as if
from a rifle possessing an infinity of barrels. After the last shot
the Captain's voice was heard to sayin feeble remonstrance from his
own room'Steady below!'

'Since you want Cap'en Cuttlethere he is!' said Mrs MacStinger
with an angry motion of her hand. On Florence making bold to enter
without any more parleyand on Susan followingMrs MacStinger
recommenced her pedestrian exercise in pattensand Alexander
MacStinger (still on the paving-stone)who had stopped in his crying
to attend to the conversationbegan to wail againentertaining
himself during that dismal performancewhich was quite mechanical
with a general survey of the prospectterminating in the
hackney-coach.

The Captain in his own apartment was sitting with his hands in his
pockets and his legs drawn up under his chairon a very small
desolate islandlying about midway in an ocean of soap and water. The
Captain's windows had been cleanedthe walls had been cleanedthe
stove had been cleanedand everything the stove exceptedwas wet
and shining with soft soap and sand: the smell of which dry-saltery
impregnated the air. In the midst of the dreary scenethe Captain
cast away upon his islandlooked round on the waste of waters with a
rueful countenanceand seemed waiting for some friendly bark to come
that wayand take him off.


But when the Captaindirecting his forlorn visage towards the
doorsaw Florence appear with her maidno words can describe his
astonishment. Mrs MacStinger's eloquence having rendered all other
sounds but imperfectly distinguishablehe had looked for no rarer
visitor than the potboy or the milkman; whereforewhen Florence
appearedand coming to the confines of the islandput her hand in
histhe Captain stood upaghastas if he supposed herfor the
momentto be some young member of the Flying Dutchman's family.'

Instantly recovering his self-possessionhoweverthe Captain's
first care was to place her on dry landwhich he happily
accomplishedwith one motion of his arm. Issuing forththenupon
the mainCaptain Cuttle took Miss Nipper round the waistand bore
her to the island also. Captain Cuttlethenwith great respect and
admirationraised the hand of Florence to his lipsand standing off
a little(for the island was not large enough for three)beamed on her
from the soap and water like a new description of Triton.

'You are amazed to see usI am sure'said Florencewith a smile.

The inexpressibly gratified Captain kissed his hook in replyand
growledas if a choice and delicate compliment were included in the
words'Stand by! Stand by!'

'But I couldn't rest' said Florence'without coming to ask you
what you think about dear Walter - who is my brother now- and whether
there is anything to fearand whether you will not go and console his
poor Uncle every dayuntil we have some intelligence of him?'

At these words Captain Cuttleas by an involuntary gesture
clapped his hand to his headon which the hard glazed hat was not
and looked discomfited.

'Have you any fears for Walter's safety?' inquired Florencefrom
whose face the Captain (so enraptured he was with it) could not take
his eyes: while shein her turnlooked earnestly at himto be
assured of the sincerity of his reply.

'NoHeart's-delight' said Captain Cuttle'I am not afeard. Wal'r
is a lad as'll go through a deal o' hard weather. Wal'r is a lad as'll
bring as much success to that 'ere brig as a lad is capable on.
Wal'r' said the Captainhis eyes glistening with the praise of his
young friendand his hook raised to announce a beautiful quotation
'is what you may call a out'ard and visible sign of an in'ard and
spirited graspand when found make a note of.'

Florencewho did not quite understand thisthough the Captain
evidentllty thought it full of meaningand highly satisfactory
mildly looked to him for something more.

'I am not afeardmy Heart's-delight' resumed the Captain
'There's been most uncommon bad weather in them latitudesthere's no
denyin'and they have drove and drove and been beat offmay be
t'other side the world. But the ship's a good shipand the lad's a
good lad; and it ain't easythank the Lord' the Captain made a
little bow'to break up hearts of oakwhether they're in brigs or
buzzums. Here we have 'em both wayswhich is bringing it up with a
round turnand so I ain't a bit afeard as yet.'

'As yet?' repeated Florence.

'Not a bit' returned the Captainkissing his iron hand; 'and
afore I begin to bemy Hearts-delightWal'r will have wrote home
from the islandor from some port or anotherand made all taut and


shipsahape'And with regard to old Sol Gillshere the Captain became
solemn'who I'll stand byand not desert until death do us partand
when the stormy winds do blowdo blowdo blow - overhaul the
Catechism' said the Captain parenthetically'and there you'll find
them expressions - if it would console Sol Gills to have the opinion
of a seafaring man as has got a mind equal to any undertaking that he
puts it alongside ofand as was all but smashed in his'prenticeship
and of which the name is Bunsbythat 'ere man shall give him such an
opinion in his own parlour as'll stun him. Ah!' said Captain Cuttle
vauntingly'as much as if he'd gone and knocked his head again a
door!'

'Let us take this ~gentleman to see himand let us hear what he
says' cried Florence. 'Will you go with us now? We have a coach
here.'

Again the Captain clapped his hand to his headon which the hard
glazed hat was notand looked discomfited. But at this instant a most
remarkable phenomenon occurred. The door openingwithout any note of
preparationand apparently of itselfthe hard glazed hat in question
skimmed into the room like a birdand alighted heavily at the
Captain's feet. The door then shut as violently as it had openedand
nothIng ensued in explanation of the prodigy.

Captain Cuttle picked up his hatand having turned it over with a
look of interest and welcomebegan to polish it on his sleeve' While
doing sothe Captain eyed his visitors intentlyand said in a low
voice

'You see I should have bore down on Sol Gills yesterdayand this
morningbut she - she took it away and kep it. That's the long and
short ofthe subject.'

'Who didfor goodness sake?' asked Susan Nipper.

'The lady of the housemy dear'returned the Captainin a gruff
whisperand making signals of secrecy.'We had some words about the
swabbing of these here planksand she - In short' said the Captain
eyeing the doorand relieving himself with a long breath'she
stopped my liberty.'

'Oh! I wish she had me to deal with!' said Susanreddening with
the energy of the wish. 'I'd stop her!'

'Would youdo youmy dear?' rejoined the Captainshaking his
head doubtfullybut regarding the desperate courage of the fair
aspirant with obvious admiration. 'I don't know. It's difficult
navigation. She's very hard to carry on withmy dear. You never can
tell how she'll headyou see. She's full one minuteand round upon
you next. And when she in a tartar' said the Captainwith the
perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. There was nothing but a
whistle emphatic enough for the conclusion of the sentenceso the
Captain whistled tremulously. After which he again shook his headand
recurring to his admiration of Miss Nipper's devoted braverytimidly
repeated'Would youdo you thinkmy dear?'

Susan only replied with a bridling smilebut that was so very full
of defiancethat there is no knowing how long Captain Cuttle might
have stood entranced in its contemplationif Florence in her anxiety
had not again proposed their immediately resorting to the oracular
Bunsby. Thus reminded of his dutyCaptain Cuttle Put on the glazed
hat firmlytook up another knobby stickwith which he had supplied
the place of that one given to Walterand offering his arm to
Florenceprepared to cut his way through the enemy.


It turned outhoweverthat Mrs MacStinger had already changed her
courseand that she headedas the Captain had remarked she often
didin quite a new direction. For when they got downstairsthey
found that exemplary woman beating the mats on the doorstepswith
Alexanderstill upon the paving-stonedimly looming through a fog of
dust; and so absorbed was Mrs MacStinger in her household occupation
that when Captain Cuttle and his visitors passedshe beat the harder
and neither by word nor gesture showed any consciousness of their
vicinity. The Captain was so well pleased with this easy escape although
the effect of the door-mats on him was like a copious
administration of snuffand made him sneeze until the tears ran down
his face - that he could hardly believe his good fortune; but more
than oncebetween the door and the hackney-coachlooked over his
shoulderwith an obvious apprehension of Mrs MacStinger's giving
chase yet.

Howeverthey got to the corner of Brig Place without any
molestation from that terrible fire-ship; and the Captain mounting the
coach-box - for his gallantry would not allow him to ride inside with
the ladiesthough besought to do so - piloted the driver on his
course for Captain Bunsby's vesselwhich was called the Cautious
Claraand was lying hard by Ratcliffe.

Arrived at the wharf off which this great commander's ship was
jammed in among some five hundred companionswhose tangled rigging
looked like monstrous cobwebs half swept downCaptain Cuttle appeared
at the coach-windowand invited Florence and Miss Nipper to accompany
him on board; observing that Bunsby was to the last degree
soft-hearted in respect of ladiesand that nothing would so much tend
to bring his expansive intellect into a state of harmony as their
presentation to the Cautious Clara.

Florence readily consented; and the Captaintaking her little hand
in his prodigious palmled herwith a mixed expression of patronage
paternityprideand ceremonythat was pleasant to seeover several
very dirty decksuntilcoming to the Clarathey found that cautious
craft (which lay outside the tier) with her gangway removedand
half-a-dozen feet of river interposed between herself and her nearest
neighbour. It appearedfrom Captain Cuttle's explanationthat the
great Bunsbylike himselfwas cruelly treated by his landladyand
that when her usage of him for the time being was so hard that he
could bear it no longerhe set this gulf between them as a last
resource.

'Clara a-hoy!' cried the Captainputting a hand to each side of
his mouth.

'A-hoy!' cried a boylike the Captain's echotumbling up from
below.

'Bunsby aboard?' cried the Captainhailing the boy in a stentorian
voiceas if he were half-a-mile off instead of two yards.

'Ayay!' cried the boyin the same tone.

The boy then shoved out a plank to Captain Cuttlewho adjusted it
carefullyand led Florence across: returning presently for Miss
Nipper. So they stood upon the deck of the Cautious Clarain whose
standing riggingdivers fluttering articles of dress were curingin
company with a few tongues and some mackerel.

Immediately there appearedcoming slowly up above the bulk-head of
the cabinanother bulk-head 'humanand very large - with one


stationary eye in the mahogany faceand one revolving oneon the
principle of some lighthouses. This head was decorated with shaggy
hairlike oakum' which had no governing inclination towards the
northeastwestor southbut inclined to all four quarters of the
compassand to every point upon it. The head was followed by a
perfect desert of chinand by a shirt-collar and neckerchiefand by
a dreadnought pilot-coatand by a pair of dreadnought pilot-trousers
whereof the waistband was so very broad and highthat it became a
succedaneum for a waistcoat: being ornamented near the wearer's
breastbone with some massive wooden buttonslike backgammon men. As
the lower portions of these pantaloons became revealedBunsby stood
confessed; his hands in their pocketswhich were of vast size; and
his gaze directednot to Captain Cuttle or the ladiesbut the
mast-head.

The profound appearance of this philosopherwho was bulky and
strongand on whose extremely red face an expression of taciturnity
sat enthronednot inconsistent with his characterin which that
quality was proudly conspicuousalmost daunted Captain Cuttlethough
on familiar terms with him. Whispering to Florence that Bunsby had
never in his life expressed surpriseand was considered not to know
what it meantthe Captain watched him as he eyed his mast-headand
afterwards swept the horizon; and when the revolving eye seemed to be
coming round in his directionsaid:

'Bunsbymy ladhow fares it?'

A deepgruffhusky utterancewhich seemed to have no connexion
with Bunsbyand certainly had not the least effect upon his face
replied'Ayayshipmethow goes it?' At the same time Bunsby's
right hand and armemerging from a pocketshook the Captain'sand
went back again.

'Bunsby' said the Captainstriking home at once'here you are; a
man of mindand a man as can give an opinion. Here's a young lady as
wants to take that opinionin regard of my friend Wal'r; likewise my
t'other friendSol Gillswhich is a character for you to come within
hail ofbeing a man of sciencewhich is the mother of inwentionand
knows no law. Bunsbywill you wearto oblige meand come along with
us?'

The great commanderwho seemed by expression of his visage to be
always on the look-out for something in the extremest distance' and to
have no ocular knowledge of any anng' within ten milesmade no reply
whatever.

'Here is a man' said the Captainaddressing himself to his fair
auditorsand indicating the commander with his outstretched hook
'that has fell downmore than any man alive; that has had more
accidents happen to his own self than the Seamen's Hospital to all
hands; that took as many spars and bars and bolts about the outside of
his head when he was youngas you'd want a order for on Chatham-yard
to build a pleasure yacht with; and yet that his opinions in that way
it's my belieffor there ain't nothing like 'em afloat or ashore.'

The stolid commander appeared by a very slight vibration in his
elbowsto express some satisfitction in this encomium; but if his
face had been as distant as his gaze wasit could hardIy have
enlightened the beholders less in reference to anything that was
passing in his thoughts.

'Shipmate' said Bunsbyall of a suddenand stooping down to look
out under some interposing spar'what'll the ladies drink?'


Captain Cuttlewhose delicacy was shocked by such an inquiry in
connection with Florencedrew the sage asideand seeming to explain
in his earaccompanied him below; wherethat he might not take
offencethe Captain drank a dram himself' which Florence and Susan
glancing down the open skylightsaw the sagewith difficulty finding
room for himself between his berth and a very little brass fireplace
serve out for self and friend. They soon reappeared on deckand
Captain Cuttletriumphing in the success of his enterpriseconducted
Florence back to the coachwhile Bunsby followedescorting Miss
Nipperwhom he hugged upon the way (much to that young lady's
indignation) with his pilot-coated armlike a blue bear.

The Captain put his oracle insideand gloried so much in having
secured himand having got that mind into a hackney-coachthat he
could not refrain from often peeping in at Florence through the little
window behind the driverand testifiing his delight in smilesand
also in taps upon his foreheadto hint to her that the brain of
Bunsby was hard at it' In the meantimeBunsbystill hugging Miss
Nipper (for his friendthe Captainhad not exaggerated the softness
of his heart)uniformily preserved his gravity of deportmentand
showed no other consciousness of her or anything.

Uncle Solwho had come homereceived them at the doorand
ushered them immediately into the little back parlour: strangely
altered by the absence of Walter. On the tableand about the room
were the charts and maps on which the heavy-hearted Instrument-maker
had again and again tracked the missing vessel across the seaand on
whichwith a pair of compasses that he still had in his handhe had
been measuringa minute beforehow far she must have drivento have
driven here or there: and trying to demonstrate that a long time must
elapse before hope was exhausted.

'Whether she can have run' said Uncle Sollooking wistfully over
the chart; 'but nothat's almost impossible or whether she can have
been forced by stress of weather- but that's not reasonably likely.
Or whether there is any hope she so far changed her course as - but
even I can hardly hope that!' With such broken suggestionspoor old
Uncle Sol roamed over the great sheet before himand could not find a
speck of hopeful probability in it large enough to set one small point
of the compasses upon.

Florence saw immediately - it would have been difficult to help
seeing - that there was a singularindescribable change in the old
manand that while his manner was far more restless and unsettled
than usualthere was yet a curiouscontradictory decision in it
that perplexed her very much. She fancied once that he spoke wildly
and at random; for on her saying she regretted not to have seen him
when she had been there before that morninghe at first replied that
he had been to see herand directly afterwards seemed to wish to
recall that answer.

'You have been to see me?' said Florence. 'To-day?'

'Yesmy dear young lady' returned Uncle Sollooking at her and
away from her in a confused manner. 'I wished to see you with my own
eyesand to hear you with my own earsonce more before - ' There he
stopped.

'Before when? Before what?' said Florenceputting her hand upon
his arm.

'Did I say "before?"' replied old Sol. 'If I didI must have meant
before we should have news of my dear boy.'


'You are not well' said Florencetenderly. 'You have been so very
anxious I am sure you are not well.'

'I am as well' returned the old manshutting up his right hand
and holding it out to show her: 'as well and firm as any man at my
time of life can hope to be. See! It's steady. Is its master not as
capable of resolution and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so.
We shall see.'

There was that in his manner more than in his wordsthough they
remained with her toowhich impressed Florence so muchthat she
would have confided her uneasiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment
if the Captain had not seized that moment for expounding the state of
circumstanceon which the opinion of the sagacious Bunsby was
requestedand entreating that profound authority to deliver the same.

Bunsbywhose eye continued to be addressed to somewhere about the
half-way house between London and Gravesendtwo or three times put
out his rough right armas seeking to wind it for inspiration round
the fair form of Miss Nipper; but that young female having withdrawn
herselfin displeasureto the opposite side of the tablethe soft
heart of the Commander of the Cautious Clara met with no response to
its impulses. After sundry failures in this wisethe Commander
addressing himself to nobodythus spake; or rather the voice within
him said of its own accordand quite independent of himselfas if he
were possessed by a gruff spirit:

'My name's Jack Bunsby!'

'He was christened John' cried the delighted Captain Cuttle. 'Hear
him!'

'And what I says' pursued the voiceafter some deliberation'I
stands to.

The Captainwith Florence on his armnodded at the auditoryand
seemed to say'Now he's coming out. This is what I meant when I
brought him.'

'Whereby' proceeded the voice'why not? If sowhat odds? Can any
man say otherwise? No. Awast then!'

When it had pursued its train of argument to this pointthe voice
stoppedand rested. It then proceeded very slowlythus:

'Do I believe that this here Son and Heir's gone downmy lads?
Mayhap. Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen' George's
Channelmaking for the Downswhat's right ahead of him? The
Goodwins. He isn't foroed to run upon the Goodwinsbut he may. The
bearings of this observation lays in the application on it. That ain't
no part of my duty. Awast thenkeep a bright look-out for'ardand
good luck to you!'

The voice here went out of the back parlour and into the street
taking the Commander of the Cautious Clara with itand accompanying
him on board again with all convenient expeditionwhere he
immediately turned inand refreshed his mind with a nap.

The students of the sage's preceptsleft to their own application
of his wisdom - upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bunsby
tripodas it is perchance of some other oracular stools - looked upon
one another in a little uncertainty; while Rob the Grinderwho had
taken the innocent freedom of peering inand listeningthrough the
skylight in the roofcame softly down from the leadsin a state of


very dense confusion. Captain Cuttlehoweverwhose admiration of
Bunsby wasif possibleenhanced by the splendid manner in which he
had justified his reputation and come through this solemn reference
proceeded to explain that Bunsby meant nothing but confidence; that
Bunsby had no misgivings; and that such an opinion as that man had
givencoming from such a mind as hiswas Hope's own anchorwith
good roads to cast it in. Florence endeavoured to believe that the
Captain was right; but the Nipperwith her arms tight foldedshook
her head in resolute denialand had no more trust m Bunsby than in Mr
Perch himself.

The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty much where he
had found himfor he still went roaming about the watery world
compasses in handand discovering no rest for them. It was in
pursuance of a whisper in his ear from Florencewhile the old man was
absorbed in this pursuitthat Captain Cuttle laid his heavy hand upon
his shoulder.

'What cheerSol Gills?' cried the Captainheartily.

'But so-soNed' returned the Instrument-maker. 'I have been
rememberingall this afternoonthat on the very day when my boy
entered Dombey's Houseand came home late to dinnersitting just
there where you standwe talked of storm and shipwreckand I could
hardly turn him from the subject'

But meeting the eyes of Florencewhich were fixed with earnest
scrutiny upon his facethe old man stopped and smiled.

'Stand byold friend!' cried the Captain. 'Look alive! I tell you
whatSol Gills; arter I've convoyed Heart's-delight safe home' here
the Captain kissed his hook to Florence'I'll come back and take you
in tow for the rest of this blessed day. You'll come and eat your
dinner along with meSolsomewheres or another.'

'Not to-dayNed!' said the old man quicklyand appearing to be
unaccountably startled by the proposition. 'Not to-day. I couldn't do
it!'

'Why not?' returned the Captaingazing at him in astonishment.

'I - I have so much to do. I - I mean to think ofand arrange. I
couldn't do itNedindeed. I must go out againand be aloneand
turn my mind to many things to-day.'

The Captain looked at the Instrument-makerand looked at Florence
and again at the Instrument-maker. 'To-morrowthen' he suggestedat
last.

'Yesyes. To-morrow' said the old man. 'Think of me to-morrow.
Say to-morrow.'

'I shall come here earlymindSol Gills' stipulated the Captain.

'Yesyes. The first thing tomorrow morning' said old Sol; 'and
now good-byeNed Cuttleand God bless you!'

Squeezing both the Captain's handswith uncommon fervouras he
said itthe old man turned to Florencefolded hers in his ownand
put them to his lips; then hurried her out to the coach with very
singular precipitation. Altogetherhe made such an effect on Captain
Cuttle that the Captain lingered behindand instructed Rob to be
particularly gentle and attentive to his master until the morning:
which injunction he strengthened with the payment of one shilling


downand the promise of another sixpence before noon next day. This
kind office performedCaptain Cuttlewho considered himself the
natural and lawful body-guard of Florencemounted the box with a
mighty sense of his trustand escorted her home. At partinghe
assured her that he would stand by Sol Gillsclose and true; and once
again inquired of Susan Nipperunable to forget her gallant words in
reference to Mrs MacStinger'Would youdo you think my dear
though?'

When the desolate house had closed upon the twothe Captain's
thoughts reverted to the old Instrument-makerand he felt
uncomfortable. Thereforeinstead of going homehe walked up and down
the street several timesandeking out his leisure until evening
dined late at a certain angular little tavern in the Citywith a
public parlour like a wedgeto which glazed hats much resorted. The
Captain's principal intention was to pass Sol Gills'safter darkand
look in through the window: which he didThe parlour door stood open
and he could see his old friend writing busily and steadily at the
table withinwhile the little Midshipmanalready sheltered from the
night dewswatched him from the counter; under which Rob the Grinder
made his own bedpreparatory to shutting the shop. Reassured by the
tranquillity that reigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner
the Captain headed for Brig Placeresolving to weigh anchor betimes
in the morning.

CHAPTER 24.

The Study of a Loving Heart

Sir Barnet and Lady Skettlesvery good peopleresided in a pretty
villa at Fulhamon the banks of the Thames; which was one of the most
desirable residences in the world when a rowing-match happened to be
going pastbut had its little inconveniences at other timesamong
which may be enumerated the occasional appearance of the river in the
drawing-roomand the contemporaneous disappearance of the lawn and
shrubbery.

Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly
through an antique gold snuffboxand a ponderous silk
pocket-kerchiefwhich he had an imposing manner of drawing out of his
pocket like a banner and using with both hands at once. Sir Barnet's
object in life was constantly to extend the range of his acquaintance.
Like a heavy body dropped into water - not to disparage so worthy a
gentleman by the comparison - it was in the nature of things that Sir
Barnet must spread an ever widening circle about himuntil there was
no room left. Orlike a sound in airthe vibration of which
according to the speculation of an ingenious modern philosophermay
go on travelling for ever through the interminable fields of space
nothing but coming to the end of his moral tether could stop Sir
Barnet Skettles in his voyage of discovery through the social system.

Sir Barnet was proud of making people acquainted with people. He
liked the thing for its own sakeand it advanced his favourite object
too. For exampleif Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a
law recruitor a country gentlemanand ensnared him to his
hospitable villaSir Barnet would say to himon the morning after
his arrival'Nowmy dear Siris there anybody you would like to
know? Who is there you would wish to meet? Do you take any interest in
writing peopleor in painting or sculpturing peopleor in acting
peopleor in anything of that sort?' Possibly the patient answered


yesand mentioned somebodyof whom Sir Barnet had no more personal
knowledge than of Ptolemy the Great. Sir Barnet repliedthat nothing
on earth was easieras he knew him very well: immediately called on
the aforesaid somebodyleft his cardwrote a short note- 'My dear
Sir - penalty of your eminent position - friend at my house naturally
desirous - Lady Skettles and myself participate - trust that genius
being superior to ceremoniesyou will do us the distinguished favour
of giving us the pleasure' etcetc. - and so killed a brace of birds
with one stonedead as door-nails.

With the snuff-box and banner in full forceSir Barnet Skettles
propounded his usual inquiry to Florence on the first morning of her
visit. When Florence thanked himand said there was no one in
particular whom she desired to seeit was natural she should think
with a pangof poor lost Walter. When Sir Barnet Skettlesurging his
kind offersaid'My dear Miss Dombeyare you sure you can remember
no one whom your good Papa - to whom I beg you present the best
compliments of myself and Lady Skettles when you write - might wish
you to know?' it was naturalperhapsthat her poor head should droop
a littleand that her voice should tremble as it softly answered in
the negative.

Skettles Juniormuch stiffened as to his cravatand sobered down
as to his spirits' was at home for the holidaysand appeared to feel
himself aggrieved by the solicitude of his excellent mother that he
should be attentive to Florence. Another and a deeper injury under
which the soul of young Barnet chafedwas the company of Dr and Mrs
Blimberwho had been invited on a visit to the paternal roof-tree
and of whom the young gentleman often said he would have preferred
their passing the vacation at Jericho.

'Is there anybody you can suggest nowDoctor Blimber?' said Sir
Barnet Skettlesturning to that gentleman.

'You are very kindSir Barnet' returned Doctor Blimber. 'Really I
am not aware that there isin particular. I like to know my
fellow-men in generalSir Barnet. What does Terence say? Anyone who
is the parent of a son is interesting to me.

'Has Mrs Blimber any wish to see any remarkable person?' asked Sir
Barnetcourteously.

Mrs Blimber repliedwith a sweet smile and a shake of her sky-blue
capthat if Sir Barnet could have made her known to Ciceroshe would
have troubled him; but such an introduction not being feasibleand
she already enjoying the friendship of himself and his amiable lady
and possessing with the Doctor her husband their joint confidence in
regard to their dear son - here young Barnet was observed to curl his
nose - she asked no more.

Sir Barnet was fainunder these circumstancesto content himself
for the time with the company assembled. Florence was glad of that;
for she had a study to pursue among themand it lay too near her
heartand was too precious and momentousto yield to any other
interest.

There were some children staying in the house. Children who were as
frank and happy with fathers and with mothers as those rosy faces
opposite home. Children who had no restraint upon their love. and
freely showed it. Florence sought to learn their secret; sought to
find out what it was she had missed; what simple art they knewand
she knew not; how she could be taught by them to show her father that
she loved himand to win his love again.


Many a day did Florence thoughtfully observe these children. On
many a bright morning did she leave her bed when the glorious sun
roseand walking up and down upon the river's bank' before anyone in
the house was stirringlook up at the windows of their roomsand
think of themasleepso gently tended and affectionately thought of.
Florence would feel more lonely thenthan in the great house all
alone; and would think sometimes that she was better there than here
and that there was greater peace in hiding herself than in mingling
with others of her ageand finding how unlike them all she was. But
attentive to her studythough it touched her to the quick at every
little leaf she turned in the hard bookFlorence remained among them
and tried with patient hopeto gain the knowledge that she wearied
for.

Ah! how to gain it! how to know the charm in its beginning! There
were daughters herewho rose up in the morningand lay down to rest
at nightpossessed of fathers' hearts already. They had no repulse to
overcomeno coldness to dreadno frown to smooth away. As the
morning advancedand the windows opened one by oneand the dew began
to dry upon the flowers and and youthful feet began to move upon the
lawnFlorenceglancing round at the bright facesthought what was
there she could learn from these children? It was too late to learn
from them; each could approach her father fearlesslyand put up her
lips to meet the ready kissand wind her arm about the neck that bent
down to caress her. She could not begin by being so bold. Oh! could it
be that there was less and less hope as she studied more and more!

She remembered wellthat even the old woman who had robbed her
when a little child - whose image and whose houseand all she had
said and donewere stamped upon her recollectionwith the enduring
sharpness of a fearful impression made at that early period of life had
spoken fondly of her daughterand how terribly even she had cried
out in the pain of hopeless separation from her child But her own
mothershe would think againwhen she recalled thishad loved her
well. Thensometimeswhen her thoughts reverted swiftly to the void
between herself and her fatherFlorence would trembleand the tears
would start upon her faceas she pictured to herself her mother
living onand coming also to dislike herbecause of her wanting the
unknown grace that should conciliate that father naturallyand had
never done so from her cradle She knew that this imagination did wrong
to her mother's memoryand had no truth in itor base to rest upon;
and yet she tried so hard to justify himand to find the whole blame
in herselfthat she could not resist its passinglike a wild cloud
through the distance of her mind.

There came among the other visitorssoon after Florenceone
beautiful girlthree or four years younger than shewho was an
orphan childand who was accompanied by her aunta grey-haired lady
who spoke much to Florenceand who greatly liked (but that they all
did) to hear her sing of an eveningand would always sit near her at
that timewith motherly interest. They had only been two days in the
housewhen Florencebeing in an arbour in the garden one warm
morningmusingly observant of a youthful group upon the turfthrough
some intervening boughs- and wreathing flowers for the head of one
little creature among them who was the pet and plaything of the rest
heard this same lady and her niecein pacing up and down a sheltered
nook close byspeak of herself.

'Is Florence an orphan like meaunt?' said the child.

'Nomy love. She has no motherbut her father is living.'

'Is she in mourning for her poor Mamanow?' inquired the child
quickly.


'No; for her only brother.'

'Has she no other brother?'

'None.'

'No sister?'

'None'

'I am veryvery sorry!' said the little girL

As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boatsand had been
silent in the meantimeFlorencewho had risen when she heard her
nameand had gathered up her flowers to go and meet themthat they
might know of her being within hearingresumed her seat and work
expecting to hear no more; but the conversation recommenced next
moment.

'Florence is a favourite with everyone hereand deserves to beI
am sure' said the childearnestly. 'Where is her Papa?'

The aunt repliedafter a moment's pausethat she did not know.
Her tone of voice arrested Florencewho had started from her seat
again; and held her fastened to the spotwith her work hastily caught
up to her bosomand her two hands saving it from being scattered on
the ground.

'He is in EnglandI hopeaunt?' said the child.

'I believe so. Yes; I know he isindeed.'

'Has he ever been here?'

'I believe not. No.'

'Is he coming here to see her?'

'I believe not.

'Is he lameor blindor illaunt?' asked the child.

The flowers that Florence held to her breast began to fall when she
heard those wordsso wonderingly spoke She held them closer; and her
face hung down upon them'

'Kate' said the ladyafter another moment of silence'I will
tell you the whole truth about Florence as I have heard itand
believe it to be. Tell no one elsemy dearbecause it may be little
known hereand your doing so would give her pain.'

'I never will!' exclaimed the child.

'I know you never will' returned the lady. 'I can trust you as
myself. I fear thenKatethat Florence's father cares little for
hervery seldom sees hernever was kind to her in her lifeand now
quite shuns her and avoids her. She would love him dearly if he would
suffer herbut he will not - though for no fault of hers; and she is
greatly to be loved and pitied by all gentle hearts.'

More of the flowers that Florence held fell scattering on the
ground; those that remained were wetbut not with dew; and her face
dropped upon her laden hands.


'Poor Florence! Deargood Florence!' cried the child.

'Do you know why I have told you thisKate?' said the lady.

'That I may be very kind to herand take great care to try to
please her. Is that the reasonaunt?'

'Partly' said the lady'but not all. Though we see her so
cheerful; with a pleasant smile for everyone; ready to oblige us all
and bearing her part in every amusement here: she can hardly be quite
happydo you think she canKate?'

'I am afraid not' said the little girl.

'And you can understand' pursued the lady'why her observation of
children who have parents who are fond of themand proud of them like
many herejust now - should make her sorrowful in secret?'

'Yesdear aunt' said the child'I understand that very well.
Poor Florence!'

More flowers strayed upon the groundand those she yet held to her
breast trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them.

'My Kate' said the ladywhose voice was seriousbut very calm
and sweetand had so impressed Florence from the first moment of her
hearing it'of all the youthful people hereyou are her natural and
harmless friend; you have not the innocent meansthat happier
children have - '

'There are none happieraunt!' exclaimed the childwho seemed to
cling about her.

'As other children havedear Kateof reminding her of her
misfortune. Therefore I would have youwhen you try to be her little
friendtry all the more for thatand feel that the bereavement you
sustained - thank Heaven! before you knew its weight- gives you claim
and hold upon poor Florence.'

'But I am not without a parent's loveauntand I never have
been' said the child'with you.'

'However that may bemy dear' returned the lady'your misfortune
is a lighter one than Florence's; for not an orphan in the wide world
can be so deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living
parent's love.'

The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust; the empty hands
were spread upon the face; and orphaned Florenceshrinking down upon
the groundwept long and bitterly.

But true of heart and resolute in her good purposeFlorence held
to it as her dying mother held by her upon the day that gave Paul
life. He did not know how much she loved him. However long the time in
comingand however slow the intervalshe must try to bring that
knowledge to her father's heart one day or other. Meantime she must be
careful in no thoughtless wordor lookor burst of feeling awakened
by any chance circumstanceto complain against himor to give
occasion for these whispers to his prejudice.

Even in the response she made the orphan childto whom she was
attracted stronglyand whom she had such occasion to remember
Florence was mindful of him' If she singled her out too plainly


(Florence thought) from among the restshe would confirm - in one
mind certainly: perhaps in more - the belief that he was cruel and
unnatural. Her own delight was no set-off to this'What she had
overheard was a reasonnot for soothing herselfbut for saving him;
and Florence did itin pursuance of the study of her heart.

She did so always. If a book were read aloudand there were
anything in the story that pointed at an unkind fathershe was in
pain for their application of it to him; not for herself. So with any
trifle of an interlude that was actedor picture that was shownor
game that was playedamong them. The occasions for such tenderness
towards him were so manythat her mind misgave her oftenit would
indeed be better to go back to the old houseand live again within
the shadow of its dull wallsundisturbed. How few who saw sweet
Florencein her spring of womanhoodthe modest little queen of those
small revelsimagined what a load of sacred care lay heavy in her
breast! How few of those who stiffened in her father's freezing
atmospheresuspected what a heap of fiery coals was piled upon his
head!

Florence pursued her study patientlyandfailing to acquire the
secret of the nameless grace she soughtamong the youthful company
who were assembled in the houseoften walked out alonein the early
morningamong the children of the poor. But still she found them all
too far advanced to learn from. They had won their household places
long agoand did not stand withoutas she didwith a bar across the
door.

There was one man whom she several times observed at work very
earlyand often with a girl of about her own age seated near him' He
was a very poor manwho seemed to have no regular employmentbut now
went roaming about the banks of the river when the tide was low
looking out for bits and scraps in the mud; and now worked at the
unpromising little patch of garden-ground before his cottage; and now
tinkered up a miserable old boat that belonged to him; or did some job
of that kind for a neighbouras chance occurred. Whatever the man's
labourthe girl was never employed; but satwhen she was with him
in a listlessmoping stateand idle.

Florence had often wished to speak to this man; yet she had never
taken courage to do soas he made no movement towards her. But one
morning when she happened to come upon him suddenlyfrom a by-path
among some pollard willows which terminated in the little shelving
piece of stony ground that lay between his dwelling and the water
where he was bending over a fire he had made to caulk the old boat
which was lying bottom upwardsclose byhe raised his head at the
sound of her footstepand gave her Good morning.

'Good morning' said Florenceapproaching nearer'you are at work
early.'

'I'd be glad to be often at work earlierMissif I had work to
do.'

'Is it so hard to get?' asked Florence.

'I find it so' replied the man.

Florence glanced to where the girl was sittingdrawn together
with her elbows on her kneesand her chin on her handsand said:

'Is that your daughter?'

He raised his head quicklyand looking towards the girl with a


brightened facenodded to herand said 'Yes' Florence looked
towards her tooand gave her a kind salutation; the girl muttered
something in returnungraciously and sullenly.

'Is she in want of employment also?' said Florence.

The man shook his head. 'NoMiss' he said. 'I work for both'

'Are there only you twothen?' inquired Florence.

'Only us two' said the man. 'Her mother his been dead these ten
year. Martha!' lifted up his head againand whistled to her) 'won't
you say a word to the pretty young lady?'

The girl made an impatient gesture with her cowering shouldersand
turned her head another way. Uglymisshapenpeevish
ill-conditionedraggeddirty - but beloved! Oh yes! Florence had
seen her father's look towards herand she knew whose look it had no
likeness to.

'I'm afraid she's worse this morningmy poor girl!' said the man
suspending his workand contemplating his ill-favoured childwith a
compassion that was the more tender for being rougher.

'She is illthen!' said Florence

The man drew a deep sigh 'I don't believe my Martha's had five
short days' good health' he answeredlooking at her still'in as
many long years'

'Ay! and more than thatJohn' said a neighbourwho had come down
to help him with the boat.

'More than thatyou saydo you?' cried the otherpushing back
his battered hatand drawing his hand across his forehead. 'Very
like. It seems a longlong time.'

'And the more the time' pursued the neighbour'the more you've
favoured and humoured herJohntill she's got to be a burden to
herselfand everybody else'

'Not to me' said her fatherfalling to his work. 'Not to me.'

Florence could feel - who better? - how truly he spoke. She drew a
little closer to himand would have been glad to touch his rugged
handand thank him for his goodness to the miserable object that he
looked upon with eyes so different from any other man's.

'Who would favour my poor girl - to call it favouring - if I
didn't?' said the father.

'Ayay' cried the neighbour. 'In reasonJohn. But you! You rob
yourself to give to her. You bind yourself hand and foot on her
account. You make your life miserable along of her. And what does she
care! You don't believe she knows it?'

The father lifted up his head againand whistled to her. Martha
made the same impatient gesture with her crouching shouldersin
reply; and he was glad and happy.

'Only for thatMiss' said the neighbourwith a smilein which
there was more of secret sympathy than he expressed; 'only to get
thathe never lets her out of his sight!'


'Because the day'll comeand has been coming a long while'
observed the otherbending low over his work'when to get half as
much from that unfort'nate child of mine - to get the trembling of a
fingeror the waving of a hair - would be to raise the dead.'

Florence softly put some money near his hand on the old boatand
left him.

And now Florence began to thinkif she were to fall illif she
were to fade like her dear brotherwould he then know that she had
loved him; would she then grow dear to him; would he come to her
bedsidewhen she was weak and dim of sightand take her into his
embraceand cancel all the past? Would he so forgive herin that
changed conditionfor not having been able to lay open her childish
heart to himas to make it easy to relate with what emotions she had
gone out of his room that night; what she had meant to say if she had
had the courage; and how she had endeavouredafterwardsto learn the
way she never knew in infancy?

Yesshe thought if she were dyinghe would relent. She thought
that if she layserene and not unwilling to departupon the bed that
was curtained round with recollections of their darling boyhe would
be touched homeand would say'Dear Florencelive for meand we
will love each other as we might have doneand be as happy as we
might have been these many years!' She thought that if she heard such
words from himand had her arms clasped round him' she could answer
with a smile'It is too late for anything but this; I never could be
happierdear father!' and so leave himwith a blessing on her lips.

The golden water she remembered on the wallappeared to Florence
in the light of such reflectionsonly as a current flowing on to
restand to a region where the dear onesgone beforewere waiting
hand in hand; and often when she looked upon the darker river rippling
at her feetshe thought with awful wonderbut not terrorof that
river which her brother had so often said was bearing him away.

The father and his sick daughter were yet fresh in Florence's mind
andindeedthat incident was not a week oldwhen Sir Barnet and his
lady going out walking in the lanes one afternoonproposed to her to
bear them company. Florence readily consentingLady Skettles ordered
out young Barnet as a matter of course. For nothing delighted Lady
Skettles so muchas beholding her eldest son with Florence on his
arm.

Barnetto say the truthappeared to entertain an opposite
sentiment on the subjectand on such occasions frequently expressed
himself audiblythough indefinitelyin reference to 'a parcel of
girls.' As it was not easy to ruffle her sweet temperhowever
Florence generally reconciled the young gentleman to his fate after a
few minutesand they strolled on amicably: Lady Skettles and Sir
Barnet followingin a state of perfect complacency and high
gratification.

This was the order of procedure on the afternoon in question; and
Florence had almost succeeded in overruling the present objections of
Skettles Junior to his destinywhen a gentleman on horseback came
riding bylooked at them earnestly as he passeddrew in his rein
wheeled roundand came riding back againhat in hand.

The gentleman had looked particularly at Florence; and when the
little party stoppedon his riding backhe bowed to herbefore
saluting Sir Barnet and his lady. Florence had no remembrance of
having ever seen himbut she started involuntarily when he came near
herand drew back.


'My horse is perfectly quietI assure you' said the gentleman.

It was not thatbut something in the gentleman himself - Florence
could not have said what - that made her recoil as if she had been
stung.

'I have the honour to address Miss DombeyI believe?' said the
gentlemanwith a most persuasive smile. On Florence inclining her
headhe added'My name is Carker. I can hardly hope to be remembered
by Miss Dombeyexcept by name. Carker.'

Florencesensible of a strange inclination to shiverthough the
day was hotpresented him to her host and hostess; by whom he was
very graciously received.

'I beg pardon' said Mr Carker'a thousand times! But I am going
down tomorrow morning to Mr Dombeyat Leamingtonand if Miss Dombey
can entrust me with any commissionneed I say how very happy I shall
be?'

Sir Barnet immediately divining that Florence would desire to write
a letter to her fatherproposed to returnand besought Mr Carker to
come home and dine in his riding gear. Mr Carker had the misfortune to
be engaged to dinnerbut if Miss Dombey wished to writenothing
would delight him more than to accompany them backand to be her
faithful slave in waiting as long as she pleased. As he said this with
his widest smileand bent down close to her to pat his horse's neck
Florence meeting his eyessawrather than heard him say'There is
no news of the ship!'

Confusedfrightenedshrinking from himand not even sure that he
had said those wordsfor he seemed to have shown them to her in some
extraordinary manner through his smileinstead of uttering them
Florence faintly said that she was obliged to himbut she would not
write; she had nothing to say.

'Nothing to sendMiss Dombey?' said the man of teeth.

'Nothing' said Florence'but my - but my dear love- if you
please.'

Disturbed as Florence wasshe raised her eyes to his face with an
imploring and expressive lookthat plainly besought himif he knew which
he as plainly did - that any message between her and her father
was an uncommon chargebut that one most of allto spare her. Mr
Carker smiled and bowed lowand being charged by Sir Barnet with the
best compliments of himself and Lady Skettlestook his leaveand
rode away: leaving a favourable impression on that worthy couple.
Florence was seized with such a shudder as he wentthat Sir Barnet
adopting the popular superstitionsupposed somebody was passing over
her grave. Mr Carker turning a corneron the instantlooked back
and bowedand disappearedas if he rode off to the churchyard
straightto do it.

CHAPTER 25.

Strange News of Uncle Sol

Captain Cuttlethough no sluggarddid not turn out so early on
the morning after he had seen Sol Gillsthrough the shop-window


writing in the parlourwith the Midshipman upon the counterand Rob
the Grinder making up his bed below itbut that the clocks struck six
as he raised himself on his elbowand took a survey of his little
chamber. The Captain's eyes must have done severe dutyif he usually
opened them as wide on awaking as he did that morning; and were but
roughly rewarded for their vigilanceif he generally rubbed them half
as hard. But the occasion was no common onefor Rob the Grinder had
certainly never stood in the doorway of Captain Cuttle's room before
and in it he stood thenpanting at the Captainwith a flushed and
touzled air of Bed about himthat greatly heightened both his colour
and expression.

'Holloa!' roared the Captain. 'What's the matter?'

Before Rob could stammer a word in answerCaptain Cuttle turned
outall in a heapand covered the boy's mouth with his hand.

'Steadymy lad' said the Captain'don't ye speak a word to me as
yet!'

The Captainlooking at his visitor in great consternationgently
shouldered him into the next roomafter laying this injunction upon
him; and disappearing for a few momentsforthwith returned in the
blue suit. Holding up his hand in token of the injunction not yet
being taken offCaptain Cuttle walked up to the cupboardand poured
himself out a dram; a counterpart of which he handed to the messenger.
The Captain then stood himself up in a corneragainst the wallas if
to forestall the possibility of being knocked backwards by the
communication that was to be made to him; and having swallowed his
liquorwith his eyes fixed on the messengerand his face as pale as
his face could berequested him to 'heave ahead.'

'Do you meantell youCaptain?' asked Robwho had been greatly
impressed by these precautions

'Ay!' said the Captain.

'WellSir' said Rob'I ain't got much to tell. But look here!'

Rob produced a bundle of keys. The Captain surveyed themremained
in his cornerand surveyed the messenger.

'And look here!' pursued Rob.

The boy produced a sealed packetwhich Captain Cuttle stared at as
he had stared at the keys.

'When I woke this morningCaptain' said Rob'which was about a
quarter after fiveI found these on my pillow. The shop-door was
unbolted and unlockedand Mr Gills gone.'

'Gone!' roared the Captain.

'FlowedSir' returned Rob.

The Captain's voice was so tremendousand he came out of his
corner with such way on himthat Rob retreated before him into
another corner: holding out the keys and packetto prevent himself
from being run down.

'"For Captain Cuttle Sir,' cried Rob, 'is on the keys, and on the
packet too. Upon my word and honour, Captain Cuttle, I don't know
anything more about it. I wish I may die if I do! Here's a sitiwation
for a lad that's just got a sitiwation,' cried the unfortunate


Grinder, screwing his cuff into his face: 'his master bolted with his
place, and him blamed for it!'

These lamentations had reference to Captain Cuttle's gaze, or
rather glare, which was full of vague suspicions, threatenings, and
denunciations. Taking the proffered packet from his hand, the Captain
opened it and read as follows:


'My dear Ned Cuttle. Enclosed is my will!' The Captain turned it
over, with a doubtful look - 'and Testament - Where's the Testament?'
said the Captain, instantly impeaching the ill-fated Grinder. 'What
have you done with that, my lad?'

'I never see it,' whimpered Rob. 'Don't keep on suspecting an
innocent lad, Captain. I never touched the Testament.'

Captain Cuttle shook his head, implying that somebody must be made
answerable for it; and gravely proceeded:

'Which don't break open for a year, or until you have decisive
intelligence of my dear Walter, who is dear to you, Ned, too, I am
sure.' The Captain paused and shook his head in some emotion; then, as
a re-establishment of his dignity in this trying position, looked with
exceeding sternness at the Grinder. 'If you should never hear of me,
or see me more, Ned, remember an old friend as he will remember you to
the last - kindly; and at least until the period I have mentioned has
expired, keep a home in the old place for Walter. There are no debts,
the loan from Dombey's House is paid off and all my keys I send with
this. Keep this quiet, and make no inquiry for me; it is useless. So
no more, dear Ned, from your true friend, Solomon Gills.' The Captain
took a long breath, and then read these words written below: 'The boy
Robwell recommendedas I told youfrom Dombey's House. If all else
should come to the hammertake careNedof the little Midshipman."'

To convey to posterity any idea of the manner in which the Captain
after turning this letter over and overand reading it a score of
timessat down in his chairand held a court-martial on the subject
in his own mindwould require the united genius of all the great men
whodiscarding their own untoward dayshave determined to go down to
posterityand have never got there. At first the Captain was too much
confounded and distressed to think of anything but the letter itself;
and even when his thoughts began to glance upon the various attendant
factsthey mightperhapsas well have occupied themselves with
their former themefor any light they reflected on them. In this
state of mindCaptain Cuttle having the Grinder before the courtand
no one elsefound it a great relief to decidegenerallythat he was
an object of suspicion: which the Captain so clearly expressed in his
visagethat Rob remonstrated.

'Ohdon'tCaptain!' cried the Grinder. 'I wonder how you can!
what have I done to be looked atlike that?'

'My lad' said Captain Cuttle'don't you sing out afore you're
hurt. And don't you commit yourselfwhatever you do.'

'I haven't been and committed nothingCaptain!' answered Rob.

'Keep her freethen' said the Captainimpressively'and ride
easy.

With a deep sense of the responsibility imposed upon him' and the
necessity of thoroughly fathoming this mysterious affair as became a
man in his relations with the partiesCaptain Cuttle resolved to go
down and examine the premisesand to keep the Grinder with him.


Considering that youth as under arrest at presentthe Captain was in
some doubt whether it might not be expedient to handcuff himor tie
his ankles togetheror attach a weight to his legs; but not being
clear as to the legality of such formalitiesthe Captain decided
merely to hold him by the shoulder all the wayand knock him down if
he made any objection.

Howeverhe made noneand consequently got to the
Instrument-maker's house without being placed under any more stringent
restraint. As the shutters were not yet taken downthe Captain's
first care was to have the shop opened; and when the daylight was
freely admittedhe proceededwith its aidto further investigation.

The Captain's first care was to establish himself in a chair in the
shopas President of the solemn tribunal that was sitting within him;
and to require Rob to lie down in his bed under the countershow
exactly where he discovered the keys and packet when he awokehow he
found the door when he went to try ithow he started off to Brig
Place - cautiously preventing the latter imitation from being carried
farther than the threshold - and so on to the end of the chapter. When
all this had been done several timesthe Captain shook his head and
seemed to think the matter had a bad look.

Nextthe Captainwith some indistinct idea of finding a body
instituted a strict search over the whole house; groping in the
cellars with a lighted candlethrusting his hook behind doors
bringing his head into violent contact with beamsand covering
himself with cobwebs. Mounting up to the old man's bed-roomthey
found that he had not been in bed on the previous nightbut had
merely lain down on the coverletas was evident from the impression
yet remaining there.

'And I thinkCaptain' said Roblooking round the room'that
when Mr Gills was going in and out so oftenthese last few dayshe
was taking little things awaypiecemealnot to attract attention.'

'Ay!' said the Captainmysteriously. 'Why somy lad?'

'Why' returned Roblooking about'I don't see his shaving
tackle. Nor his brushesCaptain. Nor no shirts. Nor yet his shoes.'

As each of these articles was mentionedCaptain Cuttle took
particular notice of the corresponding department of the Grinderlest
he should appear to have been in recent useor should prove to be in
present possession thereof. But Rob had no occasion to shavewas not
brushedand wore the clothes he had on for a long time pastbeyond
all possibility of a mistake.

'And what should you say' said the Captain - 'not committing
yourself - about his time of sheering off? Hey?'

'WhyI thinkCaptain' returned Rob'that he must have gone
pretty soon after I began to snore.'

'What o'clock was that?' said the Captainprepared to be very
particular about the exact time.

'How can I tellCaptain!' answered Rob. 'I only know that I'm a
heavy sleeper at firstand a light one towards morning; and if Mr
Gills had come through the shop near daybreakthough ever so much on
tiptoeI'm pretty sure I should have heard him shut the door at all
events.

On mature consideration of this evidenceCaptain Cuttle began to


think that the Instrument-maker must have vanished of his own accord;
to which logical conclusion he was assisted by the letter addressed to
himselfwhichas being undeniably in the old man's handwriting
would seemwith no great forcingto bear the constructionthat he
arranged of his own will to goand so went. The Captain had next to
consider where and why? and as there was no way whatsoever that he saw
to the solution of the first difficultyhe confined his meditations
to the second.

Remembering the old man's curious mannerand the farewell he had
taken of him; unaccountably fervent at the timebut quite
intelligible now: a terrible apprehension strengthened on the Captain
thatoverpowered by his anxieties and regrets for Walterhe had been
driven to commit suicide. Unequal to the wear and tear of daily life
as he had often professed himself to beand shaken as he no doubt was
by the uncertainty and deferred hope he had undergoneit seemed no
violently strained misgivingbut only too probable. Free from debt
and with no fear for his personal libertyor the seizure of his
goodswhat else but such a state of madness could have hurried him
away alone and secretly? As to his carrying some apparel with himif
he had really done so - and they were not even sure of that - he might
have done sothe Captain arguedto prevent inquiryto distract
attention from his probable fateor to ease the very mind that was
now revolving all these possibilities. Suchreduced into plain
languageand condensed within a small compasswas the final result
and substance of Captain Cuttle's deliberations: which took a long
time to arrive at this passand werelike some more public
deliberationsvery discursive and disorderly.

Dejected and despondent in the extremeCaptain Cuttle felt it just
to release Rob from the arrest in which he had placed himand to
enlarge himsubject to a kind of honourable inspection which he still
resolved to exercise; and having hired a manfrom Brogley the Broker
to sit in the shop during their absencethe Captaintaking Rob with
himissued forth upon a dismal quest after the mortal remains of
Solomon Gills.

Not a station-houseor bone-houseor work-house in the metropolis
escaped a visitation from the hard glazed hat. Along the wharves
among the shipping on the bank-sideup the riverdown the river
herethereeverywhereit went gleaming where men were thickest
like the hero's helmet in an epic battle. For a whole week the Captain
read of all the found and missing people in all the newspapers and
handbillsand went forth on expeditions at all hours of the day to
identify Solomon Gillsin poor little ship-boys who had fallen
overboardand in tall foreigners with dark beards who had taken
poison - 'to make sure' Captain Cuttle said'that it wam't him.' It
is a sure thing that it never wasand that the good Captain had no
other satisfaction.

Captain Cuttle at last abandoned these attempts as hopelessand
set himself to consider what was to be done next. After several new
perusals of his poor friend's letterhe considered that the
maintenance of' a home in the old place for Walter' was the primary
duty imposed upon him. Thereforethe Captain's decision wasthat he
would keep house on the premises of Solomon Gills himselfand would
go into the instrument-businessand see what came of it.

But as this step involved the relinquishment of his apartments at
Mrs MacStinger'sand he knew that resolute woman would never hear of
his deserting themthe Captain took the desperate determination of
running away.

'Nowlook ye heremy lad' said the Captain to Robwhen he had


matured this notable scheme'to-morrowI shan't be found in this
here roadstead till night - not till arter midnight p'rhaps. But you
keep watch till you hear me knockand the moment you doturn-toand
open the door.'

'Very goodCaptain' said Rob.

'You'll continue to be rated on these here books' pursued the
Captain condescendingly'and I don't say but what you may get
promotionif you and me should pull together with a will. But the
moment you hear me knock to-morrow nightwhatever time it isturn-to
and show yourself smart with the door.'

'I'll be sure to do itCaptain' replied Rob.

'Because you understand' resumed the Captaincoming back again to
enforce this charge upon his mind'there may befor anything I can
saya chase; and I might be took while I was waitingif you didn't
show yourself smart with the door.'

Rob again assured the Captain that he would be prompt and wakeful;
and the Captain having made this prudent arrangementwent home to Mrs
MacStinger's for the last time.

The sense the Captain had of its being the last timeand of the
awful purpose hidden beneath his blue waistcoatinspired him with
such a mortal dread of Mrs MacStingerthat the sound of that lady's
foot downstairs at any time of the daywas sufficient to throw him
into a fit of trembling. It fell outtoothat Mrs MacStinger was in
a charming temper - mild and placid as a house- lamb; and Captain
Cuttle's conscience suffered terrible twingeswhen she came up to
inquire if she could cook him nothing for his dinner.

'A nice small kidney-pudding nowCap'en Cuttle' said his
landlady: 'or a sheep's heart. Don't mind my trouble.'

'No thank'eeMa'am' returned the Captain.

'Have a roast fowl' said Mrs MacStinger'with a bit of weal
stuffing and some egg sauce. ComeCap'en Cuttle! Give yourself a
little treat!'

'No thank'eeMa'am' returned the Captain very humbly.

'I'm sure you're out of sortsand want to be stimulated' said Mrs
MacStinger. 'Why not havefor once in a waya bottle of sherry
wine?'

'WellMa'am' rejoined the Captain'if you'd be so good as take a
glass or twoI think I would try that. Would you do me the favour
Ma'am' said the Captaintorn to pieces by his conscience'to accept
a quarter's rent ahead?'

'And why soCap'en Cuttle?' retorted Mrs MacStinger - sharplyas
the Captain thought.

The Captain was frightened to dead 'If you would Ma'am' he said
with submission'it would oblige me. I can't keep my money very well.
It pays itself out. I should take it kind if you'd comply.'

'WellCap'en Cuttle' said the unconscious MacStingerrubbing her
hands'you can do as you please. It's not for mewith my familyto
refuseno more than it is to ask'


'And would youMa'am' said the Captaintaking down the tin
canister in which he kept his cash' from the top shelf of the
cupboard'be so good as offer eighteen-pence a-piece to the little
family all round? If you could make it convenientMa'amto pass the
word presently for them children to come for'ardin a bodyI should
be glad to see 'em'

These innocent MacStingers were so many daggers to the Captain's
breastwhen they appeared in a swarmand tore at him with the
confiding trustfulness he so little deserved. The eye of Alexander
MacStingerwho had been his favouritewas insupportable to the
Captain; the voice of Juliana MacStingerwho was the picture of her
mothermade a coward of him.

Captain Cuttle kept up appearancesneverthelesstolerably well
and for an hour or two was very hardly used and roughly handled by the
young MacStingers: who in their childish frolicsdid a little damage
also to the glazed hatby sitting in ittwo at a timeas in a nest
and drumming on the inside of the crown with their shoes. At length
the Captain sorrowfully dismissed them: taking leave of these cherubs
with the poignant remorse and grief of a man who was going to
execution.

In the silence of nightthe Captain packed up his heavier property
in a chestwhich he lockedintending to leave it therein all
probability for everbut on the forlorn chance of one day finding a
man sufficiently bold and desperate to come and ask for it. Of his
lighter necessariesthe Captain made a bundle; and disposed his plate
about his personready for flight. At the hour of midnightwhen Brig
Place was buried in slumberand Mrs MacStinger was lulled in sweet
oblivionwith her infants around herthe guilty Captainstealing
down on tiptoein the darkopened the doorclosed it softly after
himand took to his heels

Pursued by the image of Mrs MacStinger springing out of bedand
regardless of costumefollowing and bringing him back; pursued also
by a consciousness of his enormous crime; Captain Cuttle held on at a
great paceand allowed no grass to grow under his feetbetween Brig
Place and the Instrument-maker's door. It opened when he knocked - for
Rob was on the watch - and when it was bolted and locked behind him
Captain Cuttle felt comparatively safe.

'Whew!' cried the Captainlooking round him. 'It's a breather!'

'Nothing the matteris thereCaptain?' cried the gaping Rob.

'Nono!' said Captain Cuttleafter changing colourand listening
to a passing footstep in the street. 'But mind yemy lad; if any
ladyexcept either of them two as you see t'other dayever comes and
asks for Cap'en Cuttlebe sure to report no person of that name
knownnor never heard of here; observe them orderswill you?'

'I'll take careCaptain' returned Rob.

'You might say - if you liked' hesitated the Captain'that you'd
read in the paper that a Cap'en of that name was gone to Australia
emigratingalong with a whole ship's complement of people as had all
swore never to come back no more.

Rob nodded his understanding of these instructions; and Captain
Cuttle promising to make a man of himif he obeyed ordersdismissed
himyawningto his bed under the counterand went aloft to the
chamber of Solomon Gills.


What the Captain suffered next daywhenever a bonnet passedor
how often he darted out of the shop to elude imaginary MacStingers
and sought safety in the atticcannot be told. But to avoid the
fatigues attendant on this means of self-preservationthe Captain
curtained the glass door of communication between the shop and
parlouron the inside; fitted a key to it from the bunch that had
been sent to him; and cut a small hole of espial in the wall. The
advantage of this fortification is obvious. On a bonnet appearingthe
Captain instantly slipped into his garrisonlocked himself upand
took a secret observation of the enemy. Finding it a false alarmthe
Captain instantly slipped out again. And the bonnets in the street
were so very numerousand alarms were so inseparable from their
appearancethat the Captain was almost incessantly slipping in and
out all day long.

Captain Cuttle found timehoweverin the midst of this fatiguing
service to inspect the stock; in connexion with which he had the
general idea (very laborious to Rob) that too much friction could not
be bestowed upon itand that it could not be made too bright. He also
ticketed a few attractive-looking articles at a ventureat prices
ranging from ten shillings to fifty poundsand exposed them in the
window to the great astonishment of the public.

After effecting these improvementsCaptain Cuttlesurrounded by
the instrumentsbegan to feel scientific: and looked up at the stars
at nightthrough the skylightwhen he was smoking his pipe in the
little back parlour before going to bedas if he had established a
kind of property in them. As a tradesman in the Citytoohe began to
have an interest in the Lord Mayorand the Sheriffsand in Public
Companies; and felt bound to read the quotations of the Funds every
daythough he was unable to make outon any principle of navigation
what the figures meantand could have very well dispensed with the
fractions. Florencethe Captain waited onwith his strange news of
Uncle Solimmediately after taking possession of the Midshipman; but
she was away from home. So the Captain sat himself down in his altered
station of lifewith no company but Rob the Grinder; and losing count
of timeas men do when great changes come upon themthought musingly
of Walterand of Solomon Gillsand even of Mrs MacStinger herself
as among the things that had been.

CHAPTER 26.

Shadows of the Past and Future

'Your most obedientSir' said the Major. 'DammeSira friend of
my friend Dombey's is a friend of mineand I'm glad to see you!'

'I am infinitely obligedCarker' explained Mr Dombey'to Major
Bagstockfor his company and conversation. 'Major Bagstock has
rendered me great serviceCarker.'

Mr Carker the Managerhat in handjust arrived at Leamingtonand
just introduced to the Majorshowed the Major his whole double range
of teethand trusted he might take the liberty of thanking him with
all his heart for having effected so great an Improvement in Mr
Dombey's looks and spirits'

'By GadSir' said the Majorin reply'there are no thanks due
to mefor it's a give and take affair. A great creature like our
friend DombeySir' said the Majorlowering his voicebut not


lowering it so much as to render it inaudible to that gentleman
'cannot help improving and exalting his friends. He strengthens and
invigorates a manSirdoes Dombeyin his moral nature.'

Mr Carker snapped at the expression. In his moral nature. Exactly.
The very words he had been on the point of suggesting.

'But when my friend DombeySir' added the Major'talks to you of
Major BagstockI must crave leave to set him and you right. He means
plain JoeSir - Joey B. - Josh. Bagstock - Joseph- rough and tough
Old J.Sir. At your service.'

Mr Carker's excessively friendly inclinations towards the Major
and Mr Carker's admiration of his roughnesstoughnessand plainness
gleamed out of every tooth in Mr Carker's head.

'And nowSir' said the Major'you and Dombey have the devil's
own amount of business to talk over.'

'By no meansMajor' observed Mr Dombey.

'Dombey' said the Majordefiantly'I know better; a man of your
mark - the Colossus of commerce - is not to be interrupted. Your
moments are precious. We shall meet at dinner-time. In the interval
old Joseph will be scarce. The dinner-hour is a sharp sevenMr
Carker.'

With thatthe Majorgreatly swollen as to his facewithdrew; but
immediately putting in his head at the door againsaid:

'I beg your pardon. Dombeyhave you any message to 'em?'

Mr Dombey in some embarrassmentand not without a glance at the
courteous keeper of his business confidenceentrusted the Major with
his compliments.

'By the LordSir' said the Major'you must make it something
warmer than thator old Joe will be far from welcome.'

'Regards thenif you willMajor' returned Mr Dombey.

'DammeSir' said the Majorshaking his shoulders and his great
cheeks jocularly: 'make it something warmer than that.'

'What you pleasethenMajor' observed Mr Dombey.

'Our friend is slySirslySirde-vilish sly' said the Major
staring round the door at Carker. 'So is Bagstock.' But stopping in
the midst of a chuckleand drawing himself up to his full heightthe
Major solemnly exclaimedas he struck himself on the chest'Dombey!
I envy your feelings. God bless you!' and withdrew.

'You must have found the gentleman a great resource' said Carker
following him with his teeth.

'Very great indeed' said Mr Dombey.

'He has friends hereno doubt' pursued Carker. 'I perceivefrom
what he has saidthat you go into society here. Do you know' smiling
horribly'I am so very glad that you go into society!'

Mr Dombey acknowledged this display of interest on the part of his
second in commandby twirling his watch-chainand slightly moving
his head.


'You were formed for society' said Carker. 'Of all the men I know
you are the best adaptedby nature and by positionfor society. Do
you know I have been frequently amazed that you should have held it at
arm's length so long!'

'I have had my reasonsCarker. I have been aloneand indifferent
to it. But you have great social qualifications yourselfand are the
more likely to have been surprised.'

'Oh! I!' returned the otherwith ready self-disparagement. 'It's
quite another matter in the case of a man like me. I don't come into
comparison with you.'

Mr Dombey put his hand to his neckclothsettled his chin in it
coughedand stood looking at his faithful friend and servant for a
few moments in silence.

'I shall have the pleasureCarker' said Mr Dombey at length:
making as if he swallowed something a little too large for his throat:
'to present you to my - to the Major's friends. Highly agreeable
people.'

'Ladies among themI presume?' insinuated the smooth Manager.

'They are all - that is to saythey are both - ladies' replied Mr
Dombey.

'Only two?' smiled Carker.

'They are only two. I have confined my visits to their residence
and have made no other acquaintance here.'

'Sistersperhaps?' quoth Carker.

'Mother and daughter' replied Mr Dombey.

As Mr Dombey dropped his eyesand adjusted his neckcloth again
the smiling face of Mr Carker the Manager became in a momentand
without any stage of transitiontransformed into a most intent and
frowning facescanning his closelyand with an ugly sneer. As Mr
Dombey raised his eyesit changed backno less quicklyto its old
expressionand showed him every gum of which it stood possessed.

'You are very kind' said Carker'I shall be delighted to know
them. Speaking of daughtersI have seen Miss Dombey.'

There was a sudden rush of blood to Mr Dombey's face.

'I took the liberty of waiting on her' said Carker'to inquire if
she could charge me with any little commission. I am not so fortunate
as to be the bearer of any but her - but her dear love.'

Wolf's face that it was thenwith even the hot tongue revealing
itself through the stretched mouthas the eyes encountered Mr
Dombey's!

'What business intelligence is there?' inquired the latter
gentlemanafter a silenceduring which Mr Carker had produced some
memoranda and other papers.

'There is very little' returned Carker. 'Upon the whole we have
not had our usual good fortune of latebut that is of little moment
to you. At Lloyd'sthey give up the Son and Heir for lost. Wellshe


was insuredfrom her keel to her masthead.'

'Carker' said Mr Dombeytaking a chair near him'I cannot say
that young manGayever impressed me favourably

'Nor me' interposed the Manager.

'But I wish' said Mr Dombeywithout heeding the interruption'he
had never gone on board that ship. I wish he had never been sent out.

'It is a pity you didn't say soin good timeis it not?' retorted
Carkercoolly. 'HoweverI think it's all for the best. I really
think it's all for the best. Did I mention that there was something
like a little confidence between Miss Dombey and myself?'

'No' said Mr Dombeysternly.

'I have no doubt' returned Mr Carkerafter an impressive pause
'that wherever Gay ishe is much better where he isthan at home
here. If I wereor could bein your placeI should be satisfied of
that. I am quite satisfied of it myself. Miss Dombey is confiding and
young - perhaps hardly proud enoughfor your daughter - if she have a
fault. Not that that is much thoughI am sure. Will you check these
balances with me?'

Mr Dombey leaned back in his chairinstead of bending over the
papers that were laid before himand looked the Manager steadily in
the face. The Managerwith his eyelids slightly raisedaffected to
be glancing at his figuresand to await the leisure of his principal.
He showed that he affected thisas if from great delicacyand with a
design to spare Mr Dombey's feelings; and the latteras he looked at
himwas cognizant of his intended considerationand felt that but
for itthis confidential Carker would have said a great deal more
which heMr Dombeywas too proud to ask for. It was his way in
businessoften. Little by littleMr Dombey's gaze relaxedand his
attention became diverted to the papers before him; but while busy
with the occupation they afforded himhe frequently stoppedand
looked at Mr Carker again. Whenever he did soMr Carker was
demonstrativeas beforein his delicacyand impressed it on his
great chief more and more.

While they were thus engaged; and under the skilful culture of the
Managerangry thoughts in reference to poor Florence brooded and bred
in Mr Dombey's breastusurping the place of the cold dislike that
generally reigned there; Major Bagstockmuch admired by the old
ladies of Leamingtonand followed by the Nativecarrying the usual
amount of light baggagestraddled along the shady side of the wayto
make a morning call on Mrs Skewton. It being midday when the Major
reached the bower of Cleopatrahe had the good fortune to find his
Princess on her usual sofalanguishing over a cup of coffeewith the
room so darkened and shaded for her more luxurious reposethat
Witherswho was in attendance on herloomed like a phantom page.

'What insupportable creature is thiscoming in?' said Mrs Skewton
'I cannot hear it. Go awaywhoever you are!'

'You have not the heart to banish J. B.Ma'am!' said the Major
halting midwayto remonstratewith his cane over his shoulder.

'Oh it's youis it? On second thoughtsyou may enter' observed
Cleopatra.

The Major entered accordinglyand advancing to the sofa pressed
her charming hand to his lips.


'Sit down' said Cleopatralistlessly waving her fan'a long way
off. Don't come too near mefor I am frightfully faint and sensitive
this morningand you smell of the Sun. You are absolutely tropical.'

'By GeorgeMa'am' said the Major'the time has been when Joseph
Bagstock has been grilled and blistered by the Sun; then time was
when he was forcedMa'aminto such full blowby high hothouse heat
in the West Indiesthat he was known as the Flower. A man never heard
of BagstockMa'amin those days; he heard of the Flower - the Flower
of Ours. The Flower may have fadedmore or lessMa'am' observed the
Majordropping into a much nearer chair than had been indicated by
his cruel Divinity'but it is a tough plant yetand constant as the
evergreen.'

Here the Majorunder cover of the dark roomshut up one eye
rolled his head like a Harlequinandin his great self-satisfaction
perhaps went nearer to the confines of apoplexy than he had ever gone
before.

'Where is Mrs Granger?' inquired Cleopatra of her page.

Withers believed she was in her own room.

'Very well' said Mrs Skewton. 'Go awayand shut the door. I am
engaged.'

As Withers disappearedMrs Skewton turned her head languidly
towards the Majorwithout otherwise movingand asked him how his
friend was.

'DombeyMa'am' returned the Majorwith a facetious gurgling in
his throat'is as well as a man in his condition can be. His
condition is a desperate oneMa'am. He is touchedis Dombey!
Touched!' cried the Major. 'He is bayonetted through the body.'

Cleopatra cast a sharp look at the Majorthat contrasted forcibly
with the affected drawl in which she presently said:

'Major Bagstockalthough I know but little of the world- nor can
I really regret my experiencefor I fear it is a false placefull of
withering conventionalities: where Nature is but little regardedand
where the music of the heartand the gushing of the souland all
that sort of thingwhich is so truly poeticalis seldom heard- I
cannot misunderstand your meaning. There is an allusion to Edith - to
my extremely dear child' said Mrs Skewtontracing the outline of her
eyebrows with her forefinger'in your wordsto which the tenderest
of chords vibrates excessively.'

'BluntnessMa'am' returned the Major'has ever been the
characteristic of the Bagstock breed. You are right. Joe admits it.'

'And that allusion' pursued Cleopatra'would involve one of the
most - if not positively the most - touchingand thrillingand
sacred emotions of which our sadly-fallen nature is susceptibleI
conceive.'

The Major laid his hand upon his lipsand wafted a kiss to
Cleopatraas if to identify the emotion in question.

'I feel that I am weak. I feel that I am wanting in that energy
which should sustain a Mama: not to say a parent: on such a subject'
said Mrs Skewtontrimming her lips with the laced edge of her
pocket-handkerchief; 'but I can hardly approach a topic so excessively


momentous to my dearest Edith without a feeling of faintness.
Neverthelessbad manas you have boldly remarked upon itand as it
has occasioned me great anguish:' Mrs Skewton touched her left side
with her fan: 'I will not shrink from my duty.'

The Majorunder cover of the dimnessswelledand swelledand
rolled his purple face aboutand winked his lobster eyeuntil he
fell into a fit of wheezingwhich obliged him to rise and take a turn
or two about the roombefore his fair friend could proceed.

'Mr Dombey' said Mrs Skewtonwhen she at length resumed'was
obliging enoughnow many weeks agoto do us the honour of visiting
us here; in companymy dear Majorwith yourself. I acknowledge - let
me be open - that it is my failing to be the creature of impulseand
to wear my heart as it wereoutside. I know my failing full well. My
enemy cannot know it better. But I am not penitent; I would rather not
be frozen by the heartless worldand am content to bear this
imputation justly.'

Mrs Skewton arranged her tuckerpinched her wiry throat to give it
a soft surfaceand went onwith great complacency.

'It gave me (my dearest Edith tooI am sure) infinite pleasure to
receive Mr Dombey. As a friend of yoursmy dear Majorwe were
naturally disposed to be prepossessed in his favour; and I fancied
that I observed an amount of Heart in Mr Dombeythat was excessively
refreshing.'

'There is devilish little heart in Dombey nowMa'am' said the
Major.

'Wretched man!' cried Mrs Skewtonlooking at him languidly'pray
be silent.'

'J. B. is dumbMa'am' said the Major.

'Mr Dombey' pursued Cleopatrasmoothing the rosy hue upon her
cheeks'accordingly repeated his visit; and possibly finding some
attraction in the simplicity and primitiveness of our tastes - for
there is always a charm in nature - it is so very sweet - became one
of our little circle every evening. Little did I think of the awful
responsibility into which I plunged when I encouraged Mr Dombey - to


'To beat up these quartersMa'am' suggested Major Bagstock.

'Coarse person! 'said Mrs Skewton'you anticipate my meaning
though in odious language.

Here Mrs Skewton rested her elbow on the little table at her side
and suffering her wrist to droop in what she considered a graceful and
becoming mannerdangled her fan to and froand lazily admired her
hand while speaking.

'The agony I have endured' she said mincingly'as the truth has
by degrees dawned upon mehas been too exceedingly terrific to dilate
upon. My whole existence is bound up in my sweetest Edith; and to see
her change from day to day - my beautiful petwho has positively
garnered up her heart since the death of that most delightful
creatureGranger - is the most affecting thing in the world.'

Mrs Skewton's world was not a very trying oneif one might judge
of it by the influence of its most affecting circumstance upon her;
but this by the way.


'Edith' simpered Mrs Skewton'who is the perfect pearl of my
lifeis said to resemble me. I believe we are alike.'

'There is one man in the world who never will admit that anyone
resembles youMa'am' said the Major; 'and that man's name is Old Joe
Bagstock.'

Cleopatra made as if she would brain the flatterer with her fan
but relentingsmiled upon him and proceeded:

'If my charming girl inherits any advantages from mewicked one!':
the Major was the wicked one: 'she inherits also my foolish nature.
She has great force of character - mine has been said to be immense
though I don't believe it - but once movedshe is susceptible and
sensitive to the last extent. What are my feelings when I see her
pining! They destroy me.

The Major advancing his double chinand pursing up his blue lips
into a soothing expressionaffected the profoundest sympathy.

'The confidence' said Mrs Skewton'that has subsisted between us

-the free development of souland openness of sentiment - is
touching to think of. We have been more like sisters than Mama and
child.'
'J. B.'s own sentiment' observed the Major'expressed by J. B.
fifty thousand times!'

'Do not interruptrude man!' said Cleopatra. 'What are my
feelingsthenwhen I find that there is one subject avoided by us!
That there is a what's-his-name - a gulf - opened between us. That my
own artless Edith is changed to me! They are of the most poignant
descriptionof course.'

The Major left his chairand took one nearer to the little table.

'From day to day I see thismy dear Major' proceeded Mrs Skewton.
'From day to day I feel this. From hour to hour I reproach myself for
that excess of faith and trustfulness which has led to such
distressing consequences; and almost from minute to minuteI hope
that Mr Dombey may explain himselfand relieve the torture I undergo
which is extremely wearing. But nothing happensmy dear Major; I am
the slave of remorse - take care of the coffee-cup: you are so very
awkward - my darling Edith is an altered being; and I really don't see
what is to be doneor what good creature I can advise with.'

Major Bagstockencouraged perhaps by the softened and confidential
tone into which Mrs Skewtonafter several times lapsing into it for a
momentseemed now to have subsided for goodstretched out his hand
across the little tableand said with a leer

'Advise with JoeMa'am.'

'Thenyou aggravating monster' said Cleopatragiving one hand to
the Majorand tapping his knuckles with her fanwhich she held in
the other: 'why don't you talk to me? you know what I mean. Why don't
you tell me something to the purpose?'

The Major laughedand kissed the hand she had bestowed upon him
and laughed again immensely.

'Is there as much Heart in Mr Dombey as I gave him credit for?'
languished Cleopatra tenderly. 'Do you think he is in earnestmy dear
Major? Would you recommend his being spoken toor his being left


alone? Now tell melike a dear manwhat would you advise.'

'Shall we marry him to Edith GrangerMa'am?' chuckled the Major
hoarsely.

'Mysterious creature!' returned Cleopatrabringing her fan to bear
upon the Major's nose. 'How can we marry him?'

'Shall we marry him to Edith GrangerMa'amI say?' chuckled the
Major again.

Mrs Skewton returned no answer in wordsbut smiled upon the Major
with so much archness and vivacitythat that gallant officer
considering himself challengedwould have imprinted a kiss on her
exceedingly red lipsbut for her interposing the fan with a very
winning and juvenile dexterity. It might have been in modesty; it
might have been in apprehension of some danger to their bloom.

'DombeyMa'am' said the Major'is a great catch.'

'Ohmercenary wretch!' cried Cleopatrawith a little shriek'I
am shocked.'

'And DombeyMa'am' pursued the Majorthrusting forward his head
and distending his eyes'is in earnest. Joseph says it; Bagstock
knows it; J. B. keeps him to the mark. Leave Dombey to himselfMa'am.
Dombey is safeMa'am. Do as you have done; do no more; and trust to

J. B. for the end.'
'You really think somy dear Major?' returned Cleopatrawho had
eyed him very cautiouslyand very searchinglyin spite of her
listless bearing.

'Sure of itMa'am' rejoined the Major. 'Cleopatra the peerless
and her Antony Bagstockwill often speak of thistriumphantlywhen
sharing the elegance and wealth of Edith Dombey's establishment.
Dombey's right-hand manMa'am' said the Majorstopping abruptly in
a chuckleand becoming serious'has arrived.'

'This morning?' said Cleopatra.

'This morningMa'am' returned the Major. 'And Dombey's anxiety
for his arrivalMa'amis to be referred - take J. B.'s word for
this; for Joe is devilish sly' - the Major tapped his noseand
screwed up one of his eyes tight: which did not enhance his native
beauty - 'to his desire that what is in the wind should become known
to him' without Dombey's telling and consulting him. For Dombey is as
proudMa'am' said the Major'as Lucifer.'

'A charming quality' lisped Mrs Skewton; 'reminding one of dearest
Edith.'

'WellMa'am' said the Major. 'I have thrown out hints already
and the right-hand man understands 'em; and I'll throw out more
before the day is done. Dombey projected this morning a ride to
Warwick Castleand to Kenilworthto-morrowto be preceded by a
breakfast with us. I undertook the delivery of this invitation. Will
you honour us so farMa'am?' said the Majorswelling with shortness
of breath and slynessas he produced a noteaddressed to the
Honourable Mrs Skewtonby favour of Major Bagstockwherein hers ever
faithfullyPaul Dombeybesought her and her amiable and accomplished
daughter to consent to the proposed excursion; and in a postscript
unto whichthe same ever faithfully Paul Dombey entreated to be
recalled to the remembrance of Mrs Granger.


'Hush!' said Cleopatrasuddenly'Edith!'

The loving mother can scarcely be described as resuming her insipid
and affected air when she made this exclamation; for she had never
cast it off; nor was it likely that she ever would or couldin any
other place than in the grave. But hurriedly dismissing whatever
shadow of earnestnessor faint confession of a purposelaudable or
wickedthat her faceor voiceor manner: hadfor the moment
betrayedshe lounged upon the couchher most insipid and most
languid self againas Edith entered the room.

Edithso beautiful and statelybut so cold and so repelling. Who
slightly acknowledging the presence of Major Bagstockand directing a
keen glance at her motherdrew back the from a windowand sat down
therelooking out.

'My dearest Edith' said Mrs Skewton'where on earth have you
been? I have wanted youmy lovemost sadly.'

'You said you were engagedand I stayed away' she answered
without turning her head.

'It was cruel to Old JoeMa'am' said the Major in his gallantry.

'It was very cruelI know' she saidstill looking out - and said
with such calm disdainthat the Major was discomfitedand could
think of nothing in reply.

'Major Bagstockmy darling Edith' drawled her mother'who is
generally the most useless and disagreeable creature in the world: as
you know - '

'It is surely not worthwhileMama' said Edithlooking round'to
observe these forms of speech. We are quite alone. We know each
other.'

The quiet scorn that sat upon her handsome face - a scorn that
evidently lighted on herselfno less than them - was so intense and
deepthat her mother's simperfor the instantthough of a hardy
constitutiondrooped before it.

'My darling girl' she began again.

'Not woman yet?' said Edithwith a smile.

'How very odd you are to-daymy dear! Pray let me saymy love
that Major Bagstock has brought the kindest of notes from Mr Dombey
proposing that we should breakfast with him to-morrowand ride to
Warwick and Kenilworth. Will you goEdith?'

'Will I go!' she repeatedturning very redand breathing quickly
as she looked round at her mother.

'I knew you wouldmy ownobserved the latter carelessly. 'It is
as you sayquite a form to ask. Here is Mr Dombey's letterEdith.'

'Thank you. I have no desire to read it' was her answer.

'Then perhaps I had better answer it myself' said Mrs Skewton
'though I had thought of asking you to be my secretarydarling.' As
Edith made no movementand no answerMrs Skewton begged the Major to
wheel her little table nearerand to set open the desk it contained
and to take out pen and paper for her; all which congenial offices of


gallantry the Major dischargedwith much submission and devotion.

'Your regardsEdithmy dear?' said Mrs Skewtonpausingpen in
handat the postscript.

'What you willMama' she answeredwithout turning her headand
with supreme indifference.

Mrs Skewton wrote what she wouldwithout seeking for any more
explicit directionsand handed her letter to the Majorwho receiving
it as a precious chargemade a show of laying it near his heartbut
was fain to put it in the pocket of his pantaloons on account of the
insecurity of his waistcoat The Major then took a very polished and
chivalrous farewell of both ladieswhich the elder one acknowledged
in her usual mannerwhile the youngersitting with her face
addressed to the windowbent her head so slightly that it would have
been a greater compliment to the Major to have made no sign at all
and to have left him to infer that he had not been heard or thought
of.

'As to alteration in herSir' mused the Major on his way back; on
which expedition - the afternoon being sunny and hot - he ordered the
Native and the light baggage to the frontand walked in the shadow of
that expatriated prince: 'as to alterationSirand piningand so
forththat won't go down with Joseph BagstockNone of thatSir. It
won't do here. But as to there being something of a division between
'em - or a gulf as the mother calls it - dammeSirthat seems true
enough. And it's odd enough! WellSir!' panted the Major'Edith
Granger and Dombey are well matched; let 'em fight it out! Bagstock
backs the winner!'

The Majorby saying these latter words aloudin the vigour of his
thoughtscaused the unhappy Native to stopand turn roundin the
belief that he was personally addressed. Exasperated to the last
degree by this act of insubordinationthe Major (though he was
swelling with enjoyment of his own humourat the moment of its
occurrence instantly thrust his cane among the Native's ribsand
continued to stir him upat short intervalsall the way to the
hotel.

Nor was the Major less exasperated as he dressed for dinnerduring
which operation the dark servant underwent the pelting of a shower of
miscellaneous objectsvarying in size from a boot to a hairbrushand
including everything that came within his master's reach. For the
Major plumed himself on having the Native in a perfect state of drill
and visited the least departure from strict discipline with this kind
of fatigue duty. Add to thisthat he maintained the Native about his
person as a counter-irritant against the goutand all other
vexationsmental as well as bodily; and the Native would appear to
have earned his pay - which was not large.

At lengththe Major having disposed of all the missiles that were
convenient to his handand having called the Native so many new names
as must have given him great occasion to marvel at the resources of
the English languagesubmitted to have his cravat put on; and being
dressedand finding himself in a brisk flow of spirits after this
exercisewent downstairs to enliven 'Dombey' and his right-hand man.

Dombey was not yet in the roombut the right-hand man was there
and his dental treasures wereas usualready for the Major.

'WellSir!' said the Major. 'How have you passed the time since I
had the happiness of meeting you? Have you walked at all?'


'A saunter of barely half an hour's duration' returned Carker. 'We
have been so much occupied.'

'Businesseh?' said the Major.

'A variety of little matters necessary to be gone through' replied
Carker. 'But do you know - this is quite unusual with meeducated in
a distrustful schooland who am not generally disposed to be
communicative' he saidbreaking offand speaking in a charming tone
of frankness - 'but I feel quite confidential with youMajor
Bagstock.'

'You do me honourSir' returned the Major. 'You may be.'

'Do you knowthen' pursued Carker'that I have not found my
friend - our friendI ought rather to call him - '

'Meaning DombeySir?' cried the Major. 'You see meMr Carker
standing here! J. B.?'

He was puffy enough to seeand blue enough; and Mr Carker
intimated the he had that pleasure.

'Then you see a manSirwho would go through fire and water to
serve Dombey' returned Major Bagstock.

Mr Carker smiledand said he was sure of it. 'Do you knowMajor'
he proceeded: 'to resume where I left off' that I have not found our
friend so attentive to business todayas usual?'

'No?' observed the delighted Major.

'I have found him a little abstractedand with his attention
disposed to wander' said Carker.

'By JoveSir' cried the Major'there's a lady in the case.'

'IndeedI begin to believe there really is' returned Carker; 'I
thought you might be jesting when you seemed to hint at it; for I know
you military men -

The Major gave the horse's coughand shook his head and shoulders
as much as to say'Well! we are gay dogsthere's no denying.' He
then seized Mr Carker by the button-holeand with starting eyes
whispered in his earthat she was a woman of extraordinary charms
Sir. That she was a young widowSir. That she was of a fine family
Sir. That Dombey was over head and ears in love with herSirand
that it would be a good match on both sides; for she had beauty
bloodand talentand Dombey had fortune; and what more could any
couple have? Hearing Mr Dombey's footsteps withoutthe Major cut
himself short by sayingthat Mr Carker would see her tomorrow
morningand would judge for himself; and between his mental
excitementand the exertion of saying all this in wheezy whispers
the Major sat gurgling in the throat and watering at the eyesuntil
dinner was ready.

The Majorlike some other noble animalsexhibited himself to
great advantage at feeding-time. On this occasionhe shone
resplendent at one end of the tablesupported by the milder lustre of
Mr Dombey at the other; while Carker on one side lent his ray to
either lightor suffered it to merge into bothas occasion arose.

During the first course or twothe Major was usually grave; for
the Nativein obedience to general orderssecretly issuedcollected


every sauce and cruet round himand gave him a great deal to doin
taking out the stoppersand mixing up the contents in his plate.
Besides whichthe Native had private zests and flavours on a
side-tablewith which the Major daily scorched himself; to say
nothing of strange machines out of which he spirited unknown liquids
into the Major's drink. But on this occasionMajor Bagstockeven
amidst these many occupationsfound time to be social; and his
sociality consisted in excessive slyness for the behoof of Mr Carker
and the betrayal of Mr Dombey's state of mind.

'Dombey' said the Major'you don't eat; what's the matter?'

'Thank you' returned the gentleman'I am doing very well; I have
no great appetite today.'

'WhyDombeywhat's become of it?' asked the Major. 'Where's it
gone? You haven't left it with our friendsI'll swearfor I can
answer for their having none to-day at luncheon. I can answer for one
of 'emat least: I won't say which.'

Then the Major winked at Carkerand became so frightfully sly
that his dark attendant was obliged to pat him on the backwithout
ordersor he would probably have disappeared under the table.

In a later stage of the dinner: that is to saywhen the Native
stood at the Major's elbow ready to serve the first bottle of
champagne: the Major became still slyer.

'Fill this to the brimyou scoundrel' said the Majorholding up
his glass. 'Fill Mr Carker's to the brim too. And Mr Dombey's too. By
Gadgentlemen' said the Majorwinking at his new friendwhile Mr
Dombey looked into his plate with a conscious air'we'll consecrate
this glass of wine to a Divinity whom Joe is proud to knowand at a
distance humbly and reverently to admire. Edith' said the Major'is
her name; angelic Edith!'

'To angelic Edith!' cried the smiling Carker.

'Edithby all means' said Mr Dombey.

The entrance of the waiters with new dishes caused the Major to be
slyer yetbut in a more serious vein. 'For though among ourselves
Joe Bagstock mingles jest and earnest on this subjectSir' said the
Majorlaying his finger on his lipsand speaking half apart to
Carker'he holds that name too sacred to be made the property of
these fellowsor of any fellows. Not a word!Sir' while they are
here!'

This was respectful and becoming on the Major's partand Mr Dombey
plainly felt it so. Although embarrassed in his own frigid wayby the
Major's allusionsMr Dombey had no objection to such rallyingit was
clearbut rather courted it. Perhaps the Major had been pretty near
the truthwhen he had divined that morning that the great man who was
too haughty formally to consult withor confide in his prime
ministeron such a matteryet wished him to be fully possessed of
it. Let this be how it mayhe often glanced at Mr Carker while the
Major plied his light artilleryand seemed watchful of its effect
upon him.

But the Majorhaving secured an attentive listenerand a smiler
who had not his match in all the world - 'in shorta devilish
intelligent and able fellow' as he often afterwards declared - was
not going to let him off with a little slyness personal to Mr Dombey.
Thereforeon the removal of the cloththe Major developed himself as


a choice spirit in the broader and more comprehensive range of
narrating regimental storiesand cracking regimental jokeswhich he
did with such prodigal exuberancethat Carker was (or feigned to be)
quite exhausted with laughter and admiration: while Mr Dombey looked
on over his starched cravatlike the Major's proprietoror like a
stately showman who was glad to see his bear dancing well.

When the Major was too hoarse with meat and drinkand the display
of his social powersto render himself intelligible any longerthey
adjourned to coffee. After whichthe Major inquired of Mr Carker the
Managerwith little apparent hope of an answer in the affirmativeif
he played picquet.

'YesI play picquet a little' said Mr Carker.

'Backgammonperhaps?' observed the Majorhesitating.

'YesI play backgammon a little too' replied the man of teeth.

'Carker plays at all gamesI believe' said Mr Dombeylaying
himself on a sofa like a man of woodwithout a hinge or a joint in
him; 'and plays them well.'

In soothhe played the two in questionto such perfectionthat
the Major was astonishedand asked himat randomif he played
chess.

'YesI play chess a little' answered Carker. 'I have sometimes
playedand won a game - it's a mere trick - without seeing the
board.'

'By GadSir!' said the Majorstaring'you are a contrast to
Dombeywho plays nothing.'

'Oh! He!' returned the Manager. 'He has never had occasion to
acquire such little arts. To men like methey are sometimes useful.
As at presentMajor Bagstockwhen they enable me to take a hand with
you.'

It might be only the false mouthso smooth and wide; and yet there
seemed to lurk beneath the humility and subserviency of this short
speecha something like a snarl; andfor a momentone might have
thought that the white teeth were prone to bite the hand they fawned
upon. But the Major thought nothing about it; and Mr Dombey lay
meditating with his eyes half shutduring the whole of the play
which lasted until bed-time.

By that timeMr Carkerthough the winnerhad mounted high into
the Major's good opinioninsomuch that when he left the Major at his
own room before going to bedthe Major as a special attentionsent
the Native - who always rested on a mattress spread upon the ground at
his master's door - along the galleryto light him to his room in
state.

There was a faint blur on the surface of the mirror in Mr Carker's
chamberand its reflection wasperhapsa false one. But it showed
that nightthe image of a manwho sawin his fancya crowd of
people slumbering on the ground at his feetlike the poor Native at
his master's door: who picked his way among them: looking down
maliciously enough: but trod upon no upturned face - as yet.

CHAPTER 27.


Deeper Shadows

Mr Carker the Manager rose with the larkand went outwalking in
the summer day. His meditations - and he meditated with contracted
brows while he strolled along - hardly seemed to soar as high as the
larkor to mount in that direction; rather they kept close to their
nest upon the earthand looked aboutamong the dust and worms. But
there was not a bird in the airsinging unseenfarther beyond the
reach of human eye than Mr Carker's thoughts. He had his face so
perfectly under controlthat few could say morein distinct terms
of its expressionthan that it smiled or that it pondered. It
pondered nowintently. As the lark rose higherhe sank deeper in
thought. As the lark poured out her melody clearer and strongerhe
fell into a graver and profounder silence. At lengthwhen the lark
came headlong downwith an accumulating stream of songand dropped
among the green wheat near himrippling in the breath of the morning
like a riverhe sprang up from his reverieand looked round with a
sudden smileas courteous and as soft as if he had had numerous
observers to propitiate; nor did he relapseafter being thus
awakened; but clearing his facelike one who bethought himself that
it might otherwise wrinkle and tell taleswent smiling onas if for
practice.

Perhaps with an eye to first impressionsMr Carker was very
carefully and trimly dressedthat morning. Though always somewhat
formalin his dressin imitation of the great man whom he servedhe
stopped short of the extent of Mr Dombey's stiffness: at once perhaps
because he knew it to be ludicrousand because in doing so he found
another means of expressing his sense of the difference and distance
between them. Some people quoted him indeedin this respectas a
pointed commentaryand not a flattering oneon his icy patron - but
the world is prone to misconstructionand Mr Carker was not
accountable for its bad propensity.

Clean and florid: with his light complexionfading as it werein
the sunand his dainty step enhancing the softness of the turf: Mr
Carker the Manager strolled about meadowsand green lanesand glided
among avenues of treesuntil it was time to return to breakfast.
Taking a nearer way backMr Carker pursued itairing his teethand
said aloud as he did so'Now to see the second Mrs Dombey!'

He had strolled beyond the townand re-entered it by a pleasant
walkwhere there was a deep shade of leafy treesand where there
were a few benches here and there for those who chose to rest. It not
being a place of general resort at any hourand wearing at that time
of the still morning the air of being quite deserted and retiredMr
Carker had itor thought he had itall to himself. Sowith the whim
of an idle manto whom there yet remained twenty minutes for reaching
a destination easily able in tenMr Carker threaded the great boles
of the treesand went passing in and outbefore this one and behind
thatweaving a chain of footsteps on the dewy ground.

But he found he was mistaken in supposing there was no one in the
grovefor as he softly rounded the trunk of one large treeon which
the obdurate bark was knotted and overlapped like the hide of a
rhinoceros or some kindred monster of the ancient days before the
Floodhe saw an unexpected figure sitting on a bench near at hand
about whichin another momenthe would have wound the chain he was
making.

It was that of a ladyelegantly dressed and very handsomewhose
dark proud eyes were fixed upon the groundand in whom some passion


or struggle was raging. For as she sat looking downshe held a corner
of her under lip within her mouthher bosom heavedher nostril
quiveredher head trembledindignant tears were on her cheekand
her foot was set upon the moss as though she would have crushed it
into nothing. And yet almost the self-same glance that showed him
thisshowed him the self-same lady rising with a scornful air of
weariness and lassitudeand turning away with nothing expressed in
face or figure but careless beauty and imperious disdain.

A withered and very ugly old womandressed not so much like a
gipsy as like any of that medley race of vagabonds who tramp about the
countrybeggingand stealingand tinkeringand weaving rushesby
turnsor all togetherhad been observing the ladytoo; foras she
rosethis second figure strangely confronting the firstscrambled up
from the ground - out of itit almost appeared - and stood in the
way.

'Let me tell your fortunemy pretty lady' said the old woman
munching with her jawsas if the Death's Head beneath her yellow skin
were impatient to get out.

'I can tell it for myself' was the reply.

'Ayaypretty lady; but not right. You didn't tell it right when
you were sitting there. I see you! Give me a piece of silverpretty
ladyand I'll tell your fortune true. There's richespretty ladyin
your face.'

'I know' returned the ladypassing her with a dark smileand a
proud step. 'I knew it before.

'What! You won't give me nothing?' cried the old woman. 'You won't
give me nothing to tell your fortunepretty lady? How much will you
give me to tell itthen? Give me somethingor I'll call it after
you!' croaked the old womanpassionately.

Mr Carkerwhom the lady was about to pass closeslinking against
his tree as she crossed to gain the pathadvanced so as to meet her
and pulling off his hat as she went bybade the old woman hold her
peace. The lady acknowledged his interference with an inclination of
the headand went her way.

'You give me something thenor I'll call it after her!' screamed
the old womanthrowing up her armsand pressing forward against his
outstretched hand. 'Or come' she addeddropping her voice suddenly
looking at him earnestlyand seeming in a moment to forget the object
of her wrath'give me somethingor I'll call it after you! '

'After meold lady!' returned the Managerputting his hand in his
pocket.

'Yes' said the womansteadfast in her scrutinyand holding out
her shrivelled hand. 'I know!'

'What do you know?' demanded Carkerthrowing her a shilling. 'Do
you know who the handsome lady is?'

Munching like that sailor's wife of yorewho had chestnuts In her
lapand scowling like the witch who asked for some in vainthe old
woman picked the shilling upand going backwardslike a crabor
like a heap of crabs: for her alternately expanding and contracting
hands might have represented two of that speciesand her creeping
facesome half-a-dozen more: crouched on the veinous root of an old
treepulled out a short black pipe from within the crown of her


bonnetlighted it with a matchand smoked in silencelooking
fixedly at her questioner.

Mr Carker laughedand turned upon his heel.

'Good!' said the old woman. 'One child deadand one child living:
one wife deadand one wife coming. Go and meet her!'

In spite of himselfthe Manager looked round againand stopped.
The old womanwho had not removed her pipeand was munching and
mumbling while she smokedas if in conversation with an invisible
familiarpointed with her finger in the direction he was goingand
laughed.

'What was that you saidBeldamite?' he demanded.

The woman mumbledand chatteredand smokedand still pointed
before him; but remained silent Muttering a farewell that was not
complimentaryMr Carker pursued his way; but as he turned out of that
placeand looked over his shoulder at the root of the old treehe
could yet see the finger pointing before himand thought he heard the
woman screaming'Go and meet her!'

Preparations for a choice repast were completedhe foundat the
hotel; and Mr Dombeyand the Majorand the breakfastwere awaiting
the ladies. Individual constitution has much to do with the
development of such factsno doubt; but in this caseappetite
carried it hollow over the tender passion; Mr Dombey being very cool
and collectedand the Major fretting and fuming in a state of violent
heat and irritation. At length the door was thrown open by the Native
andafter a pauseoccupied by her languishing along the gallerya
very bloomingbut not very youthful ladyappeared.

'My dear Mr Dombey' said the lady'I am afraid we are latebut
Edith has been out already looking for a favourable point of view for
a sketchand kept me waiting for her. Falsest of Majors' giving him
her little finger'how do you do?'

'Mrs Skewton' said Mr Dombey'let me gratify my friend Carker:'
Mr Dombey unconsciously emphasised the word friendas saying "no
really; I do allow him to take credit for that distinction:" 'by
presenting him to you. You have heard me mention Mr Carker.'

'I am charmedI am sure' said Mrs Skewtongraciously.

Mr Carker was charmedof course. Would he have been more charmed
on Mr Dombey's behalfif Mrs Skewton had been (as he at first
supposed her) the Edith whom they had toasted overnight?

'Whywherefor Heaven's sakeis Edith?' exclaimed Mrs Skewton
looking round. 'Still at the doorgiving Withers orders about the
mounting of those drawings! My dear Mr Dombeywill you have the
kindness -

Mr Dombey was already gone to seek her. Next moment he returned
bearing on his arm the same elegantly dressed and very handsome lady
whom Mr Carker had encountered underneath the trees.

'Carker - ' began Mr Dombey. But their recognition of each other
was so manifestthat Mr Dombey stopped surprised.

'I am obliged to the gentleman' said Edithwith a stately bend
'for sparing me some annoyance from an importunate beggar just now.'


'I am obliged to my good fortune' said Mr Carkerbowing low'for
the opportunity of rendering so slight a service to one whose servant
I am proud to be.'

As her eye rested on him for an instantand then lighted on the
groundhe saw in its bright and searching glance a suspicion that he
had not come up at the moment of his interferencebut had secretly
observed her sooner. As he saw thatshe saw in his eye that her
distrust was not without foundation.

'Really' cried Mrs Skewtonwho had taken this opportunity of
inspecting Mr Carker through her glassand satisfying herself (as she
lisped audibly to the Major) that he was all heart; 'really nowthis
is one of the most enchanting coincidences that I ever heard of. The
idea! My dearest Ediththere is such an obvious destiny in itthat
really one might almost be induced to cross one's arms upon one's
frockand saylike those wicked Turksthere is no What's-his-name
but Thingummyand What-you-may-call-it is his prophet!'

Edith designed no revision of this extraordinary quotation from the
Koranbut Mr Dombey felt it necessary to offer a few polite remarks.

'It gives me great pleasure' said Mr Dombeywith cumbrous
gallantry'that a gentleman so nearly connected with myself as Carker
isshould have had the honour and happiness of rendering the least
assistance to Mrs Granger.' Mr Dombey bowed to her. 'But it gives me
some painand it occasions me to be really envious of Carker;' he
unconsciously laid stress on these wordsas sensible that they must
appear to involve a very surprising proposition; 'envious of Carker
that I had not that honour and that happiness myself.' Mr Dombey bowed
again. Edithsaving for a curl of her lipwas motionless.

'By the LordSir' cried the Majorbursting into speech at sight
of the waiterwho was come to announce breakfast'it's an
extraordinary thing to me that no one can have the honour and
happiness of shooting all such beggars through the head without being
brought to book for it. But here's an arm for Mrs Granger if she'll do

J. B. the honour to accept it; and the greatest service Joe can render
youMa'amjust nowisto lead you into table!'
With thisthe Major gave his arm to Edith; Mr Dombey led the way
with Mrs Skewton; Mrs Carker went lastsmiling on the party.

'I am quite rejoicedMr Carker' said the lady-motherat
breakfastafter another approving survey of him through her glass
'that you have timed your visit so happilyas to go with us to-day.
It is the most enchanting expedition!'

'Any expedition would be enchanting in such society' returned
Carker; 'but I believe it isin itselffull of interest.'

'Oh!' cried Mrs Skewtonwith a faded little scream of rapture
'the Castle is charming! - associations of the Middle Ages - and all
that - which is so truly exquisite. Don't you dote upon the Middle
AgesMr Carker?'

'Very muchindeed' said Mr Carker.

'Such charming times!' cried Cleopatra. 'So full of faith! So
vigorous and forcible! So picturesque! So perfectly removed from
commonplace! Oh dear! If they would only leave us a little more of the
poetry of existence in these terrible days!'

Mrs Skewton was looking sharp after Mr Dombey all the time she said


thiswho was looking at Edith: who was listeningbut who never
lifted up her eyes.

'We are dreadfully realMr Carker' said Mrs Skewton; 'are we
not?'

Few people had less reason to complain of their reality than
Cleopatrawho had as much that was false about her as could well go
to the composition of anybody with a real individual existence. But Mr
Carker commiserated our reality neverthelessand agreed that we were
very hardly used in that regard.

'Pictures at the Castlequite divine!' said Cleopatra. 'I hope you
dote upon pictures?'

'I assure youMrs Skewton' said Mr Dombeywith solemn
encouragement of his Manager'that Carker has a very good taste for
pictures; quite a natural power of appreciating them. He is a very
creditable artist himself. He will be delightedI am surewith Mrs
Granger's taste and skill.'

'DammeSir!' cried Major Bagstock'my opinion isthat you're the
admirable Carkerand can do anything.'

'Oh!' smiled Carkerwith humility'you are much too sanguine
Major Bagstock. I can do very little. But Mr Dombey is so generous in
his estimation of any trivial accomplishment a man like myself may
find it almost necessary to acquireand to whichin his very
different spherehe is far superiorthat - ' Mr Carker shrugged his
shouldersdeprecating further praiseand said no more.

All this timeEdith never raised her eyesunless to glance
towards her mother when that lady's fervent spirit shone forth in
words. But as Carker ceasedshe looked at Mr Dombey for a moment. For
a moment only; but with a transient gleam of scornful wonder on her
facenot lost on one observerwho was smiling round the board.

Mr Dombey caught the dark eyelash in its descentand took the
opportunity of arresting it.

'You have been to Warwick oftenunfortunately?' said Mr Dombey.

'Several times.'

'The visit will be tedious to youI am afraid.'

'Oh no; not at all.'

'Ah! You are like your cousin Feenixmy dearest Edith' said Mrs
Skewton. 'He has been to Warwick Castle fifty timesif he has been
there once; yet if he came to Leamington to-morrow - I wish he would
dear angel! - he would make his fifty-second visit next day.'

'We are all enthusiasticare we notMama?' said Edithwith a
cold smile.

'Too much sofor our peaceperhapsmy dear' returned her
mother; 'but we won't complain. Our own emotions are our recompense.
Ifas your cousin Feenix saysthe sword wears out the
what's-its-name

'The scabbardperhaps' said Edith.

'Exactly - a little too fastit is because it is bright and


glowingyou knowmy dearest love.'

Mrs Skewton heaved a gentle sighsupposed to cast a shadow on the
surface of that dagger of lathwhereof her susceptible bosom was the
sheath: and leaning her head on one sidein the Cleopatra manner
looked with pensive affection on her darling child.

Edith had turned her face towards Mr Dombey when he first addressed
herand had remained in that attitudewhile speaking to her mother
and while her mother spoke to heras though offering him her
attentionif he had anything more to say. There was something in the
manner of this simple courtesy: almost defiantand giving it the
character of being rendered on compulsionor as a matter of traffic
to which she was a reluctant party again not lost upon that same
observer who was smiling round the board. It set him thinking of her
as he had first seen herwhen she had believed herself to be alone
among the trees.

Mr Dombey having nothing else to sayproposed - the breakfast
being now finishedand the Major gorgedlike any Boa Constrictor that
they should start. A barouche being in waitingaccording to the
orders of that gentlemanthe two ladiesthe Major and himselftook
their seats in it; the Native and the wan page mounted the boxMr
Towlinson being left behind; and Mr Carkeron horsebackbrought up
the rear. Mr Carker cantered behind the carriage. at the distance of a
hundred yards or soand watched itduring all the rideas if he
were a catindeedand its four occupantsmice. Whether he looked to
one side of the roador to the other - over distant landscapewith
its smooth undulationswind-millscorngrassbean fields
wild-flowersfarm-yardshayricksand the spire among the wood - or
upwards in the sunny airwhere butterflies were sporting round his
headand birds were pouring out their songs - or downwardwhere the
shadows of the branches interlacedand made a trembling carpet on the
road - or onwardwhere the overhanging trees formed aisles and
archesdim with the softened light that steeped through leaves - one
corner of his eye was ever on the formal head of Mr Dombeyaddressed
towards himand the feather in the bonnetdrooping so neglectfully
and scornfully between them; much as he had seen the haughty eyelids
droop; not least sowhen the face met that now fronting it. Onceand
once onlydid his wary glance release these objects; and that was
when a leap over a low hedgeand a gallop across a fieldenabled him
to anticipate the carriage coming by the roadand to be standing
readyat the journey's endto hand the ladies out. Thenand but
thenhe met her glance for an instant in her first surprise; but when
he touched herin alightingwith his soft white handit overlooked
him altogether as before.

Mrs Skewton was bent on taking charge of Mr Carker herselfand
showing him the beauties of the Castle. She was determined to have his
armand the Major's too. It would do that incorrigible creature: who
was the most barbarous infidel in point of poetry: good to be in such
company. This chance arrangement left Mr Dombey at liberty to escort
Edith: which he did: stalking before them through the apartments with
a gentlemanly solemnity.

'Those darling byegone timesMr Carker' said Cleopatra'with
their delicious fortressesand their dear old dungeonsand their
delightful places of tortureand their romantic vengeancesand their
picturesque assaults and siegesand everything that makes life truly
charming! How dreadfully we have degenerated!'

'Yeswe have fallen off deplorably' said Mr Carker.

The peculiarity of their conversation wasthat Mrs Skewtonin


spite of her ecstasiesand Mr Carkerin spite of his urbanitywere
both intent on watching Mr Dombey and Edith. With all their
conversational endowmentsthey spoke somewhat distractedlyand at
randomin consequence.

'We have no Faith leftpositively' said Mrs Skewtonadvancing
her shrivelled ear; for Mr Dombey was saying something to Edith. 'We
have no Faith in the dear old Baronswho were the most delightful
creatures - or in the dear old Priestswho were the most warlike of
men - or even in the days of that inestimable Queen Bessupon the
wall therewhich were so extremely golden. Dear creature! She was all
Heart And that charming father of hers! I hope you dote on Harry the
Eighth!'

'I admire him very much' said Carker.

'So bluff!' cried Mrs Skewton'wasn't he? So burly. So truly
English. Such a picturetoohe makeswith his dear little peepy
eyesand his benevolent chin!'

'AhMa'am!' said Carkerstopping short; 'but if you speak of
picturesthere's a composition! What gallery in the world can produce
the counterpart of that?'

As the smiling gentleman thus spakehe pointed through a doorway
to where Mr Dombey and Edith were standing alone in the centre of
another room.

They were not interchanging a word or a look. Standing together
arm in armthey had the appearance of being more divided than if seas
had rolled between them. There was a difference even in the pride of
the twothat removed them farther from each otherthan if one had
been the proudest and the other the humblest specimen of humanity in
all creation. Heself-importantunbendingformalaustere. She
lovely and gracefulin an uncommon degreebut totally regardless of
herself and him and everything aroundand spurning her own
attractions with her haughty brow and lipas if they were a badge or
livery she hated. So unmatched were theyand opposedso forced and
linked together by a chain which adverse hazard and mischance had
forged: that fancy might have imagined the pictures on the walls
around themstartled by the unnatural conjunctionand observant of
it in their several expressions. Grim knights and warriors looked
scowling on them. A churchmanwith his hand upraiseddenounced the
mockery of such a couple coming to God's altar. Quiet waters in
landscapeswith the sun reflected in their depthsaskedif better
means of escape were not at handwas there no drowning left? Ruins
cried'Look hereand see what We arewedded to uncongenial Time!'
Animalsopposed by natureworried one anotheras a moral to them.
Loves and Cupids took to flight afraidand Martyrdom had no such
torment in its painted history of suffering.

NeverthelessMrs Skewton was so charmed by the sight to which Mr
Carker invoked her attentionthat she could not refraIn from saying
half aloudhow sweethow very full of soul it was! Edith
overhearinglooked roundand flushed indignant scarlet to her hair.

'My dearest Edith knows I was admiring her!' said Cleopatra
tapping heralmost timidlyon the back with her parasol. 'Sweet
pet!'

Again Mr Carker saw the strife he had witnessed so unexpectedly
among the trees. Again he saw the haughty languor and indifference
come over itand hide it like a cloud.


She did not raise her eyes to him; but with a slight peremptory
motion of themseemed to bid her mother come near. Mrs Skewton
thought it expedient to understand the hintand advancing quickly
with her two cavalierskept near her daughter from that time

Mr Carker nowhaving nothing to distract his attentionbegan to
discourse upon the pictures and to select the bestand point them out
to Mr Dombey: speaking with his usual familiar recognition of Mr
Dombey's greatnessand rendering homage by adjusting his eye-glass
for himor finding out the right place in his catalogueor holding
his stickor the like. These services did not so much originate with
Mr Carkerin truthas with Mr Dombey himselfwho was apt to assert
his chieftainship by sayingwith subdued authorityand in an easy
way - for him - 'HereCarkerhave the goodness to assist mewill
you?' which the smiling gentleman always did with pleasure.

They made the tour of the picturesthe wallscrow's nestand so
forth; and as they were still one little partyand the Major was
rather in the shade: being sleepy during the process of digestion: Mr
Carker became communicative and agreeable. At firsthe addressed
himself for the most part to Mrs Skewton; but as that sensitive lady
was in such ecstasies with the works of artafter the first quarter
of an hourthat she could do nothing but yawn (they were such perfect
inspirationsshe observed as a reason for that mark of rapture)he
transferred his attentions to Mr Dombey. Mr Dombey said little beyond
an occasional 'Very trueCarker' or 'IndeedCarker' but he tacitly
encouraged Carker to proceedand inwardly approved of his behaviour
very much: deeming it as well that somebody should talkand thinking
that his remarkswhich wereas one might saya branch of the parent
establishmentmight amuse Mrs Granger. Mr Carkerwho possessed an
excellent discretionnever took the liberty of addressing that lady
direct; but she seemed to listenthough she never looked at him; and
once or twicewhen he was emphatic in his peculiar humilitythe
twilight smile stole over her facenot as a lightbut as a deep
black shadow.

Warwick Castle being at length pretty well exhaustedand the Major
very much so: to say nothing of Mrs Skewtonwhose peculiar
demonstrations of delight had become very frequent Indeed: the
carriage was again put In requisitionand they rode to several
admired points of view In the neighbourhood. Mr Dombey ceremoniously
observed of one of thesethat a sketchhowever slightfrom the fair
hand of Mrs Grangerwould be a remembrance to him of that agreeable
day: though he wanted no artificial remembrancehe was sure (here Mr
Dombey made another of his bows)which he must always highly value.
Withers the lean having Edith's sketch-book under his armwas
immediately called upon by Mrs Skewton to produce the same: and the
carriage stoppedthat Edith might make the drawingwhich Mr Dombey
was to put away among his treasures.

'But I am afraid I trouble you too much' said Mr Dombey.

'By no means. Where would you wish it taken from?' she answered
turning to him with the same enforced attention as before.

Mr Dombeywith another bowwhich cracked the starch in his
cravatwould beg to leave that to the Artist.

'I would rather you chose for yourself' said Edith.

'Suppose then' said Mr Dombey'we say from here. It appears a
good spot for the purposeor - Carkerwhat do you think?'

There happened to be in the foregroundat some little distancea


grove of treesnot unlike that In which Mr Carker had made his chain
of footsteps in the morningand with a seat under one treegreatly
resemblingin the general character of its situationthe point where
his chain had broken.

'Might I venture to suggest to Mrs Granger' said Carker'that
that is an interesting - almost a curious - point of view?'

She followed the direction of his riding-whip with her eyesand
raised them quickly to his face. It was the second glance they had
exchanged since their introduction; and would have been exactly like
the firstbut that its expression was plainer.

'Will you like that?' said Edith to Mr Dombey.

'I shall be charmed' said Mr Dombey to Edith.

Therefore the carriage was driven to the spot where Mr Dombey was
to be charmed; and Edithwithout moving from her seatand openIng
her sketch-book with her usual proud indifferencebegan to sketch.

'My pencils are all pointless' she saidstopping and turning them
over.

'Pray allow me' said Mr Dombey. 'Or Carker will do it betteras
he understands these things. Carkerhave the goodness to see to these
pencils for Mrs Granger.

Mr Carker rode up close to the carriage-door on Mrs Granger's side
and letting the rein fall on his horse's necktook the pencils from
her hand with a smile and a bowand sat in the saddle leisurely
mending them. Having done sohe begged to be allowed to hold them
and to hand them to her as they were required; and thus Mr Carker
with many commendations of Mrs Granger's extraordinary skill especially
in trees - remained - close at her sidelooking over the
drawing as she made it. Mr Dombey in the meantime stood bolt upright
in the carriage like a highly respectable ghostlooking on too; while
Cleopatra and the Major dallied as two ancient doves might do.

'Are you satisfied with thator shall I finish it a little more?'
said Edithshowing the sketch to Mr Dombey.

Mr Dombey begged that it might not be touched; it was perfection.

'It is most extraordinary' said Carkerbringing every one of his
red gums to bear upon his praise. 'I was not prepared for anything so
beautifuland so unusual altogether.'

This might have applied to the sketcher no less than to the sketch;
but Mr Carker's manner was openness itself - not as to his mouth
alonebut as to his whole spirit. So it continued to be while the
drawing was laid aside for Mr Dombeyand while the sketching
materials were put up; then he handed in the pencils (which were
received with a distant acknowledgment of his helpbut without a
look)and tightening his reinfell backand followed the carriage
again.

Thinkingperhapsas he rodethat even this trivial sketch had
been made and delivered to its owneras if it had been bargained for
and bought. Thinkingperhapsthat although she had assented with
such perfect readiness to his requesther haughty facebent over the
drawingor glancing at the distant objects represented in ithad
been the face of a proud womanengaged in a sordid and miserable
transaction. Thinkingperhapsof such things: but smiling certainly


and while he seemed to look about him freelyin enjoyment of the air
and exercisekeeping always that sharp corner of his eye upon the
carriage.

A stroll among the haunted ruins of Kenilworthand more rides to
more points of view: most of whichMrs Skewton reminded Mr Dombey
Edith had already sketchedas he had seen in looking over her
drawings: brought the day's expedition to a close. Mrs Skewton and
Edith were driven to their own lodgings; Mr Carker was graciously
invited by Cleopatra to return thither with Mr Dombey and the Major
in the eveningto hear some of Edith's music; and the three gentlemen
repaired to their hotel to dinner.

The dinner was the counterpart of yesterday'sexcept that the
Major was twenty-four hours more triumphant and less mysterious. Edith
was toasted again. Mr Dombey was again agreeably embarrassed. And Mr
Carker was full of interest and praise.

There were no other visitors at Mrs Skewton's. Edith's drawings
were strewn about the rooma little more abundantly than usual
perhaps; and Withersthe wan pagehanded round a little stronger
tea. The harp was there; the piano was there; and Edith sang and
played. But even the music was played by Edith to Mr Dombey's order
as it werein the same uncompromising way. As thus.

'Edithmy dearest love' said Mrs Skewtonhalf an hour after tea
'Mr Dombey is dying to hear youI know.'

'Mr Dombey has life enough left to say so for himselfMamaI have
no doubt.'

'I shall be immensely obliged' said Mr Dombey.

'What do you wish?'

'Piano?' hesitated Mr Dombey.

'Whatever you please. You have only to choose.

Accordinglyshe began with the piano. It was the same with the
harp; the same with her singing; the same with the selection of the
pieces that she sang and played. Such frigid and constrainedyet
prompt and pointed acquiescence with the wishes he imposed upon her
and on no one elsewas sufficiently remarkable to penetrate through
all the mysteries of picquetand impress itself on Mr Carker's keen
attention. Nor did he lose sight of the fact that Mr Dombey was
evidently proud of his powerand liked to show it.

NeverthelessMr Carker played so well - some games with the Major
and some with Cleopatrawhose vigilance of eye in respect of Mr
Dombey and Edith no lynx could have surpassed - that he even
heightened his position in the lady-mother's good graces; and when on
taking leave he regretted that he would be obliged to return to London
next morningCleopatra trusted: community of feeling not being met
with every day: that it was far from being the last time they would
meet.

'I hope so' said Mr Carkerwith an expressive look at the couple
in the distanceas he drew towards the doorfollowing the Major. 'I
think so.'

Mr Dombeywho had taken a stately leave of Edithbentor made
some approach to a bendover Cleopatra's couchand saidin a low
voice:


'I have requested Mrs Granger's permission to call on her to-morrow
morning - for a purpose - and she has appointed twelve o'clock. May I
hope to have the pleasure of finding you at homeMadamafterwards?'

Cleopatra was so much fluttered and movedby hearing thisof
courseincomprehensible speechthat she could only shut her eyes
and shake her headand give Mr Dombey her hand; which Mr Dombeynot
exactly knowing what to do withdropped.

'Dombeycome along!' cried the Majorlooking in at the door.
'DammeSirold Joe has a great mind to propose an alteration in the
name of the Royal Hoteland that it should be called the Three Jolly
Bachelorsin honour of ourselves and Carker.' With thisthe Major
slapped Mr Dombey on the backand winking over his shoulder at the
ladieswith a frightful tendency of blood to the headcarried him
off.

Mrs Skewton reposed on her sofaand Edith sat apartby her harp
in silence. The mothertrifling with her fanlooked stealthily at
the daughter more than oncebut the daughterbrooding gloomily with
downcast eyeswas not to be disturbed.

Thus they remained for a long hourwithout a worduntil Mrs
Skewton's maid appearedaccording to customto prepare her gradually
for night. At nightshe should have been a skeletonwith dart and
hour-glassrather than a womanthis attendant; for her touch was as
the touch of Death. The painted object shrivelled underneath her hand;
the form collapsedthe hair dropped offthe arched dark eyebrows
changed to scanty tufts of grey; the pale lips shrunkthe skin became
cadaverous and loose; an oldwornyellownodding womanwith red
eyesalone remained in Cleopatra's placehuddled uplike a slovenly
bundlein a greasy flannel gown.

The very voice was changedas it addressed Edithwhen they were
alone again.

'Why don't you tell me' it said sharply'that he is coming here
to-morrow by appointment?'

'Because you know it' returned Edith'Mother.'

The mocking emphasis she laid on that one word!

'You know he has bought me' she resumed. 'Or that he will
to-morrow. He has considered of his bargain; he has shown it to his
friend; he is even rather proud of it; he thinks that it will suit
himand may be had sufficiently cheap; and he will buy to-morrow.
Godthat I have lived for thisand that I feel it!'

Compress into one handsome face the conscious self-abasementand
the burning indignation of a hundred womenstrong in passion and in
pride; and there it hid itself with two white shuddering arms.

'What do you mean?' returned the angry mother. 'Haven't you from a
child - '

'A child!' said Edithlooking at her'when was I a child? What
childhood did you ever leave to me? I was a woman - artfuldesigning
mercenarylaying snares for men - before I knew myselfor youor
even understood the base and wretched aim of every new display I
learnt You gave birth to a woman. Look upon her. She is in her pride
tonight'


And as she spokeshe struck her hand upon her beautiful bosomas
though she would have beaten down herself

'Look at me' she said'who have never known what it is to have an
honest heartand love. Look at metaught to scheme and plot when
children play; and married in my youth - an old age of design - to one
for whom I had no feeling but indifference. Look at mewhom he left a
widowdying before his inheritance descended to him - a judgment on
you! well deserved! - and tell me what has been my life for ten years
since.'

'We have been making every effort to endeavour to secure to you a
good establishment' rejoined her mother. 'That has been your life.
And now you have got it.'

'There is no slave in a market: there is no horse in a fair: so
shown and offered and examined and paradedMotheras I have been
for ten shameful years' cried Edithwith a burning browand the
same bitter emphasis on the one word. 'Is it not so? Have I been made
the bye-word of all kinds of men? Have foolshave profligateshave
boyshave dotardsdangled after meand one by one rejected meand
fallen offbecause you were too plain with all your cunning: yesand
too truewith all those false pretences: until we have almost come to
be notorious? The licence of look and touch' she saidwith flashing
eyes'have I submitted to itin half the places of resort upon the
map of England? Have I been hawked and vended here and thereuntil
the last grain of self-respect is dead within meand I loathe myself?
Has been my late childhood? I had none before. Do not tell me that I
hadtonight of all nights in my life!'

'You might have been well married' said her mother'twenty times
at leastEdithif you had given encouragement enough.'

'No! Who takes merefuse that I amand as I well deserve to be'
she answeredraising her headand trembling in her energy of shame
and stormy pride'shall take meas this man doeswith no art of
mine put forth to lure him. He sees me at the auctionand he thinks
it well to buy me. Let him! When he came to view me - perhaps to bid he
required to see the roll of my accomplishments. I gave it to him.
When he would have me show one of themto justify his purchase to his
menI require of him to say which he demandsand I exhibit it. I
will do no more. He makes the purchase of his own willand with his
own sense of its worthand the power of his money; and I hope it may
never disappoint him. I have not vaunted and pressed the bargain;
neither have youso far as I have been able to prevent you.

'You talk strangely to-nightEdithto your own Mother.'

'It seems so to me; stranger to me than you' said Edith. 'But my
education was completed long ago. I am too old nowand have fallen
too lowby degreesto take a new courseand to stop yoursand to
help myself. The germ of all that purifies a woman's breastand makes
it true and goodhas never stirred in mineand I have nothing else
to sustain me when I despise myself.' There had been a touching
sadness in her voicebut it was gonewhen she went on to saywith a
curled lip'Soas we are genteel and poorI am content that we
should be made rich by these means; all I say isI have kept the only
purpose I have had the strength to form - I had almost said the power
with you at my sideMother - and have not tempted this man on.'

'This man! You speak' said her mother'as if you hated him.'

'And you thought I loved himdid you not?' she answeredstopping
on her way across the roomand looking round. 'Shall I tell you' she


continuedwith her eyes fixed on her mother'who already knows us
thoroughlyand reads us rightand before whom I have even less of
self-respect or confidence than before my own inward self; being so
much degraded by his knowledge of me?'

'This is an attackI suppose' returned her mother coldly'on
poorunfortunate what's-his-name - Mr Carker! Your want of
self-respect and confidencemy dearin reference to that person (who
is very agreeableit strikes me)is not likely to have much effect
on your establishment. Why do you look at me so hard? Are you ill?'

Edith suddenly let fall her faceas if it had been stungand
while she pressed her hands upon ita terrible tremble crept over her
whole frame. It was quickly gone; and with her usual stepshe passed
out of the room.

The maid who should have been a skeletonthen reappearedand
giving one arm to her mistresswho appeared to have taken off her
manner with her charmsand to have put on paralysis with her flannel
gowncollected the ashes of Cleopatraand carried them away in the
otherready for tomorrow's revivification.

CHAPTER 28.

Alterations

'So the day has come at lengthSusan' said Florence to the
excellent Nipper'when we are going back to our quiet home!'

Susan drew in her breath with an amount of expression not easily
describedfurther relieving her feelings with a smart cough
answered'Very quiet indeedMiss Floyno doubt. Excessive so.'

'When I was a child' said Florencethoughtfullyand after musing
for some moments'did you ever see that gentleman who has taken the
trouble to ride down here to speak to menow three times - three
timesI thinkSusan?'

'Three timesMiss' returned the Nipper. 'Once when you was out a
walking with them Sket- '

Florence gently looked at herand Miss Nipper checked herself.

'With Sir Barnet and his ladyI mean to sayMissand the young
gentleman. And two evenings since then.'

'When I was a childand when company used to come to visit Papa
did you ever see that gentleman at homeSusan?' asked Florence.

'WellMiss' returned her maidafter considering'I really
couldn't say I ever did. When your poor dear Ma diedMiss FloyI was
very new in the familyyou seeand my element:' the Nipper bridled
as opining that her merits had been always designedly extinguished by
Mr Dombey: 'was the floor below the attics.'

'To be sure' said Florencestill thoughtfully; 'you are not
likely to have known who came to the house. I quite forgot.'

'NotMissbut what we talked about the family and visitors' said
Susan'and but what I heard much saidalthough the nurse before Mrs
Richards make unpleasant remarks when I was in companyand hint at


little Pitchersbut that could only be attributedpoor thing'
observed Susanwith composed forbearance'to habits of intoxication
for which she was required to leaveand did.'

Florencewho was seated at her chamber windowwith her face
resting on her handsat looking outand hardly seemed to hear what
Susan saidshe was so lost in thought.

'At all eventsMiss' said Susan'I remember very well that this
same gentlemanMr Carkerwas almostif not quiteas great a
gentleman with your Papa thenas he is now. It used to be said in the
house thenMissthat he was at the head of all your Pa's affairs in
the Cityand managed the wholeand that your Pa minded him more than
anybodywhichbegging your pardonMiss Floyhe might easy dofor
he never minded anybody else. I knew thatPitcher as I might have
been.'

Susan Nipperwith an injured remembrance of the nurse before Mrs
Richardsemphasised 'Pitcher' strongly.

'And that Mr Carker has not fallen offMiss' she pursued'but
has stood his groundand kept his credit with your PaI know from
what is always said among our people by that Perchwhenever he comes
to the house; and though he's the weakest weed in the worldMiss
Floyand no one can have a moment's patience with the manhe knows
what goes on in the City tolerable welland says that your Pa does
nothing without Mr Carkerand leaves all to Mr Carkerand acts
according to Mr Carkerand has Mr Carker always at his elbowand I
do believe that he believes (that washiest of Perches!) that after
your Pathe Emperor of India is the child unborn to Mr Carker.'

Not a word of this was lost on Florencewhowith an awakened
interest in Susan's speechno longer gazed abstractedly on the
prospect withoutbut looked at herand listened with attention.

'YesSusan' she saidwhen that young lady had concluded. 'He is
in Papa's confidenceand is his friendI am sure.'

Florence's mind ran high on this themeand had done for some days.
Mr Carkerin the two visits with which he had followed up his first
onehad assumed a confidence between himself and her - a right on his
part to be mysterious and stealthyin telling her that the ship was
still unheard of - a kind of mildly restrained power and authority
over her - that made her wonderand caused her great uneasiness. She
had no means of repelling itor of freeing herself from the web he
was gradually winding about her; for that would have required some art
and knowledge of the worldopposed to such address as his; and
Florence had none. Truehe had said no more to her than that there
was no news of the shipand that he feared the worst; but how he came
to know that she was interested in the shipand why he had the right
to signify his knowledge to herso insidiously and darklytroubled
Florence very much.

This conduct on the part of Mr Carkerand her habit of often
considering it with wonder and uneasinessbegan to invest him with an
uncomfortable fascination in Florence's thoughts. A more distinct
remembrance of his featuresvoiceand manner: which she sometimes
courtedas a means of reducing him to the level of a real personage
capable of exerting no greater charm over her than another: did not
remove the vague impression. And yet he never frownedor looked upon
her with an air of dislike or animositybut was always smiling and
serene.

AgainFlorencein pursuit of her strong purpose with reference to


her fatherand her steady resolution to believe that she was herself
unwittingly to blame for their so cold and distant relationswould
recall to mind that this gentleman was his confidential friendand
would thinkwith an anxious heartcould her struggling tendency to
dislike and fear him be a part of that misfortune in herwhich had
turned her father's love adriftand left her so alone? She dreaded
that it might be; sometimes believed it was: then she resolved that
she would try to conquer this wrong feeling; persuaded herself that
she was honoured and encouraged by the notice of her father's friend;
and hoped that patient observation of him and trust in him would lead
her bleeding feet along that stony road which ended in her father's
heart.

Thuswith no one to advise her - for she could advise with no one
without seeming to complain against him - gentle Florence tossed on an
uneasy sea of doubt and hope; and Mr Carkerlike a scaly monster of
the deepswam down belowand kept his shining eye upon her. Florence
had a new reason in all this for wishing to be at home again. Her
lonely life was better suited to her course of timid hope and doubt;
and she feared sometimesthat in her absence she might miss some
hopeful chance of testifying her affection for her father. Heaven
knowsshe might have set her mind at restpoor child! on this last
point; but her slighted love was fluttering within herandeven in
her sleepit flew away in dreamsand nestledlike a wandering bird
come homeupon her father's neck.

Of Walter she thought often. Ah! how oftenwhen the night was
gloomyand the wind was blowing round the house! But hope was strong
in her breast. It is so difficult for the young and ardenteven with
such experience as hersto imagine youth and ardour quenched like a
weak flameand the bright day of life merging into nightat noon
that hope was strong yet. Her tears fell frequently for Walter's
sufferings; but rarely for his supposed deathand never long.

She had written to the old Instrument-makerbut had received no
answer to her note: which indeed required none. Thus matters stood
with Florence on the morning when she was going homegladlyto her
old secluded life.

Doctor and Mrs Blimberaccompanied (much against his will) by
their valued chargeMaster Barnetwere already gone back to
Brightonwhere that young gentleman and his fellow-pilgrims to
Parnassus were thenno doubtin the continual resumption of their
studies. The holiday time was past and over; most of the juvenile
guests at the villa had taken their departure; and Florence's long
visit was come to an end.

There was one guesthoweveralbeit not resident within the house
who had been very constant in his attentions to the familyand who
still remained devoted to them. This was Mr Tootswho after renewing
some weeks agothe acquaintance he had had the happiness of forming
with Skettles Junioron the night when he burst the Blimberian bonds
and soared into freedom with his ring oncalled regularly every other
dayand left a perfect pack of cards at the hall-door; so many
indeedthat the ceremony was quite a deal on the part of Mr Toots
and a hand at whist on the part of the servant.

Mr Tootslikewisewith the bold and happy idea of preventing the
family from forgetting him (but there is reason to suppose that this
expedient originated in the teeming brain of the Chicken)had
established a six-oared cuttermanned by aquatic friends of the
Chicken's and steered by that illustrious character in personwho
wore a bright red fireman's coat for the purposeand concealed the
perpetual black eye with which he was afflictedbeneath a green


shade. Previous to the institution of this equipageMr Toots sounded
the Chicken on a hypothetical caseassupposing the Chicken to be
enamoured of a young lady named Maryand to have conceived the
intention of starting a boat of his ownwhat would he call that boat?
The Chicken repliedwith divers strong asseverationsthat he would
either christen it Poll or The Chicken's Delight. Improving on this
ideaMr Tootsafter deep study and the exercise of much invention
resolved to call his boat The Toots's Joyas a delicate compliment to
Florenceof which no man knowing the partiescould possibly miss the
appreciation.

Stretched on a crimson cushion in his gallant barkwith his shoes
in the airMr Tootsin the exercise of his projecthad come up the
riverday after dayand week after weekand had flitted to and fro
near Sir Barnet's gardenand had caused his crew to cut across and
across the river at sharp anglesfor his better exhibition to any
lookers-out from Sir Barnet's windowsand had had such evolutions
performed by the Toots's Joy as had filled all the neighbouring part
of the water-side with astonishment. But whenever he saw anyone in Sir
Barnet's garden on the brink of the riverMr Toots always feigned to
be passing thereby a combination of coincidences of the most
singular and unlikely description.

'How are youToots?' Sir Barnet would saywaving his hand from
the lawnwhile the artful Chicken steered close in shore.

'How de doSir Barnet?' Mr Toots would answerWhat a surprising
thing that I should see you here!'

Mr Tootsin his sagacityalways said thisas ifinstead of that
being Sir Barnet's houseit were some deserted edifice on the banks
of the Nileor Ganges.

'I never was so surprised!' Mr Toots would exclaim. - 'Is Miss
Dombey there?'

Whereupon Florence would appearperhaps.

'OhDiogenes is quite wellMiss Dombey' Toots would cry. 'I
called to ask this morning.'

'Thank you very much!' the pleasant voice of Florence would reply.

'Won't you come ashoreToots?' Sir Barnet would say then. 'Come!
you're in no hurry. Come and see us.'

'Ohit's of no consequencethank you!' Mr Toots would blushingly
rejoin. 'I thought Miss Dombey might like to knowthat's all.
Good-bye!' And poor Mr Tootswho was dying to accept the invitation
but hadn't the courage to do itsigned to the Chickenwith an aching
heartand away went the Joycleaving the water like an arrow.

The Joy was lying in a state of extraordinary splendourat the
garden stepson the morning of Florence's departure. When she went
downstairs to take leaveafter her talk with Susanshe found Mr
Toots awaiting her in the drawing-room.

'Ohhow de doMiss Dombey?' said the stricken Tootsalways
dreadfully disconcerted when the desire of his heart was gainedand
he was speaking to her; 'thank youI'm very well indeedI hope
you're the sameso was Diogenes yesterday.'

'You are very kind' said Florence.


'Thank youit's of no consequence' retorted Mr Toots. 'I thought
perhaps you wouldn't mindin this fine weathercoming home by water
Miss Dombey. There's plenty of room in the boat for your maid.'

'I am very much obliged to you' said Florencehesitating. 'I
really am - but I would rather not.'

'Ohit's of no consequence' retorted Mr Toots. 'Good morning.'

'Won't you wait and see Lady Skettles?' asked Florencekindly.

'Oh nothank you' returned Mr Toots'it's of no consequence at
all.'

So shy was Mr Toots on such occasionsand so flurried! But Lady
Skettles entering at the momentMr Toots was suddenly seized with a
passion for asking her how she didand hoping she was very well; nor
could Mr Toots by any possibility leave off shaking hands with her
until Sir Barnet appeared: to whom he immediately clung with the
tenacity of desperation.

'We are losingtodayToots' said Sir Barnetturning towards
Florence'the light of our houseI assure you'

'Ohit's of no conseq - I mean yesto be sure' faltered the
embarrassed Mr Toots. 'Good morning!'

Notwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewellMr Toots
instead of going awaystood leering about himvacantly. Florenceto
relieve himbade adieuwith many thanksto Lady Skettlesand gave
her arm to Sir Barnet.

'May I beg of youmy dear Miss Dombey' said her hostas he
conducted her to the carriage'to present my best compliments to your
dear Papa?'

It was distressing to Florence to receive the commissionfor she
felt as if she were imposing on Sir Barnet by allowing him to believe
that a kindness rendered to herwas rendered to her father. As she
could not explainhowevershe bowed her head and thanked him; and
again she thought that the dull homefree from such embarrassments
and such reminders of her sorrowwas her natural and best retreat.

Such of her late friends and companions as were yet remaining at
the villacame running from withinand from the gardento say
good-bye. They were all attached to herand very earnest in taking
leave of her. Even the household were sorry for her goingand the
servants came nodding and curtseying round the carriage door. As
Florence looked round on the kind facesand saw among them those of
Sir Barnet and his ladyand of Mr Tootswho was chuckling and
staring at her from a distanceshe was reminded of the night when
Paul and she had come from Doctor Blimber's: and when the carriage
drove awayher face was wet with tears.

Sorrowful tearsbut tears of consolationtoo; for all the softer
memories connected with the dull old house to which she was returning
made it dear to heras they rose up. How long it seemed since she had
wandered through the silent rooms: since she had last creptsoftly
and afraidinto those her father occupied: since she had felt the
solemn but yet soothing influence of the beloved dead in every action
of her daily life! This new farewell reminded herbesidesof her
parting with poor Walter: of his looks and words that night: and of
the gracious blending she had noticed in himof tenderness for those
he left behindwith courage and high spirit. His little history was


associated with the old house tooand gave it a new claim and hold
upon her heart. Even Susan Nipper softened towards the home of so many
yearsas they were on their way towards it. Gloomy as it wasand
rigid justice as she rendered to its gloomshe forgave it a great
deal. 'I shall be glad to see it againI don't denyMiss' said the
Nipper. 'There ain't much in it to boast ofbut I wouldn't have it
burnt or pulled downneither!'

'You'll be glad to go through the old roomswon't youSusan?'
said Florencesmiling.

'WellMiss' returned the Nippersoftening more and more towards
the houseas they approached it nearer'I won't deny but what I
shallthough I shall hate 'em againto-morrowvery likely.'

Florence felt thatfor herthere was greater peace within it than
elsewhere. It was better and easier to keep her secret shut up there
among the tall dark wallsthan to carry it abroad into the lightand
try to hide it from a crowd of happy eyes. It was better to pursue the
study of her loving heartaloneand find no new discouragements in
loving hearts about her. It was easier to hopeand prayand love on
all uncared foryet with constancy and patiencein the tranquil
sanctuary of such remembrances: although it moulderedrustedand
decayed about her: than in a new scenelet its gaiety be what it
would. She welcomed back her old enchanted dream of lifeand longed
for the old dark door to close upon heronce again.

Full of such thoughtsthey turned into the long and sombre street.
Florence was not on that side of the carriage which was nearest to her
homeand as the distance lessened between them and itshe looked out
of her window for the children over the way.

She was thus engagedwhen an exclamation from Susan caused her to
turn quickly round.

'WhyGracious me!' cried Susanbreathless'where's our house!'

'Our house!' said Florence.

Susandrawing in her head from the windowthrust it out again
drew it in again as the carriage stoppedand stared at her mistress
in amazement.

There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round the house
from the basement to the roof. Loads of bricks and stonesand heaps
of mortarand piles of woodblocked up half the width and length of
the broad street at the side. Ladders were raised against the walls;
labourers were climbing up and down; men were at work upon the steps
of the scaffolding; painters and decorators were busy inside; great
rolls of ornamental paper were being delivered from a cart at the
door; an upholsterer's waggon also stopped the way; no furniture was
to be seen through the gaping and broken windows in any of the rooms;
nothing but workmenand the implements of their several trades
swarming from the kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike:
bricklayerspainterscarpentersmasons: hammerhodbrush
pickaxesawand trowel: all at work togetherin full chorus!

Florence descended from the coachhalf doubting if it wereor
could be the right houseuntil she recognised Towlinsonwith a
sun-burnt facestanding at the door to receive her.

'There is nothing the matter?' inquired Florence.

'Oh noMiss.'


'There are great alterations going on.'

'YesMissgreat alterations' said Towlinson.

Florence passed him as if she were in a dreamand hurried
upstairs. The garish light was in the long-darkened drawing-room and
there were steps and platformsand men In paper capsin the high
places. Her mother's picture was gone with the rest of the moveables
and on the mark where it had beenwas scrawled in chalk'this room
in panel. Green and gold.' The staircase was a labyrinth of posts and
planks like the outside of the houseand a whole Olympus of plumbers
and glaziers was reclining in various attitudeson the skylight. Her
own room was not yet touched withinbut there were beams and boards
raised against it withoutbaulking the daylight. She went up swiftly
to that other bedroomwhere the little bed was; and a dark giant of a
man with a pipe in his mouthand his head tied up in a
pocket-handkerchiefwas staring in at the window.

It was here that Susan Nipperwho had been in quest of Florence
found herand saidwould she go downstairs to her Papawho wished
to speak to her.

'At home! and wishing to speak to me!' cried Florencetrembling.

Susanwho was infinitely more distraught than Florence herself
repeated her errand; and Florencepale and agitatedhurried down
againwithout a moment's hesitation. She thought upon the way down
would she dare to kiss him? The longing of her heart resolved herand
she thought she would.

Her father might have heard that heart beatwhen it came into his
presence. One instantand it would have beat against his breast.

But he was not alone. There were two ladies there; and Florence
stopped. Striving so hard with her emotionthat if her brute friend
Di had not burst in and overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome
home - at which one of the ladies gave a little screamand that
diverted her attention from herself - she would have swooned upon the
floor.

'Florence' said her fatherputting out his hand: so stiffly that
it held her off: 'how do you do?'

Florence took the hand between her ownand putting it timidly to
her lipsyielded to its withdrawal. It touched the door in shutting
itwith quite as much endearment as it had touched her.

'What dog is that?' said Mr Dombeydispleased.

'It is a dogPapa - from Brighton.'

'Well!' said Mr Dombey; and a cloud passed over his facefor he
understood her.

'He is very good-tempered' said Florenceaddressing herself with
her natural grace and sweetness to the two lady strangers. 'He is only
glad to see me. Pray forgive him.'

She saw in the glance they interchangedthat the lady who had
screamedand who was seatedwas old; and that the other ladywho
stood near her Papawas very beautifuland of an elegant figure.

'Mrs Skewton' said her fatherturning to the firstand holding


out his hand'this is my daughter Florence.'

'CharmingI am sure' observed the ladyputting up her glass. 'So
natural! My darling Florenceyou must kiss meif you please.'

Florence having done soturned towards the other ladyby whom her
father stood waiting.

'Edith' said Mr Dombey'this is my daughter Florence. Florence
this lady will soon be your Mama.'

Florence startedand looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict
of emotionsamong which the tears that name awakenedstruggled for a
moment with surpriseinterestadmirationand an indefinable sort of
fear. Then she cried out'OhPapamay you be happy! may you be
veryvery happy all your life!' and then fell weeping on the lady's
bosom.

There was a short silence. The beautiful ladywho at first had
seemed to hesitate whether or no she should advance to Florenceheld
her to her breastand pressed the hand with which she clasped her
close about her waistas if to reassure her and comfort her. Not one
word passed the lady's lips. She bent her head down over Florenceand
she kissed her on the cheekbut she said no word.

'Shall we go on through the rooms' said Mr Dombey'and see how
our workmen are doing? Pray allow memy dear madam.'

He said this in offering his arm to Mrs Skewtonwho had been
looking at Florence through her glassas though picturing to herself
what she might be madeby the infusion - from her own copious
storehouseno doubt - of a little more Heart and Nature. Florence was
still sobbing on the lady's breastand holding to herwhen Mr Dombey
was heard to say from the Conservatory:

'Let us ask Edith. Dear mewhere is she?'

'Edithmy dear!' cried Mrs Skewton'where are you? Looking for Mr
Dombey somewhereI know. We are heremy love.'

The beautiful lady released her hold of Florenceand pressing her
lips once more upon her facewithdrew hurriedlyand joined them.
Florence remained standing In the same place: happysorryjoyful
and in tearsshe knew not howor how longbut all at once: when her
new Mama came backand took her in her arms again.

'Florence' said the ladyhurriedlyand looking into her face
with great earnestness. 'You will not begin by hating me?'

'By hating youMama?' cried Florencewinding her arm round her
neckand returning the look.

'Hush! Begin by thinking well of me' said the beautiful lady.
'Begin by believing that I will try to make you happyand that I am
prepared to love youFlorence. Good-bye. We shall meet again soon.
Good-bye! Don't stay herenow.'

Again she pressed her to her breast she had spoken in a rapid
mannerbut firmly - and Florence saw her rejoin them in the other
room. And now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new
and beautiful Mamahow to gaIn her father's love; and in her sleep
that nightin her lost old homeher own Mama smiled radiantly upon
the hopeand blessed it. Dreaming Florence!


CHAPTER 29.

The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick

Miss Toxall unconscious of any such rare appearances in connexion
with Mr Dombey's houseas scaffoldings and laddersand men with
their heads tied up in pocket-handkerchiefsglaring in at the windows
like flying genii or strange birds- having breakfasted one morning
at about this eventful period of timeon her customary viands; to
witone French roll raspedone egg new laid (or warranted to be)
and one little pot of teawherein was infused one little silver
scoopful of that herb on behalf of Miss Toxand one little silver
scoopful on behalf of the teapot - a flight of fancy in which good
housekeepers delight; went upstairs to set forth the bird waltz on the
harpsichordto water and arrange the plantsto dust the nick-nacks
andaccording to her daily customto make her little drawing-room
the garland of Princess's Place.

Miss Tox endued herself with a pair of ancient gloveslike dead
leavesin which she was accustomed to perform these avocations hidden
from human sight at other times in a table drawer - and went
methodically to work; beginning with the bird waltz; passingby a
natural association of ideasto her bird - a very high-shouldered
canarystricken in yearsand much rumpledbut a piercing singeras
Princess's Place well knew; takingnext in orderthe little china
ornamentspaper fly-cagesand so forth; and coming roundin good
timeto the plantswhich generally required to be snipped here and
there with a pair of scissorsfor some botanical reason that was very
powerful with Miss Tox. Miss Tox was slow in coming to the plants
this morning. The weather was warmthe wind southerly; and there was
a sigh of the summer-time In Princess's Placethat turned Miss Tox's
thoughts upon the country. The pot-boy attached to the Princess's Arms
had come out with a can and trickled waterin a flowering pattern
all over Princess's Placeand it gave the weedy ground a fresh scent

-quite a growing scentMiss Tox said. There was a tiny blink of sun
peeping in from the great street round the cornerand the smoky
sparrows hopped over it and back againbrightening as they passed: or
bathed in itlike a streamand became glorified sparrows
unconnected with chimneys. Legends in praise of Ginger-Beerwith
pictorial representations of thirsty customers submerged in the
effervescenceor stunned by the flying corkswere conspicuous in the
window of the Princess's Arms. They were making late haysomewhere
out of town; and though the fragrance had a long way to comeand many
counter fragrances to contend with among the dwellings of the poor
(may God reward the worthy gentlemen who stickle for the Plague as
part and parcel of the wisdom of our ancestorsand who do their
little best to keep those dwellings miserable!)yet it was wafted
faintly into Princess's Placewhispering of Nature and her wholesome
airas such things willeven unto prisoners and captivesand those
who are desolate and oppressedin very spite of aldermen and knights
to boot: at whose sage nod - and how they nod! - the rolling world
stands still!
Miss Tox sat down upon the window-seatand thought of her good
Papa deceased - Mr Toxof the Customs Department of the public
service; and of her childhoodpassed at a seaportamong a
considerable quantity of cold tarand some rusticity. She fell into a
softened remembrance of meadowsin old timegleaming with
buttercupslike so many inverted firmaments of golden stars; and how
she had made chains of dandelion-stalks for youthful vowers of eternal


constancydressed chiefly in nankeen; and how soon those fetters had
withered and broken.

Sitting on the window-seatand looking out upon the sparrows and
the blink of sunMiss Tox thought likewise of her good Mama deceased

-sister to the owner of the powdered head and pigtail - of her
virtues and her rheumatism. And when a man with bulgy legsand a
rough voiceand a heavy basket on his head that crushed his hat into
a mere black muffincame crying flowers down Princess's Placemaking
his timid little roots of daisies shudder in the vibration of every
yell he gaveas though he had been an ogrehawking little children
summer recollections were so strong upon Miss Toxthat she shook her
headand murmured she would be comparatively old before she knew it which
seemed likely.
In her pensive moodMiss Tox's thoughts went wandering on Mr
Dombey's track; probably because the Major had returned home to his
lodgings oppositeand had just bowed to her from his window. What
other reason could Miss Tox have for connecting Mr Dombey with her
summer days and dandelion fetters? Was he more cheerful? thought Miss
Tox. Was he reconciled to the decrees of fate? Would he ever marry
again? and if yeswhom? What sort of person now!

A flush - it was warm weather - overspread Miss Tox's faceas
while entertaining these meditationsshe turned her headand was
surprised by the reflection of her thoughtful image In the
chimney-glass. Another flush succeeded when she saw a little carriage
drive into Princess's Placeand make straight for her own door. Miss
Tox arosetook up her scissors hastilyand so comingat lastto
the plantswas very busy with them when Mrs Chick entered the room.

'How is my sweetest friend!' exclaimed Miss Toxwith open arms.

A little stateliness was mingled with Miss Tox's sweetest friend's
demeanourbut she kissed Miss Toxand said'Lucretiathank youI
am pretty well. I hope you are the same. Hem!'

Mrs Chick was labouring under a peculiar little monosyllabic cough;
a sort of primeror easy introduction to the art of coughing.

'You call very earlyand how kind that ismy dear!' pursued Miss
Tox. 'Nowhave you breakfasted?'

'Thank youLucretia' said Mrs Chick'I have. I took an early
breakfast' - the good lady seemed curious on the subject of Princess's
Placeand looked all round it as she spoke - 'with my brotherwho
has come home.'

'He is betterI trustmy love' faltered Miss Tox.

'He is greatly betterthank you. Hem!'

'My dear Louisa must be careful of that cough' remarked Miss Tox.

'It's nothing' returned Mrs Chic 'It's merely change of weather.
We must expect change.'

'Of weather?' asked Miss Toxin her simplicity.

'Of everything' returned Mrs Chick 'Of course we must. It's a world
of change. Anyone would surprise me very muchLucretiaand would
greatly alter my opinion of their understandingif they attempted to
contradict or evade what is so perfectly evident. Change!' exclaimed
Mrs Chickwith severe philosophy. 'Whymy gracious mewhat is there


that does not change! even the silkwormwho I am sure might be
supposed not to trouble itself about such subjectschanges into all
sorts of unexpected things continually.'

'My Louisa' said the mild Miss Tox'is ever happy in her
illustrations.'

'You are so kindLucretia' returned Mrs Chicka little softened
'as to say soand to think soI believe. I hope neither of us may
ever have any cause to lessen our opinion of the otherLucretia.'

'I am sure of it' returned Miss Tox.

Mrs Chick coughed as beforeand drew lines on the carpet with the
ivory end of her parasol. Miss Toxwho had experience of her fair
friendand knew that under the pressure of any slight fatigue or
vexation she was prone to a discursive kind of irritabilityavailed
herself of the pauseto change the subject.

'Pardon memy dear Louisa' said Miss Tox'but have I caught
sight of the manly form of Mr Chick in the carriage?'

'He is there' said Mrs Chick'but pray leave him there. He has
his newspaperand would be quite contented for the next two hours. Go
on with your flowersLucretiaand allow me to sit here and rest.'

'My Louisa knows' observed Miss Tox'that between friends like
ourselvesany approach to ceremony would be out of the question.
Therefore - ' Therefore Miss Tox finished the sentencenot in words
but action; and putting on her gloves againwhich she had taken off
and arming herself once more with her scissorsbegan to snip and clip
among the leaves with microscopic industry.

'Florence has returned home also' said Mrs Chickafter sitting
silent for some timewith her head on one sideand her parasol
sketching on the floor; 'and really Florence is a great deal too old
nowto continue to lead that solitary life to which she has been
accustomed. Of course she is. There can be no doubt about it. I should
have very little respectindeedfor anybody who could advocate a
different opinion. Whatever my wishes might beI could not respect
them. We cannot command our feelings to such an extent as that.'

Miss Tox assentedwithout being particular as to the
intelligibility of the proposition.

'If she's a strange girl' said Mrs Chick'and if my brother Paul
cannot feel perfectly comfortable in her societyafter all the sad
things that have happenedand all the terrible disappointments that
have been undergonethenwhat is the reply? That he must make an
effort. That he is bound to make an effort. We have always been a
family remarkable for effort. Paul is at the head of the family;
almost the only representative of it left - for what am I - I am of no
consequence - '

'My dearest love' remonstrated Miss Tox.

Mrs Chick dried her eyeswhich werefor the momentoverflowing;
and proceeded:

'And consequently he is more than ever bound to make an effort. And
though his having done socomes upon me with a sort of shock - for
mine is a very weak and foolish nature; which is anything but a
blessing I am sure; I often wish my heart was a marble slabor a
paving-stone



'My sweet Louisa' remonstrated Miss Tox again.

'Stillit is a triumph to me to know that he is so true to
himselfand to his name of Dombey; althoughof courseI always knew
he would be. I only hope' said Mrs Chickafter a pause'that she
may be worthy of the name too.

Miss Tox filled a little green watering-pot from a jugand
happening to look up when she had done sowas so surprised by the
amount of expression Mrs Chick had conveyed into her faceand was
bestowing upon herthat she put the little watering-pot on the table
for the presentand sat down near it.

'My dear Louisa' said Miss Tox'will it be the least satisfaction
to youif I venture to observe in reference to that remarkthat I
as a humble individualthink your sweet niece in every way most
promising?~ 'What do you meanLucretia?' returned Mrs Chickwith
increased stateliness of manner. 'To what remark of minemy deardo
you refer?'

'Her being worthy of her namemy love' replied Miss Tox.

'If' said Mrs Chickwith solemn patience'I have not expressed
myself with clearnessLucretiathe fault of course is mine. There
isperhapsno reason why I should express myself at allexcept the
intimacy that has subsisted between usand which I very much hope
Lucretia - confidently hope - nothing will occur to disturb. Because
why should I do anything else? There is no reason; it would be absurd.
But I wish to express myself clearlyLucretia; and therefore to go
back to that remarkI must beg to say that it was not intended to
relate to Florencein any way.'

'Indeed!' returned Miss Tox.

'No' said Mrs Chick shortly and decisively.

'Pardon memy dear' rejoined her meek friend; 'but I cannot have
understood it. I fear I am dull.'

Mrs Chick looked round the room and over the way; at the plantsat
the birdat the watering-potat almost everything within view
except Miss Tox; and finally dropping her glance upon Miss Toxfor a
momenton its way to the groundsaidlooking meanwhile with
elevated eyebrows at the carpet:

'When I speakLucretiaof her being worthy of the nameI speak
of my brother Paul's second wife. I believe I have already saidin
effectif not in the very words I now usethat it is his intention
to marry a second wife.'

Miss Tox left her seat in a hurryand returned to her plants;
clipping among the stems and leaveswith as little favour as a barber
working at so many pauper heads of hair.

'Whether she will be fully sensible of the distinction conferred
upon her' said Mrs Chickin a lofty tone'is quite another
question. I hope she may be. We are bound to think well of one another
in this worldand I hope she may be. I have not been advised with
myself If I had been advised withI have no doubt my advice would
have been cavalierly receivedand therefore it is infinitely better
as it is. I much prefer it as it is.'

Miss Toxwith head bent downstill clipped among the plants. Mrs


Chickwith energetic shakings of her own head from time to time
continued to hold forthas if in defiance of somebody. 'If my brother
Paul had consulted with mewhich he sometimes does - or rather
sometimes used to do; for he will naturally do that no more nowand
this is a circumstance which I regard as a relief from
responsibility' said Mrs Chickhysterically'for I thank Heaven I
am not jealous - ' here Mrs Chick again shed tears: 'if my brother
Paul had come to meand had saidLouisa, what kind of qualities
would you advise me to look out for, in a wife?I should certainly
have answeredPaul, you must have family, you must have beauty, you
must have dignity, you must have connexion.Those are the words I
should have used. You might have led me to the block immediately
afterwards' said Mrs Chickas if that consequence were highly
probable'but I should have used them. I should have saidPaul! You
to marry a second time without family! You to marry without beauty!
You to marry without dignity! You to marry without connexion! There is
nobody in the world, not mad, who could dream of daring to entertain
such a preposterous idea!'

Miss Tox stopped clipping; and with her head among the plants
listened attentively. Perhaps Miss Tox thought there was hope in this
exordiumand the warmth of Mrs Chick.

I should have adopted this course of argument' pursued the
discreet lady'because I trust I am not a fool. I make no claim to be
considered a person of superior intellect - though I believe some
people have been extraordinary enough to consider me so; one so little
humoured as I amwould very soon be disabused of any such notion; but
I trust I am not a downright fool. And to tell ME' said Mrs Chick
with ineffable disdain'that my brother Paul Dombey could ever
contemplate the possibility of uniting himself to anybody - I don't
care who' - she was more sharp and emphatic in that short clause than
in any other part of her discourse - 'not possessing these requisites
would be to insult what understanding I have gotas much as if I was
to be told that I was born and bred an elephantwhich I may be told
next' said Mrs Chickwith resignation. 'It wouldn't surprise me at
all. I expect it.'

In the moment's silence that ensuedMiss Tox's scissors gave a
feeble clip or two; but Miss Tox's face was still invisibleand Miss
Tox's morning gown was agitated. Mrs Chick looked sideways at her
through the intervening plantsand went on to sayin a tone of bland
convictionand as one dwelling on a point of fact that hardly
required to be stated:

'Thereforeof course my brother Paul has done what was to be
expected of himand what anybody might have foreseen he would doif
he entered the marriage state again. I confess it takes me rather by
surprisehowever gratifying; because when Paul went out of town I had
no idea at all that he would form any attachment out of townand he
certainly had no attachment when he left here. Howeverit seems to be
extremely desirable in every point of view. I have no doubt the mother
is a most genteel and elegant creatureand I have no right whatever
to dispute the policy of her living with them: which is Paul's affair
not mine - and as to Paul's choiceherselfI have only seen her
picture yetbut that is beautiful indeed. Her name is beautiful too'
said Mrs Chickshaking her head with energyand arranging herself in
her chair; 'Edith is at once uncommonas it strikes meand
distinguished. ConsequentlyLucretiaI have no doubt you will be
happy to hear that the marriage is to take place immediately - of
courseyou will:' great emphasis again: 'and that you are delighted
with this change in the condition of my brotherwho has shown you a
great deal of pleasant attention at various times.'


Miss Tox made no verbal answerbut took up the little watering-pot
with a trembling handand looked vacantly round as if considering
what article of furniture would be improved by the contents. The room
door opening at this crisis of Miss Tox's feelingsshe started
laughed aloudand fell into the arms of the person entering; happily
insensible alike of Mrs Chick's indignant countenance and of the Major
at his window over the waywho had his double-barrelled eye-glass in
full actionand whose face and figure were dilated with
Mephistophelean joy.

Not so the expatriated Nativeamazed supporter of Miss Tox's
swooning formwhocoming straight upstairswith a polite inquiry
touching Miss Tox's health (in exact pursuance of the Major's
malicious instructions)had accidentally arrived in the very nick of
time to catch the delicate burden in his armsand to receive the
content' of the little watering-pot in his shoe; both of which
circumstancescoupled with his consciousness of being closely watched
by the wrathful Majorwho had threatened the usual penalty in regard
of every bone in his skin in case of any failurecombined to render
him a moving spectacle of mental and bodily distress.

For some momentsthis afflicted foreigner remained clasping Miss
Tox to his heartwith an energy of action in remarkable opposition to
his disconcerted facewhile that poor lady trickled slowly down upon
him the very last sprinklings of the little watering-potas if he
were a delicate exotic (which indeed he was)and might be almost
expected to blow while the gentle rain descended. Mrs Chickat length
recovering sufficient presence of mind to interposecommanded him to
drop Miss Tox upon the sofa and withdraw; and the exile promptly
obeyingshe applied herself to promote Miss Tox's recovery.

But none of that gentle concern which usually characterises the
daughters of Eve in their tending of each other; none of that
freemasonry in faintingby which they are generally bound together In
a mysterious bond of sisterhood; was visible in Mrs Chick's demeanour.
Rather like the executioner who restores the victim to sensation
previous to proceeding with the torture (or was wont to do soin the
good old times for which all true men wear perpetual mourning)did
Mrs Chick administer the smelling-bottlethe slapping on the hands
the dashing of cold water on the faceand the other proved remedies.
And whenat lengthMiss Tox opened her eyesand gradually became
restored to animation and consciousnessMrs Chick drew off as from a
criminaland reversing the precedent of the murdered king of Denmark
regarded her more in anger than In sorrow.'

'Lucretia!' said Mrs Chick 'I will not attempt to disguise what I
feel. My eyes are openedall at once. I wouldn't have believed this
if a Saint had told it to me.

'I am foolish to give way to faintness' Miss Tox faltered. 'I
shall be better presently.'

'You will be better presentlyLucretia!' repeated Mrs Chickwith
exceeding scorn. 'Do you suppose I am blind? Do you imagine I am in my
second childhood? NoLucretia! I am obliged to you!'

Miss Tox directed an imploringhelpless kind of look towards her
friendand put her handkerchief before her face.

'If anyone had told me this yesterday' said Mrs Chickwith
majesty'or even half-an-hour agoI should have been temptedI
almost believeto strike them to the earth. Lucretia Toxmy eyes are
opened to you all at once. The scales:' here Mrs Chick cast down an
imaginary pairsuch as are commonly used in grocers' shops: 'have


fallen from my sight. The blindness of my confidence is past
Lucretia. It has been abused and playeduponand evasion is quite
out of the question nowI assure you.

'Oh! to what do you allude so cruellymy love?' asked Miss Tox
through her tears.

'Lucretia' said Mrs Chick'ask your own heart. I must entreat you
not to address me by any such familiar term as you have just usedif
you please. I have some self-respect leftthough you may think
otherwise.'

'OhLouisa!' cried Miss Tox. 'How can you speak to me like that?'

'How can I speak to you like that?' retorted Mrs Chickwhoin
default of having any particular argument to sustain herself upon
relied principally on such repetitions for her most withering effects.
'Like that! You may well say like thatindeed!'

Miss Tox sobbed pitifully.

'The idea!' said Mrs Chick'of your having basked at my brother's
firesidelike a serpentand wound yourselfthrough mealmost into
his confidenceLucretiathat you mightin secretentertain designs
upon himand dare to aspire to contemplate the possibility of his
uniting himself to you! Whyit is an idea' said Mrs Chickwith
sarcastic dignity'the absurdity of which almost relieves its
treachery.'

'PrayLouisa' urged Miss Tox'do not say such dreadful things.'

'Dreadful things!' repeated Mrs Chick. 'Dreadful things! Is it not
a factLucretiathat you have just now been unable to command your
feelings even before mewhose eyes you had so completely closed?'

'I have made no complaint' sobbed Miss Tox. 'I have said nothing.
If I have been a little overpowered by your newsLouisaand have
ever had any lingering thought that Mr Dombey was inclined to be
particular towards mesurely you will not condemn me.'

'She is going to say' said Mrs Chickaddressing herself to the
whole of the furniturein a comprehensive glance of resignation and
appeal'She is going to say - I know it - that I have encouraged
her!'

'I don't wish to exchange reproachesdear Louisa' sobbed Miss Tox
'Nor do I wish to complain. Butin my own defence - '

'Yes' cried Mrs Chicklooking round the room with a prophetic
smile'that's what she's going to say. I knew it. You had better say
it. Say it openly! Be openLucretia Tox' said Mrs Chickwith
desperate sternness'whatever you are.'

'In my own defence' faltered Miss Tox'and only In my own defence
against your unkind wordsmy dear LouisaI would merely ask you if
you haven't often favoured such a fancyand even said it might
happenfor anything we could tell?'

'There is a point' said Mrs Chickrisingnot as if she were
going to stop at the floorbut as if she were about to soar uphigh
into her native skies'beyond which endurance becomes ridiculousif
not culpable. I can bear much; but not too much. What spell was on me
when I came into this house this dayI don't know; but I had a
presentiment - a dark presentiment' said Mrs Chickwith a shiver


'that something was going to happen. Well may I have had that
forebodingLucretiawhen my confidence of many years is destroyed in
an instantwhen my eyes are opened all at onceand when I find you
revealed in your true colours. LucretiaI have been mistaken in you.
It is better for us both that this subject should end here. I wish you
welland I shall ever wish you well. Butas an individual who
desires to be true to herself in her own poor positionwhatever that
position may beor may not be - and as the sister of my brother - and
as the sister-in-law of my brother's wife - and as a connexion by
marriage of my brother's wife's mother - may I be permitted to addas
a Dombey? - I can wish you nothing else but good morning.'

These wordsdelivered with cutting suavitytempered and chastened
by a lofty air of moral rectitudecarried the speaker to the door.
There she inclined her head in a ghostly and statue-like mannerand
so withdrew to her carriageto seek comfort and consolation in the
arms of Mr Chickher lord.

Figuratively speakingthat is to say; for the arms of Mr Chick
were full of his newspaper. Neither did that gentleman address his
eyes towards his wife otherwise than by stealth. Neither did he offer
any consolation whatever. In shorthe sat readingand humming fag
ends of tunesand sometimes glancing furtively at her without
delivering himself of a wordgoodbador indifferent.

In the meantime Mrs Chick sat swelling and bridlingand tossing
her headas if she were still repeating that solemn formula of
farewell to Lucretia Tox. At lengthshe said aloud'Oh the extent to
which her eyes had been opened that day!'

'To which your eyes have been openedmy dear!' repeated Mr Chick.

'Ohdon't talk to me!' said Mrs Chic 'if you can bear to see me in
this stateand not ask me what the matter isyou had better hold
your tongue for ever.'

'What is the mattermy dear?' asked Mr Chick

'To think' said Mrs Chickin a state of soliloquy'that she
should ever have conceived the base idea of connecting herself with
our family by a marriage with Paul! To think that when she was playing
at horses with that dear child who is now in his grave - I never liked
it at the time - she should have been hiding such a double-faced
design! I wonder she was never afraid that something would happen to
her. She is fortunate if nothing does.'

'I really thoughtmy dear' said Mr Chick slowlyafter rubbing
the bridge of his nose for some time with his newspaper'that you had
gone on the same tack yourselfall alonguntil this morning; and had
thought it would be a convenient thing enoughif it could have been
brought about.'

Mrs Chick instantly burst into tearsand told Mr Chick that if he
wished to trample upon her with his bootshe had better do It.

'But with Lucretia Tox I have done' said Mrs Chickafter
abandoning herself to her feelings for some minutesto Mr Chick's
great terror. 'I can bear to resign Paul's confidence in favour of one
whoI hope and trustmay be deserving of itand with whom he has a
perfect right to replace poor Fanny if he chooses; I can bear to be
informedIn Paul's cool mannerof such a change in his plansand
never to be consulted until all is settled and determined; but deceit
I can not bearand with Lucretia Tox I have done. It is better as it
is' said Mrs Chickpiously; 'much better. It would have been a long


time before I could have accommodated myself comfortably with her
after this; and I really don't knowas Paul is going to be very
grandand these are people of conditionthat she would have been
quite presentableand might not have compromised myself. There's a
providence in everything; everything works for the best; I have been
tried today but on the whole I do not regret it.'

In which Christian spiritMrs Chick dried her eyes and smoothed
her lapand sat as became a person calm under a great wrong. Mr Chick
feeling his unworthiness no doubttook an early opportunity of being
set down at a street corner and walking away whistlingwith his
shoulders very much raisedand his hands in his pockets.

While poor excommunicated Miss Toxwhoif she were a fawner and
toad-eaterwas at least an honest and a constant oneand had ever
borne a faithful friendship towards her impeacher and had been truly
absorbed and swallowed up in devotion to the magnificence of Mr Dombey

-while poor excommunicated Miss Tox watered her plants with her
tearsand felt that it was winter in Princess's Place.
CHAPTER 30.

The interval before the Marriage

Although the enchanted house was no moreand the working world had
broken into itand was hammering and crashing and tramping up and
down stairs all day long keeping Diogenes in an incessant paroxysm of
barkingfrom sunrise to sunset - evidently convinced that his enemy
had got the better of him at lastand was then sacking the premises
in triumphant defiance - there wasat firstno other great change in
the method of Florence's life. At nightwhen the workpeople went
awaythe house was dreary and deserted again; and Florencelistening
to their voices echoing through the hall and staircase as they
departedpictured to herself the cheerful homes to which the were
returningand the children who were waiting for themand was glad to
think that they were merry and well pleased to go.

She welcomed back the evening silence as an old friendbut it came
now with an altered faceand looked more kindly on her. Fresh hope
was in it. The beautiful lady who had soothed and carressed herin
the very room in which her heart had been so wrungwas a spirit of
promise to her. Soft shadows of the bright life dawningwhen her
father's affection should be gradually wonand allor much should be
restoredof what she had lost on the dark day when a mother's love
had faded with a mother's last breath on her cheekmoved about her in
the twilight and were welcome company. Peeping at the rosy children
her neighboursit was a new and precious sensation to think that they
might soon speak together and know each other; when she would not
fearas of oldto show herself before themlest they should be
grieved to see her in her black dress sitting there alone!

In her thoughts of her new motherand in the love and trust
overflowing her pure heart towards herFlorence loved her own dead
mother more and more. She had no fear of setting up a rival in her
breast. The new flower sprang from the deep-planted and long-cherished
rootshe knew. Every gentle word that had fallen from the lips of the
beautiful ladysounded to Florence like an echo of the voice long
hushed and silent. How could she love that memory less for living
tendernesswhen it was her memory of all parental tenderness and
love!


Florence wasone daysitting reading in her roomand thinking of
the lady and her promised visit soon - for her book turned on a
kindred subject - whenraising her eyesshe saw her standing in the
doorway.

'Mama!' cried Florencejoyfully meeting her. 'Come again!'

'Not Mama yet' returned the ladywith a serious smileas she
encircled Florence's neck with her arm.

'But very soon to be' cried Florence.

'Very soon nowFlorence: very soon.

Edith bent her head a littleso as to press the blooming cheek of
Florence against her ownand for some few moments remained thus
silent. There was something so very tender in her mannerthat
Florence was even more sensible of it than on the first occasion of
their meeting.

She led Florence to a chair beside herand sat down: Florence
looking in her facequite wondering at its beautyand willingly
leaving her hand In hers.

'Have you been aloneFlorencesince I was here last?'

'Oh yes!' smiled Florencehastily.

She hesitated and cast down her eyes; for her new Mama was very
earnest in her lookand the look was intently and thoughtfully fixed
upon her face.

'I - I- am used to be alone' said Florence. 'I don't mind it at
all. Di and I pass whole days togethersometimes.' Florence might
have saidwhole weeks and months.

'Is Di your maidlove?'

'My dogMama' said Florencelaughing. 'Susan is my maid.'

'And these are your rooms' said Edithlooking round. 'I was not
shown these rooms the other day. We must have them improvedFlorence.
They shall be made the prettiest in the house.'

'If I might change themMama' returned Florence; 'there is one
upstairs I should like much better.'

'Is this not high enoughdear girl?' asked Edithsmiling.

'The other was my brother's room' said Florence'and I am very
fond of it. I would have spoken to Papa about it when I came homeand
found the workmen hereand everything changing; but - '

Florence dropped her eyeslest the same look should make her
falter again.

'but I was afraid it might distress him; and as you said you would
be here again soonMamaand are the mistress of everythingI
determined to take courage and ask you.'

Edith sat looking at herwith her brilliant eyes intent upon her
faceuntil Florence raising her ownshein her turnwithdrew her
gazeand turned it on the ground. It was then that Florence thought


how different this lady's beauty wasfrom what she had supposed. She
had thought it of a proud and lofty kind; yet her manner was so
subdued and gentlethat if she had been of Florence's own age and
characterit scarcely could have invited confidence more.

Except when a constrained and singular reserve crept over her; and
then she seemed (but Florence hardly understood thisthough she could
not choose but notice itand think about it) as if she were humbled
before Florenceand ill at ease. When she had said that she was not
her Mama yetand when Florence had called her the mistress of
everything therethis change in her was quick and startling; and now
while the eyes of Florence rested on her faceshe sat as though she
would have shrunk and hidden from herrather than as one about to
love and cherish herin right of such a near connexion.

She gave Florence her ready promiseabout her new roomand said
she would give directions about it herself. She then asked some
questions concerning poor Paul; and when they had sat in conversation
for some timetold Florence she had come to take her to her own home.

'We have come to London nowmy mother and I' said Edith'and you
shall stay with us until I am married. I wish that we should know and
trust each otherFlorence.'

'You are very kind to me' said Florence'dear Mama. How much I
thank you!'

'Let me say nowfor it may be the best opportunity' continued
Edithlooking round to see that they were quite aloneand speaking
in a lower voice'that when I am marriedand have gone away for some
weeksI shall be easier at heart if you will come home here. No
matter who invites you to stay elsewhere. Come home here. It is better
to be alone than - what I would say is' she addedchecking herself
'that I know well you are best at homedear Florence.'

'I will come home on the very dayMama'

'Do so. I rely on that promise. Nowprepare to come with medear
girl. You will find me downstairs when you are ready.'

Slowly and thoughtfully did Edith wander alone through the mansion
of which she was so soon to be the lady: and little heed took she of
all the elegance and splendour it began to display. The same
indomitable haughtiness of soulthe same proud scorn expressed in eye
and lipthe same fierce beautyonly tamed by a sense of its own
little worthand of the little worth of everything around itwent
through the grand saloons and hallsthat had got loose among the
shady treesand raged and rent themselves. The mimic roses on the
walls and floors were set round with sharp thornsthat tore her
breast; in every scrap of gold so dazzling to the eyeshe saw some
hateful atom of her purchase-money; the broad high mirrors showed her
at full lengtha woman with a noble quality yet dwelling in her
naturewho was too false to her better selfand too debased and
lostto save herself. She believed that all this was so plainmore
or lessto all eyesthat she had no resource or power of
self-assertion but in pride: and with this pridewhich tortured her
own heart night and dayshe fought her fate outbraved itand
defied it.

Was this the woman whom Florence - an innocent girlstrong only in
her earnestness and simple truth - could so impress and quellthat by
her side she was another creaturewith her tempest of passion hushed
and her very pride itself subdued? Was this the woman who now sat
beside her in a carriagewith her arms entwinedand whowhile she


courted and entreated her to love and trust herdrew her fair head to
nestle on her breastand would have laid down life to shield it from
wrong or harm?

OhEdith! it were well to dieindeedat such a time! Better and
happier farperhapsto die soEdiththan to live on to the end!

The Honourable Mrs Skewtonwho was thinking of anything rather
than of such sentiments - forlike many genteel persons who have
existed at various timesshe set her face against death altogether
and objected to the mention of any such low and levelling upstart had
borrowed a house in Brook StreetGrosvenor Squarefrom a stately
relative (one of the Feenix brood)who was out of townand who did
not object to lending itin the handsomest mannerfor nuptial
purposesas the loan implied his final release and acquittance from
all further loans and gifts to Mrs Skewton and her daughter. It being
necessary for the credit of the family to make a handsome appearance
at such a timeMrs Skewtonwith the assistance of an accommodating
tradesman resident In the parish of Mary-le-bonewho lent out all
sorts of articles to the nobility and gentryfrom a service of plate
to an army of footmenclapped into this house a silver-headed butler
(who was charged extra on that accountas having the appearnce of an
ancient family retainer)two very tall young men in liveryand a
select staff of kitchen-servants; so that a legend arosedownstairs
that Withers the pagereleased at once from his numerous household
dutiesand from the propulsion of the wheeled-chair (inconsistent
with the metropolis)had been several times observed to rub his eyes
and pinch his limbsas if he misdoubted his having overslept himself
at the Leamington milkman'sand being still in a celestial dream. A
variety of requisites in plate and china being also conveyed to the
same establishment from the same convenient sourcewith several
miscellaneous articlesincluding a neat chariot and a pair of bays
Mrs Skewton cushioned herself on the principal sofain the Cleopatra
attitudeand held her court in fair state.

'And how' said Mrs Skewtonon the entrance of her daughter and
her charge'is my charming Florence? You must come and kiss me
Florenceif you pleasemy love.'

Florence was timidly stooping to pick out a place In the white part
of Mrs Skewton's facewhen that lady presented her earand relieved
her of her difficulty.

'Edithmy dear' said Mrs Skewton'positivelyI - stand a little
more in the lightmy sweetest Florencefor a moment.

Florence blushingly complied.

'You don't rememberdearest Edith' said her mother'what you
were when you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious
Florenceor a few years younger?'

'I have long forgottenmother.'

'For positivelymy dear' said Mrs Skewton'I do think that I see
a decided resemblance to what you were thenin our extremely
fascinating young friend. And it shows' said Mrs Skewtonin a lower
voicewhich conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very
unfinished state'what cultivation will do.'

'It doesindeed' was Edith's stern reply.

Her mother eyed her sharply for a momentand feeling herself on
unsafe groundsaidas a diversion:


'My charming Florenceyou must come and kiss me once moreif you
pleasemy love.'

Florence compliedof courseand again imprinted her lips on Mrs
Skewton's ear.

'And you have heardno doubtmy darling pet' said Mrs Skewton
detaining her hand'that your Papawhom we all perfectly adore and
dote uponis to be married to my dearest Edith this day week.'

'I knew it would be very soon' returned Florence'but not exactly
when.'

'My darling Edith' urged her mothergaily'is it possible you
have not told Florence?'

'Why should I tell Florence?' she returnedso suddenly and
harshlythat Florence could scarcely believe it was the same voice.

Mrs Skewton then told Florenceas another and safer diversion
that her father was coming to dinnerand that he would no doubt be
charmingly surprised to see her; as he had spoken last night of
dressing in the Cityand had known nothing of Edith's designthe
execution of whichaccording to Mrs Skewton's expectationwould
throw him into a perfect ecstasy. Florence was troubled to hear this;
and her distress became so keenas the dinner-hour approachedthat
if she had known how to frame an entreaty to be suffered to return
homewithout involving her father in her explanationshe would have
hurried back on footbareheadedbreathlessand alonerather than
incur the risk of meeting his displeasure.

As the time drew nearershe could hardly breathe. She dared not
approach a windowlest he should see her from the street. She dared
not go upstairs to hide her emotionlestin passing out at the door
she should meet him unexpectedly; besides which dreadshe felt as
though she never could come back again if she were summoned to his
presence. In this conflict of fears; she was sitting by Cleopatra's
couchendeavouring to understand and to reply to the bald discourse
of that ladywhen she heard his foot upon the stair.

'I hear him now!' cried Florencestarting. 'He is coming!'

Cleopatrawho in her juvenility was always playfully disposedand
who in her self-engrossment did not trouble herself about the nature
of this agitationpushed Florence behind her couchand dropped a
shawl over herpreparatory to giving Mr Dombey a rapture of surprise.
It was so quickly donethat in a moment Florence heard his awful step
in the room.

He saluted his intended mother-in-lawand his intended bride. The
strange sound of his voice thrilled through the whole frame of his
child.

'My dear Dombey' said Cleopatra'come here and tell me how your
pretty Florence is.'

'Florence is very well' said Mr Dombeyadvancing towards the
couch.

'At home?'

'At home' said Mr Dombey.


'My dear Dombey' returned Cleopatrawith bewitching vivacity;
'now are you sure you are not deceiving me? I don't know what my
dearest Edith will say to me when I make such a declarationbut upon
my honour I am afraid you are the falsest of menmy dear Dombey.'

Though he had been; and had been detected on the spotin the most
enormous falsehood that was ever said or done; he could hardly have
been more disconcerted than he waswhen Mrs Skewton plucked the shawl
awayand Florencepale and tremblingrose before him like a ghost.
He had not yet recovered his presence of mindwhen Florence had run
up to himclasped her hands round his neckkissed his faceand
hurried out of the room. He looked round as if to refer the matter to
somebody elsebut Edith had gone after Florenceinstantly.

'Nowconfessmy dear Dombey' said Mrs Skewtongiving him her
hand'that you never were more surprised and pleased in your life.'

'I never was more surprised' said Mr Dombey.

'Nor pleasedmy dearest Dombey?' returned Mrs Skewtonholding up
her fan.

'I - yesI am exceedingly glad to meet Florence here' said Mr
Dombey. He appeared to consider gravely about it for a momentand
then saidmore decidedly'YesI really am very glad indeed to meet
Florence here.'

'You wonder how she comes here?' said Mrs Skewton'don't you?'

'Edithperhaps - ' suggested Mr Dombey.

'Ah! wicked guesser!' replied Cleopatrashaking her head. 'Ah!
cunningcunning man! One shouldn't tell these things; your sexmy
dear Dombeyare so vainand so apt to abuse our weakness; but you
know my open soul - very well; immediately.'

This was addressed to one of the very tall young men who announced
dinner.

'But Edithmy dear Dombey' she continued in a whisperwhen she
cannot have you near her - and as I tell hershe cannot expect that
always - will at least have near her something or somebody belonging
to you. Wellhow extremely natural that is! And in this spirit
nothing would keep her from riding off to-day to fetch our darling
Florence. Wellhow excessively charming that is!'

As she waited for an answerMr Dombey answered'Eminently so.

'Bless youmy dear Dombeyfor that proof of heart!' cried
Cleopatrasqueezing his hand. 'But I am growing too serious! Take me
downstairslike an angeland let us see what these people intend to
give us for dinner. Bless youdear Dombey!'

Cleopatra skipping off her couch with tolerable brisknessafter
the last benedictionMr Dombey took her arm in his and led her
ceremoniously downstairs; one of the very tall young men on hire
whose organ of veneration was imperfectly developedthrusting his
tongue into his cheekfor the entertainment of the other very tall
young man on hireas the couple turned into the dining-room.

Florence and Edith were already thereand sitting side by side.
Florence would have risen when her father enteredto resign her chair
to him; but Edith openly put her hand upon her armand Mr Dombey took
an opposite place at the round table.


The conversation was almost entirely sustained by Mrs Skewton.
Florence hardly dared to raise her eyeslest they should reveal the
traces of tears; far less dared to speak; and Edith never uttered one
wordunless in answer to a question. VerilyCleopatra worked hard
for the establishment that was so nearly clutched; and verily it
should have been a rich one to reward her!

And so your preparations are nearly finished at lastmy dear
Dombey?' said Cleopatrawhen the dessert was put upon the tableand
the silver-headed butler had withdrawn. 'Even the lawyers'
preparations!'

'Yesmadam' replied Mr Dombey; 'the deed of settlementthe
professional gentlemen inform meis now readyand as I was
mentioning to youEdith has only to do us the favour to suggest her
own time for its execution.'

Edith sat like a handsome statue; as coldas silentand as still.

'My dearest love' said Cleopatra'do you hear what Mr Dombey
says? Ahmy dear Dombey!' aside to that gentleman'how her absence
as the time approachesreminds me of the dayswhen that most
agreeable of creaturesher Papawas in your situation!'

'I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you please' said
Edithscarcely looking over the table at Mr Dombey.

'To-morrow?' suggested Mr Dombey.

'If you please.'

'Or would next day' said Mr Dombey'suit your engagements
better?'

'I have no engagements. I am always at your disposal. Let it be
when you like.'

'No engagementsmy dear Edith!' remonstrated her mother'when you
are in a most terrible state of flurry all day longand have a
thousand and one appointments with all sorts of trades-people!'

'They are of your making' returned Edithturning on her with a
slight contraction of her brow. 'You and Mr Dombey can arrange between
you.'

'Very true indeedmy loveand most considerate of you!' said
Cleopatra. 'My darling Florenceyou must really come and kiss me once
moreif you pleasemy dear!'

Singular coincidencethat these gushes of interest In Florence
hurried Cleopatra away from almost every dialogue in which Edith had a
sharehowever trifling! Florence had certainly never undergone so
much embracingand perhaps had never beenunconsciouslyso useful
in her life.

Mr Dombey was far from quarrellingin his own breastwith the
manner of his beautiful betrothed. He had that good reason for
sympathy with haughtiness and coldnesswhich is found In a
fellow-feeling. It flattered him to think how these deferred to him
in Edith's caseand seemed to have no will apart from his. It
flattered him to picture to himselfthis proud and stately woman
doing the honours of his houseand chilling his guests after his own
manner. The dignity of Dombey and Son would be heightened and


maintainedindeedin such hands.

So thought Mr Dombeywhen he was left alone at the dining-table
and mused upon his past and future fortunes: finding no uncongeniality
in an air of scant and gloomy state that pervaded the roomin colour
a dark brownwith black hatchments of pictures blotching the walls
and twenty-four black chairswith almost as many nails in them as so
many coffinswaiting like mutesupon the threshold of the Turkey
carpet; and two exhausted negroes holding up two withered branches of
candelabra on the sideboardand a musty smell prevailing as if the
ashes of ten thousand dinners were entombed in the sarcophagus below
it. The owner of the house lived much abroad; the air of England
seldom agreed long with a member of the Feenix family; and the room
had gradually put itself into deeper and still deeper mourning for
himuntil it was become so funereal as to want nothing but a body in
it to be quite complete.

No bad representation of the bodyfor the noncein his unbending
formif not in his attitudeMr Dombey looked down into the cold
depths of the dead sea of mahogany on which the fruit dishes and
decanters lay at anchor: as if the subjects of his thoughts were
rising towards the surface one by oneand plunging down again. Edith
was there In all her majesty of brow and figure; and close to her came
Florencewith her timid head turned to himas it had beenfor an
instantwhen she left the room; and Edith's eyes upon herand
Edith's hand put out protectingly. A little figure in a low arm-chair
came springing next into the lightand looked upon him wonderingly
with its bright eyes and its old-young facegleaming as in the
flickering of an evening fire. Again came Florence close upon itand
absorbed his whole attention. Whether as a fore-doomed difficulty and
disappointment to him; whether as a rival who had crossed him in his
wayand might again; whether as his childof whomin his successful
wooinghe could stoop to think as claimingat such a timeto be no
more estranged; or whether as a hint to him that the mere appearance
of caring for his own blood should be maintained in his new relations;
he best knew. Indifferently wellperhapsat best; for marriage
company and marriage altarsand ambitious scenes - still blotted here
and there with Florence - always Florence - turned up so fastand so
confusedlythat he roseand went upstairs to escape them.

It was quite late at night before candles were brought; for at
present they made Mrs Skewton's head acheshe complained; and in the
meantime Florence and Mrs Skewton talked together (Cleopatra being
very anxious to keep her close to herself)or Florence touched the
piano softly for Mrs Skewton's delight; to make no mention of a few
occasions in the course of the eveningwhen that affectionate lady
was impelled to solicit another kissand which always happened after
Edith had said anything. They were not manyhoweverfor Edith sat
apart by an open window during the whole time (in spite of her
mother's fears that she would take cold)and remained there until Mr
Dombey took leave. He was serenely gracious to Florence when he did
so; and Florence went to bed in a room within Edith'sso happy and
hopefulthat she thought of her late self as if it were some other
poor deserted girl who was to be pitied for her sorrow; and in her
pitysobbed herself to sleep.

The week fled fast. There were drives to millinersdressmakers
jewellerslawyersfloristspastry-cooks; and Florence was always of
the party. Florence was to go to the wedding. Florence was to cast off
her mourningand to wear a brilliant dress on the occasion. The
milliner's intentions on the subject of this dress - the milliner was
a Frenchwomanand greatly resembled Mrs Skewton - were so chaste and
elegantthat Mrs Skewton bespoke one like it for herself. The
milliner said it would become her to admirationand that all the


world would take her for the young lady's sister.


The week fled faster. Edith looked at nothing and cared for
nothing. Her rich dresses came homeand were tried onand were
loudly commended by Mrs Skewton and the millinersand were put away
without a word from her. Mrs Skewton made their plans for every day
and executed them. Sometimes Edith sat in the carriage when they went
to make purchases; sometimeswhen it was absolutely necessaryshe
went into the shops. But Mrs Skewton conducted the whole business
whatever it happened to be; and Edith looked on as uninterested and
with as much apparent indifference as if she had no concern in it.
Florence might perhaps have thought she was haughty and listlessbut
that she was never so to her. So Florence quenched her wonder in her
gratitude whenever it broke outand soon subdued it.


The week fled faster. It had nearly winged its flight away. The
last night of the weekthe night before the marriagewas come. In
the dark room - for Mrs Skewton's head was no better yetthough she
expected to recover permanently to-morrow - were that ladyEdithand
Mr Dombey. Edith was at her open window looking out into the street;
Mr Dombey and Cleopatra were talking softly on the sofa. It was
growing late; and Florencebeing fatiguedhad gone to bed.


'My dear Dombey' said Cleopatra'you will leave me Florence
to-morrowwhen you deprive me of my sweetest Edith.'


Mr Dombey said he wouldwith pleasure.


'To have her about meherewhile you are both at Parisand to
think at her ageI am assisting in the formation of her mindmy dear
Dombey' said Cleopatra'will be a perfect balm to me in the
extremely shattered state to which I shall be reduced.'


Edith turned her head suddenly. Her listless manner was exchanged
in a momentto one of burning interestandunseen in the darkness
she attended closely to their conversation.


Mr Dombey would be delighted to leave Florence in such admirable
guardianship.


'My dear Dombey' returned Cleopatra'a thousand thanks for your
good opinion. I feared you were goingwith malice aforethought' as
the dreadful lawyers say - those horrid proses! - to condemn me to
utter solitude;'


'Why do me so great an injusticemy dear madam?' said Mr Dombey.


'Because my charming Florence tells me so positively she must go
home tomorrowreturned Cleopatrathat I began to be afraidmy
dearest Dombeyyou were quite a Bashaw.'


'I assure youmadam!' said Mr Dombey'I have laid no commands on
Florence; and if I hadthere are no commands like your wish.'


'My dear Dombey' replied Cleopatrawhat a courtier you are!
Though I'll not say soeither; for courtiers have no heartand yours
pervades your farming life and character. And are you really going so
earlymy dear Dombey!'


Ohindeed! it was lateand Mr Dombey feared he must.


'Is this a factor is it all a dream!' lisped Cleopatra. 'Can I
believemy dearest Dombeythat you are coming back tomorrow morning
to deprive me of my sweet companion; my own Edith!'



Mr Dombeywho was accustomed to take things literallyreminded
Mrs Skewton that they were to meet first at the church.

'The pang' said Mrs Skewton'of consigning a childeven to you
my dear Dombeyis one of the most excruciating imaginableand
combined with a naturally delicate constitutionand the extreme
stupidity of the pastry-cook who has undertaken the breakfastis
almost too much for my poor strength. But I shall rallymy dear
DombeyIn the morning; do not fear for meor be uneasy on my
account. Heaven bless you! My dearest Edith!' she cried archly.
'Somebody is goingpet.'

Edithwho had turned her head again towards the windowand whose
interest in their conversation had ceasedrose up in her placebut
made no advance towards himand said nothing. Mr Dombeywith a lofty
gallantry adapted to his dignity and the occasionbetook his creaking
boots towards herput her hand to his lipssaid'Tomorrow morning I
shall have the happiness of claiming this hand as Mrs Dombey's' and
bowed himself solemnly out.

Mrs Skewton rang for candles as soon as the house-door had closed
upon him. With the candles appeared her maidwith the juvenile dress
that was to delude the world to-morrow. The dress had savage
retribution in itas such dresses ever haveand made her infinitely
older and more hideous than her greasy flannel gown. But Mrs Skewton
tried it on with mincing satisfaction; smirked at her cadaverous self
in the glassas she thought of its killing effect upon the Major; and
suffering her maid to take it off againand to prepare her for
reposetumbled into ruins like a house of painted cards.

All this timeEdith remained at the dark window looking out into
the street. When she and her mother were at last left aloneshe moved
from it for the first time that eveningand came opposite to her. The
yawningshakingpeevish figure of the motherwith her eyes raised
to confront the proud erect form of the daughterwhose glance of fire
was bent downward upon herhad a conscious air upon itthat no
levity or temper could conceal.

'I am tired to death' said she. 'You can't be trusted for a
moment. You are worse than a child. Child! No child would be half so
obstinate and undutiful.'

'Listen to memother' returned Edithpassing these words by with
a scorn that would not descend to trifle with them. 'You must remain
alone here until I return.'

'Must remain alone hereEdithuntil you return!' repeated her
mother.

'Or in that name upon which I shall call to-morrow to witness what
I doso falsely: and so shamefullyI swear I will refuse the hand of
this man in the church. If I do notmay I fall dead upon the
pavement!'

The mother answered with a look of quick alarmin no degree
diminished by the look she met.

'It is enough' said Edithsteadily'that we are what we are. I
will have no youth and truth dragged down to my level. I will have no
guileless nature underminedcorruptedand pervertedto amuse the
leisure of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Florence must go
home.'


'You are an idiotEdith' cried her angry mother. 'Do you expect
there can ever be peace for you in that housetill she is married
and away?'

'Ask meor ask yourselfif I ever expect peace in that house'
said her daughter'and you know the answer.

'And am I to be told to-nightafter all my pains and labourand
when you are goingthrough meto be rendered independent' her
mother almost shrieked in her passionwhile her palsied head shook
like a leaf'that there is corruption and contagion in meand that I
am not fit company for a girl! What are youpray? What are you?'

'I have put the question to myself' said Edithashy paleand
pointing to the window'more than once when I have been sitting
thereand something in the faded likeness of my sex has wandered past
outside; and God knows I have met with my reply. Oh mothermotherif
you had but left me to my natural heart when I too was a girl - a
younger girl than Florence - how different I might have been!'

Sensible that any show of anger was useless hereher mother
restrained herselfand fell a whimperingand bewailed that she had
lived too longand that her only child had cast her offand that
duty towards parents was forgotten in these evil daysand that she
had heard unnatural tauntsand cared for life no longer.

'If one is to go on living through continual scenes like this' she
whined'I am sure it would be much better for me to think of some
means of putting an end to my existence. Oh! The idea of your being my
daughterEdithand addressing me in such a strain!'

'Between usmother' returned Edithmournfully'the time for
mutual reproaches is past.

'Then why do you revive it?' whimpered her mother. 'You know that
you are lacerating me in the cruellest manner. You know how sensitive
I am to unkindness. At such a momenttoowhen I have so much to
think ofand am naturally anxious to appear to the best advantage! I
wonder at youEdith. To make your mother a fright upon your
wedding-day!'

Edith bent the same fixed look upon heras she sobbed and rubbed
her eyes; and said in the same low steady voicewhich had neither
risen nor fallen since she first addressed her'I have said that
Florence must go home.'

'Let her go!' cried the afflicted and affrighted parenthastily.
'I am sure I am willing she should go. What is the girl to me?'

'She is so much to methat rather than communicateor suffer to
be communicated to herone grain of the evil that is in my breast
motherI would renounce youas I would (if you gave me cause)
renounce him in the church to-morrow' replied Edith. 'Leave her
alone. She shall notwhile I can interposebe tampered with and
tainted by the lessons I have learned. This is no hard condition on
this bitter night.'

'If you had proposed it in a filial mannerEdith' whined her
mother'perhaps not; very likely not. But such extremely cutting
words - '

'They are past and at an end between us now' said Edith. 'Take
your own waymother; share as you please in what you have gained;
spendenjoymake much of it; and be as happy as you will. The object


of our lives is won. Henceforth let us wear it silently. My lips are
closed upon the past from this hour. I forgive you your part in
to-morrow's wickedness. May God forgive my own!'

Without a tremor in her voiceor frameand passing onward with a
foot that set itself upon the neck of every soft emotionshe bade her
mother good-nightand repaired to her own room.

But not to rest; for there was no rest in the tumult of her
agitation when alone to and froand to and froand to and fro again
five hundred timesamong the splendid preparations for her adornment
on the morrow; with her dark hair shaken downher dark eyes flashing
with a raging lighther broad white bosom red with the cruel grasp of
the relentless hand with which she spurned it from herpacing up and
down with an averted headas if she would avoid the sight of her own
fair personand divorce herself from its companionship. ThusIn the
dead time of the night before her bridalEdith Granger wrestled with
her unquiet spirittearlessfriendlesssilentproudand
uncomplaining.

At length it happened that she touched the open door which led into
the room where Florence lay.

She startedstoppedand looked in.

A light was burning thereand showed her Florence in her bloom of
innocence and beautyfast asleep. Edith held her breathand felt
herself drawn on towards her.

Drawn nearernearernearer yet; at lastdrawn so nearthat
stooping downshe pressed her lips to the gentle hand that lay
outside the bedand put it softly to her neck. Its touch was like the
prophet's rod of old upon the rock. Her tears sprung forth beneath it
as she sunk upon her kneesand laid her aching head and streaming
hair upon the pillow by its side.

Thus Edith Granger passed the night before her bridal. Thus the sun
found her on her bridal morning.

CHAPTER 31.

The Wedding

Dawn with its passionless blank facesteals shivering to the
church beneath which lies the dust of little Paul and his motherand
looks in at the windows. It is cold and dark. Night crouches yetupon
the pavementand broodssombre and heavyin nooks and corners of
the building. The steeple-clockperched up above the housesemerging
from beneath another of the countless ripples in the tide of time that
regularly roll and break on the eternal shoreis greyly visiblelike
a stone beaconrecording how the sea flows on; but within doors
dawnat firstcan only peep at nightand see that it is there.

Hovering feebly round the churchand looking indawn moans and
weeps for its short reignand its tears trickle on the window-glass
and the trees against the church-wall bow their headsand wring their
many hands in sympathy. Nightgrowing pale before itgradually fades
out of the churchbut lingers in the vaults belowand sits upon the
coffins. And now comes bright dayburnishing the steeple-clockand
reddening the spireand drying up the tears of dawnand stifling its


complaining; and the dawnfollowing the nightand chasing it from
its last refugeshrinks into the vaults itself and hideswith a
frightened faceamong the deaduntil night returnsrefreshedto
drive it out.

And nowthe micewho have been busier with the prayer-books than
their proper ownersand with the hassocksmore worn by their little
teeth than by human kneeshide their bright eyes in their holesand
gather close together in affright at the resounding clashing of the
church-door. For the beadlethat man of powercomes early this
morning with the sexton; and Mrs Miffthe wheezy little pew-opener a
mighty dry old ladysparely dressedwith not an inch of fulness
anywhere about her - is also hereand has been waiting at the
church-gate half-an-houras her place isfor the beadle.

A vinegary face has Mrs Miffand a mortified bonnetand eke a
thirsty soul for sixpences and shillings. Beckoning to stray people to
come into pewshas given Mrs Miff an air of mystery; and there is
reservation in the eye of Mrs Miffas always knowing of a softer
seatbut having her suspicions of the fee. There is no such fact as
Mr Miffnor has there beenthese twenty yearsand Mrs Miff would
rather not allude to him. He held some bad opinionsit would seem
about free seats; and though Mrs Miff hopes he may be gone upwards
she couldn't positively undertake to say so.

Busy is Mrs Miff this morning at the church-doorbeating and
dusting the altar-cloththe carpetand the cushions; and much has
Mrs Miff to sayabout the wedding they are going to have. Mrs Miff is
toldthat the new furniture and alterations in the house cost full
five thousand pound if they cost a penny; and Mrs Miff has heardupon
the best authoritythat the lady hasn't got a sixpence wherewithal to
bless herself. Mrs Miff rememberslike wiseas if it had happened
yesterdaythe first wife's funeraland then the christeningand
then the other funeral; and Mrs Miff saysby-the-bye she'll
soap-and-water that 'ere tablet presentlyagainst the company arrive.
Mr Sownds the Beadlewho is sitting in the sun upon the church steps
all this time (and seldom does anything elseexceptin cold weather
sitting by the fire)approves of Mrs Miff's discourseand asks if
Mrs Miff has heard it saidthat the lady is uncommon handsome? The
information Mrs Miff has receivedbeing of this natureMr Sownds the
Beadlewhothough orthodox and corpulentis still an admirer of
female beautyobserveswith unctionyeshe hears she is a spanker

-an expression that seems somewhat forcible to Mrs Miffor would
from any lips but those of Mr Sownds the Beadle.
In Mr Dombey's houseat this same timethere is great stir and
bustlemore especially among the women: not one of whom has had a
wink of sleep since four o'clockand all of whom were fully dressed
before six. Mr Towlinson is an object of greater consideration than
usual to the housemaidand the cook says at breakfast time that one
wedding makes manywhich the housemaid can't believeand don't think
true at all. Mr Towlinson reserves his sentiments on this question;
being rendered something gloomy by the engagement of a foreigner with
whiskers (Mr Towlinson is whiskerless himself)who has been hired to
accompany the happy pair to Parisand who is busy packing the new
chariot. In respect of this personageMr Towlinson admitspresently
that he never knew of any good that ever come of foreigners; and being
charged by the ladies with prejudicesayslook at Bonaparte who was
at the head of 'emand see what he was always up to! Which the
housemaid says is very true.

The pastry-cook is hard at work in the funereal room in Brook
Streetand the very tall young men are busy looking on. One of the
very tall young men already smells of sherryand his eyes have a


tendency to become fixed in his headand to stare at objects without
seeing them. The very tall young man is conscious of this failing in
himself; and informs his comrade that it's his 'exciseman.' The very
tall young man would say excitementbut his speech is hazy.

The men who play the bells have got scent of the marriage; and the
marrow-bones and cleavers too; and a brass band too. The firstare
practising in a back settlement near Battlebridge; the secondput
themselves in communicationthrough their chiefwith Mr Towlinson
to whom they offer terms to be bought off; and the thirdin the
person of an artful trombonelurks and dodges round the corner
waiting for some traitor tradesman to reveal the place and hour of
breakfastfor a bribe. Expectation and excitement extend further yet
and take a wider range. From Balls PondMr Perch brings Mrs Perch to
spend the day with Mr Dombey's servantsand accompany them
surreptitiouslyto see the wedding. In Mr Toots's lodgingsMr Toots
attires himself as if he were at least the Bridegroom; determined to
behold the spectacle in splendour from a secret corner of the gallery
and thither to convey the Chicken: for it is Mr Toots's desperate
intent to point out Florence to the Chickenthen and thereand
openly to say'NowChickenI will not deceive you any longer; the
friend I have sometimes mentioned to you is myself; Miss Dombey is the
object of my passion; what are your opinionsChickenin this state
of thingsand whaton the spotdo you advise? The
so-much-to-be-astonished Chickenin the meanwhiledips his beak into
a tankard of strong beerin Mr Toots's kitchenand pecks up two
pounds of beefsteaks. In Princess's PlaceMiss Tox is up and doing;
for she toothough in sore distressis resolved to put a shilling in
the hands of Mrs Miffand see the ceremony which has a cruel
fascination for herfrom some lonely corner. The quarters of the
wooden Midshipman are all alive; for Captain Cuttlein his
ankle-jacks and with a huge shirt-collaris seated at his breakfast
listening to Rob the Grinder as he reads the marriage service to him
beforehandunder ordersto the end that the Captain may perfectly
understand the solemnity he is about to witness: for which purpose
the Captain gravely lays injunctions on his chaplainfrom time to
timeto 'put about' or to 'overhaul that 'ere article again' or to
stick to his own dutyand leave the Amens to himthe Captain; one of
which he repeatswhenever a pause is made by Rob the Grinderwith
sonorous satisfaction.

Besides all thisand much moretwenty nursery-maids in Mr
Dombey's street alonehave promised twenty families of little women
whose instinctive interest in nuptials dates from their cradlesthat
they shall go and see the marriage. TrulyMr Sownds the Beadle has
good reason to feel himself in officeas he suns his portly figure on
the church stepswaiting for the marriage hour. TrulyMrs Miff has
cause to pounce on an unlucky dwarf childwith a giant babywho
peeps in at the porchand drive her forth with indignation!

Cousin Feenix has come over from abroadexpressly to attend the
marriage. Cousin Feenix was a man about townforty years ago; but he
is still so juvenile in figure and in mannerand so well got upthat
strangers are amazed when they discover latent wrinkles in his
lordship's faceand crows' feet in his eyes: and first observe him
not exactly certain when he walks across a roomof going quite
straight to where he wants to go. But Cousin Feenixgetting up at
half-past seven o'clock or sois quite another thing from Cousin
Feenix got up; and very dimindeedhe lookswhile being shaved at
Long's Hotelin Bond Street.

Mr Dombey leaves his dressing-roomamidst a general whisking away
of the women on the staircasewho disperse in all directionswith a
great rustling of skirtsexcept Mrs Perchwhobeing (but that she


always is) in an interesting situationis not nimbleand is obliged
to face himand is ready to sink with confusion as she curtesys; may
Heaven avert all evil consequences from the house of Perch! Mr
Dombey walks up to the drawing-roomto bide his time. Gorgeous are Mr
Dombey's new blue coatfawn-coloured pantaloonsand lilac waistcoat;
and a whisper goes about the housethat Mr Dombey's hair is curled.

A double knock announces the arrival of the Majorwho is gorgeous
tooand wears a whole geranium in his button-holeand has his hair
curled tight and crispas well the Native knows.

'Dombey!' says the Majorputting out both hands'how are you?'

'Major' says Mr Dombey'how are You?'

'By JoveSir' says the Major'Joey B. is in such case this
morningSir' - and here he hits himself hard upon the breast - 'In
such case this morningSirthatdammeDombeyhe has half a mind
to make a double marriage of itSirand take the mother.'

Mr Dombey smiles; but faintlyeven for him; for Mr Dombey feels
that he is going to be related to the motherand thatunder those
circumstancesshe is not to be joked about.

'Dombey' says the Majorseeing this'I give you joy. I
congratulate youDombey. By the LordSir' says the Major'you are
more to be enviedthis daythan any man in England!'

Here again Mr Dombey's assent is qualified; because he is going to
confer a great distinction on a lady; andno doubtshe is to be
envied most.

'As to Edith GrangerSir' pursues the Major'there is not a
woman in all Europe but might - and wouldSiryou will allow
Bagstock to add - and would- give her earsand her earringstooto
be in Edith Granger's place.'

'You are good enough to say soMajor' says Mr Dombey.

'Dombey' returns the Major'you know it. Let us have no false
delicacy. You know it. Do you know itor do you notDombey?' says
the Majoralmost in a passion.

'OhreallyMajor - '

'DammeSir' retorts the Major'do you know that factor do you
not? Dombey! Is old Joe your friend? Are we on that footing of
unreserved intimacyDombeythat may justify a man - a blunt old
Joseph B.Sir - in speaking out; or am I to take open orderDombey
and to keep my distanceand to stand on forms?'

'My dear Major Bagstock' says Mr Dombeywith a gratified air
'you are quite warm.'

'By GadSir' says the Major'I am warm. Joseph B. does not deny
itDombey. He is warm. This is an occasionSirthat calls forth all
the honest sympathies remaining in an oldinfernalbattered
used-upinvalidedJ. B. carcase. And I tell you whatDombey - at
such a time a man must blurt out what he feelsor put a muzzle on;
and Joseph Bagstock tells you to your faceDombeyas he tells his
club behind your backthat he never will be muzzled when Paul Dombey
is in question. NowdammeSir' concludes the Majorwith great
firmness'what do you make of that?'


'Major' says Mr Dombey'I assure you that I am really obliged to
you. I had no idea of checking your too partial friendship.'

'Not too partialSir!' exclaims the choleric Major. 'DombeyI
deny it.'

'Your friendship I will say then' pursues Mr Dombey'on any
account. Nor can I forgetMajoron such an occasion as the present
how much I am indebted to it.'

'Dombey' says the Majorwith appropriate action'that is the
hand of Joseph Bagstock: of plain old Joey B.Sirif you like that
better! That is the handof which His Royal Highness the late Duke of
Yorkdid me the honour to observeSirto His Royal Highness the
late Duke of Kentthat it was the hand of Josh: a rough and tough
and possibly an up-to-snuffold vagabond. Dombeymay the present
moment be the least unhappy of our lives. God bless you!'

Now enters Mr Carkergorgeous likewiseand smiling like a
wedding-guest indeed. He can scarcely let Mr Dombey's hand gohe is
so congratulatory; and he shakes the Major's hand so heartily at the
same timethat his voice shakes tooin accord with his armsas it
comes sliding from between his teeth.

'The very day is auspicious' says Mr Carker. 'The brightest and
most genial weather! I hope I am not a moment late?'

'Punctual to your timeSir' says the Major.

'I am rejoicedI am sure' says Mr Carker. 'I was afraid I might
be a few seconds after the appointed timefor I was delayed by a
procession of waggons; and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook
Street' - this to Mr Dombey - 'to leave a few poor rarities of flowers
for Mrs Dombey. A man in my positionand so distinguished as to be
invited hereis proud to offer some homage in acknowledgment of his
vassalage: and as I have no doubt Mrs Dombey is overwhelmed with what
is costly and magnificent;' with a strange glance at his patron; 'I
hope the very poverty of my offeringmay find favour for it.'

'Mrs Dombeythat is to be' returns Mr Dombeycondescendingly
'will be very sensible of your attentionCarkerI am sure.'

'And if she is to be Mrs Dombey this morningSir' says the Major
putting down his coffee-cupand looking at his watch'it's high time
we were off!'

Forthin a baroucheride Mr DombeyMajor Bagstockand Mr
Carkerto the church. Mr Sownds the Beadle has long risen from the
stepsand is in waiting with his cocked hat in his hand. Mrs Miff
curtseys and proposes chairs in the vestry. Mr Dombey prefers
remaining in the church. As he looks up at the organMiss Tox in the
gallery shrinks behind the fat leg of a cherubim on a monumentwith
cheeks like a young Wind. Captain Cuttleon the contrarystands up
and waves his hookin token of welcome and encouragement. Mr Toots
informs the Chickenbehind his handthat the middle gentlemanhe in
the fawn-coloured pantaloonsis the father of his love. The Chicken
hoarsely whispers Mr Toots that he's as stiff a cove as ever he see
but that it is within the resources of Science to double him upwith
one blow in the waistcoat.

Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff are eyeing Mr Dombey from a little distance
when the noise of approaching wheels is heardand Mr Sownds goes out.
Mrs Miffmeeting Mr Dombey's eye as it is withdrawn from the
presumptuous maniac upstairswho salutes him with so much urbanity


drops a curtseyand informs him that she believes his 'good lady' is
come. Then there is a crowding and a whispering at the doorand the
good lady enterswith a haughty step.

There is no sign upon her faceof last night's suffering; there is
no trace in her mannerof the woman on the bended kneesreposing her
wild headin beautiful abandonmentupon the pillow of the sleeping
girl. That girlall gentle and lovelyis at her side - a striking
contrast to her own disdainful and defiant figurestanding there
composederectinscrutable of willresplendent and majestic in the
zenith of its charmsyet beating downand treading onthe
admiration that it challenges.

There is a pause while Mr Sownds the Beadle glides into the vestry
for the clergyman and clerk. At this junctureMrs Skewton speaks to
Mr Dombey: more distinctly and emphatically than her custom isand
moving at the same timeclose to Edith.

'My dear Dombey' said the good Mama'I fear I must relinquish
darling Florence after alland suffer her to go homeas she herself
proposed. After my loss of to-daymy dear DombeyI feel I shall not
have spiritseven for her society.'

'Had she not better stay with you?' returns the Bridegroom.

'I think notmy dear Dombey. NoI think not. I shall be better
alone. Besidesmy dearest Edith will be her natural and constant
guardian when you returnand I had better not encroach upon her
trustperhaps. She might be jealous. Ehdear Edith?'

The affectionate Mama presses her daughter's armas she says this;
perhaps entreating her attention earnestly.

'To be seriousmy dear Dombey' she resumes'I will relinquish
our dear childand not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled
thatjust now. She fully understandsdear Dombey. Edithmy dearshe
fully understands.'

Againthe good mother presses her daughter's arm. Mr Dombey offers
no additional remonstrance; for the clergyman and clerk appear; and
Mrs Miffand Mr Sownds the Beadlegroup the party in their proper
places at the altar rails.

The sun is shining downupon the golden letters of the ten
commandments. Why does the Bride's eye read themone by one? Which
one of all the ten appears the plainest to her in the glare of light?
False Gods; murder; theft; the honour that she owes her mother; which
is it that appears to leave the walland printing itself in
glowing letterson her book!

Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?'

Cousin Feenix does that. He has come from Baden-Baden on purpose.
'Confound it' Cousin Feenix says - good-natured creatureCousin
Feenix - 'when we do get a rich City fellow into the familylet us
show him some attention; let us do something for him.' I give this
woman to be married to this man' saith Cousin Feenix therefore.
Cousin Feenixmeaning to go in a straight linebut turning off
sideways by reason of his wilful legsgives the wrong woman to be
married to this manat first - to wita brides- maid of some
conditiondistantly connected with the familyand ten years Mrs
Skewton's junior - but Mrs Miffinterposing her mortified bonnet
dexterously turns him backand runs himas on castorsfull at the
'good lady:' whom Cousin Feenix giveth to married to this man


accordingly. And will they in the sight of heaven - ? Aythat they
will: Mr Dombey says he will. And what says Edith? She will. Sofrom
that day forwardfor better for worsefor richer for poorerin
sickness and in healthto love and to cherishtill death do them
partthey plight their troth to one anotherand are married. In a
firmfree handthe Bride subscribes her name in the registerwhen
they adjourn to the vestry. 'There ain't a many ladies come here' Mrs
Miff says with a curtsey - to look at Mrs Miffat such a seasonis
to make her mortified bonnet go down with a dip - writes their names
like this good lady!' Mr Sownds the Beadle thinks it is a truly
spanking signatureand worthy of the writer - thishoweverbetween
himself and conscience. Florence signs toobut unapplaudedfor her
hand shakes. All the party sign; Cousin Feenix last; who puts his
noble name into a wrong placeand enrols himself as having been born
that morning. The Major now salutes the Bride right gallantlyand
carries out that branch of military tactics in reference to all the
ladies: notwithstanding Mrs Skewton's being extremely hard to kiss
and squeaking shrilly in the sacred edIfice. The example is followed
by Cousin. Feenix and even by Mr Dombey. LastlyMr Carkerwith hIs
white teeth glisteningapproaches Edithmore as if he meant to bite
herthan to taste the sweets that linger on her lips.

There is a glow upon her proud cheekand a flashing in her eyes
that may be meant to stay him; but it does notfor he salutes her as
the rest have doneand wishes her all happiness.

'If wishes' says he in a low voice'are not superfluousapplied
to such a union.'

'I thank youSir' she answerswith a curled lipand a heaving
bosom.

Butdoes Edith feel stillas on the night when she knew that Mr
Dombey would return to offer his alliancethat Carker knows her
thoroughlyand reads her rightand that she is more degraded by his
knowledge of herthan by aught else? Is it for this reason that her
haughtiness shrinks beneath his smilelike snow within the hands that
grasps it firmlyand that her imperious glance droops In meeting his
and seeks the ground?

'I am proud to see' said Mr Carkerwith a servile stooping of his
neckwhich the revelations making by his eyes and teeth proclaim to
be a lie'I am proud to see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs
Dombey's handand permitted to hold so favoured a place in so joyful
an occasion.'

Though she bends her headin answerthere is something in the
momentary action of her handas if she would crush the flowers it
holdsand fling themwith contemptupon the ground. Butshe puts
the hand through the arm of her new husbandwho has been standing
nearconversing with the Majorand is proud againand motionless
and silent.

The carriages are once more at the church door. Mr Dombeywith his
bride upon his armconducts her through the twenty families of little
women who are on the stepsand every one of whom remembers the
fashion and the colour of her every article of dress from that moment
and reproduces it on her dollwho is for ever being married.
Cleopatra and Cousin Feenix enter the same carriage. The Major hands
into a second carriageFlorenceand the bridesmaid who so narrowly
escaped being given away by mistakeand then enters it himselfand
is followed by Mr Carker. Horses prance and caper; coachmen and
footmen shine in fluttering favoursflowersand new-made liveries.
Away they dash and rattle through the streets; and as they pass along


a thousand heads are turned to look at themand a thousand sober
moralists revenge themselves for not being married toothat morning
by reflecting that these people little think such happiness can't
last.

Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherubim's legwhen all is quiet
and comes slowly down from the gallery. Miss Tox's eyes are redand
her pocket-handkerchief is damp. She is woundedbut not exasperated
and she hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to herself the
beauty of the brideand her own comparatively feeble and faded
attractions; but the stately image of Mr Dombey in his lilac
waistcoatand his fawn-coloured pantaloonsis present to her mind
and Miss Tox weeps afreshbehind her veilon her way home to
Princess's Place. Captain Cuttlehaving joined in all the amens and
responseswith a devout growlfeels much improved by his religious
exercises; and in a peaceful frame of mind pervades the body of the
churchglazed hat in handand reads the tablet to the memory of
little Paul. The gallant Mr Tootsattended by the faithful Chicken
leaves the building in torments of love. The Chicken is as yet unable
to elaborate a scheme for winning Florencebut his first idea has
gained possession of himand he thinks the doubling up of Mr Dombey
would be a move in the right direction. Mr Dombey's servants come out
of their hiding-placesand prepare to rush to Brook Streetwhen they
are delayed by symptoms of indisposition on the part of Mrs Perchwho
entreats a glass of waterand becomes alarming; Mrs Perch gets better
soonhoweverand is borne away; and Mrs Miffand Mr Sownds the
Beadlesit upon the steps to count what they have gained by the
affairand talk it overwhile the sexton tolls a funeral.

Nowthe carriages arrive at the Bride's residenceand the players
on the bells begin to jingleand the band strikes upand Mr Punch
that model of connubial blisssalutes his wife. Nowthe people run
and pushand press round in a gaping throngwhile Mr Dombeyleading
Mrs Dombey by the handadvances solemnly into the Feenix Halls. Now
the rest of the wedding party alightand enter after them. And why
does Mr Carkerpassing through the people to the hall-doorthink of
the old woman who called to him in the Grove that morning? Or why does
Florenceas she passesthinkwith a trembleof her childhoodwhen
she was lostand of the visage of Good Mrs Brown?

Nowthere are more congratulations on this happiest of daysand
more companythough not much; and now they leave the drawing-room
and range themselves at table in the dark-brown dining-roomwhich no
confectioner can brighten uplet him garnish the exhausted negroes
with as many flowers and love-knots as he will.

The pastry-cook has done his duty like a manthoughand a rich
breakfast is set forth. Mr and Mrs Chick have joined the partyamong
others. Mrs Chick admires that Edith should beby naturesuch a
perfect Dombey; and is affable and confidential to Mrs Skewtonwhose
mind is relieved of a great loadand who takes her share of the
champagne. The very tall young man who suffered from excitement early
is better; but a vague sentiment of repentance has seized upon him
and he hates the other very tall young manand wrests dishes from him
by violenceand takes a grim delight in disobliging the company. The
company are cool and calmand do not outrage the black hatchments of
pictures looking down upon themby any excess of mirth. Cousin Feenix
and the Major are the gayest there; but Mr Carker has a smile for the
whole table. He has an especial smile for the Bridewho veryvery
seldom meets it.

Cousin Feenix riseswhen the company have breakfastedand the
servants have left the room; and wonderfully young he lookswith his
white wristbands almost covering his hands (otherwise rather bony)


and the bloom of the champagne in his cheeks.

'Upon my honour' says Cousin Feenix'although it's an unusual
sort of thing in a private gentleman's houseI must beg leave to call
upon you to drink what is usually called a - in fact a toast.

The Major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr Carkerbending
his head forward over the table in the direction of Cousin Feenix
smiles and nods a great many times.

'A - in fact it's not a - ' Cousin Feenix beginning againthus
comes to a dead stop.

'Hearhear!' says the Majorin a tone of conviction.

Mr Carker softly claps his handsand bending forward over the
table againsmiles and nods a great many more times than beforeas
if he were particularly struck by this last observationand desired
personally to express his sense of the good it has done

'It is' says Cousin Feenix'an occasion in factwhen the general
usages of life may be a little departed fromwithout impropriety; and
although I never was an orator in my lifeand when I was in the House
of Commonsand had the honour of seconding the addresswas - in
factwas laid up for a fortnight with the consciousness of failure '


The Major and Mr Carker are so much delighted by this fragment of
personal historythat Cousin Feenix laughsand addressing them
individuallygoes on to say:

'And in point of factwhen I was devilish ill - stillyou knowI
feel that a duty devolves upon me. And when a duty devolves upon an
Englishmanhe is bound to get out of itin my opinionin the best
way he can. Well! our family has had the gratificationto-dayof
connecting itselfin the person of my lovely and accomplished
relativewhom I now see - in point of factpresent - '

Here there is general applause.

'Present' repeats Cousin Feenixfeeling that it is a neat point
which will bear repetition- 'with one who - that is to saywith a
manat whom the finger of scorn can never - in factwith my
honourable friend Dombeyif he will allow me to call him so.'

Cousin Feenix bows to Mr Dombey; Mr Dombey solemnly returns the
bow; everybody is more or less gratified and affected by this
extraordinaryand perhaps unprecedentedappeal to the feelings.

'I have not' says Cousin Feenix'enjoyed those opportunities
which I could have desiredof cultivating the acquaintance of my
friend Dombeyand studying those qualities which do equal honour to
his headandin point of factto his heart; for it has been my
misfortune to beas we used to say in my time in the House of
Commonswhen it was not the custom to allude to the Lordsand when
the order of parliamentary proceedings was perhaps better observed
than it is now - to be in - in point of fact' says Cousin Feenix
cherishing his jokewith great slynessand finally bringing it out
with a jerk'in another place!'

The Major falls into convulsionsand is recovered with difficulty.

'But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey' resumes Cousin Feenix
in a graver toneas if he had suddenly become a sadder and wiser man'


'to know that he isin point of factwhat may be emphatically called
a - a merchant - a British merchant - and a - and a man. And although
I have been resident abroadfor some years (it would give me great
pleasure to receive my friend Dombeyand everybody hereat
Baden-Badenand to have an opportunity of making 'em known to the
Grand Duke)still I know enoughI flatter myselfof my lovely and
accomplished relativeto know that she possesses every requisite to
make a man happyand that her marriage with my friend Dombey is one
of inclination and affection on both sides.'

Many smiles and nods from Mr Carker.

'Therefore' says Cousin Feenix'I congratulate the family of
which I am a memberon the acquisition of my friend Dombey. I
congratulate my friend Dombey on his union with my lovely and
accomplished relative who possesses every requisite to make a man
happy; and I take the liberty of calling on you allin point of fact
to congratulate both my friend Dombey and my lovely and accomplished
relativeon the present occasion.'

The speech of Cousin Feenix is received with great applauseand Mr
Dombey returns thanks on behalf of himself and Mrs Dombey. J. B.
shortly afterwards proposes Mrs Skewton. The breakfast languishes when
that is donethe violated hatchments are avengedand Edith rises to
assume her travelling dress.

All the servants in the meantimehave been breakfasting below.
Champagne has grown too common among them to be mentionedand roast
fowlsraised piesand lobster-saladhave become mere drugs. The
very tall young man has recovered his spiritsand again alludes to
the exciseman. His comrade's eye begins to emulate his ownand he
toostares at objects without taking cognizance thereof. There is a
general redness in the faces of the ladies; in the face of Mrs Perch
particularlywho is joyous and beamingand lifted so far above the
cares of lifethat if she were asked just now to direct a wayfarer to
Ball's Pondwhere her own cares lodgeshe would have some difficulty
in recalling the way. Mr Towlinson has proposed the happy pair; to
which the silver-headed butler has responded neatlyand with emotion;
for he half begins to think he is an old retainer of the familyand
that he is bound to be affected by these changes. The whole partyand
especially the ladiesare very frolicsome. Mr Dombey's cookwho
generally takes the lead in societyhas saidit is impossible to
settle down after thisand why not goin a partyto the play?
Everybody (Mrs Perch included) has agreed to this; even the Native
who is tigerish in his drinkand who alarms the ladies (Mrs Perch
particularly) by the rolling of his eyes. One of the very tall young
men has even proposed a ball after the playand it presents itself to
no one (Mrs Perch included) in the light of an impossibility. Words
have arisen between the housemaid and Mr Towlinson; sheon the
authority of an old sawasserting marriages to be made in Heaven: he
affecting to trace the manufacture elsewhere; hesupposing that she
says sobecause she thinks of being married her own self: she
sayingLord forbidat any ratethat she should ever marry him. To
calm these flying tauntsthe silver-headed butler rises to propose
the health of Mr Towlinsonwhom to know is to esteemand to esteem
is to wish well settled in life with the object of his choice
wherever (here the silver-headed butler eyes the housemaid) she may
be. Mr Towlinson returns thanks in a speech replete with feelingof
which the peroration turns on foreignersregarding whom he says they
may find favoursometimeswith weak and inconstant intellects that
can be led away by hairbut all he hopesishe may never hear of no
foreigner never boning nothing out of no travelling chariot. The eye
of Mr Towlinson is so severe and so expressive herethat the
housemaid is turning hystericalwhen she and all the restroused by


the intelligence that the Bride is going awayhurry upstairs to
witness her departure.

The chariot is at the door; the Bride is descending to the hall
where Mr Dombey waits for her. Florence is ready on the staircase to
depart too; and Miss Nipperwho has held a middle state between the
parlour and the kitchenis prepared to accompany her. As Edith
appearsFlorence hastens towards herto bid her farewell.

Is Edith coldthat she should tremble! Is there anything unnatural
or unwholesome in the touch of Florencethat the beautiful form
recedes and contractsas if it could not bear it! Is there so much
hurry in this going awaythat Edithwith a wave of her handsweeps
onand is gone!

Mrs Skewtonoverpowered by her feelings as a mothersinks on her
sofa in the Cleopatra attitudewhen the clatter of the chariot wheels
is lostand sheds several tears. The Majorcoming with the rest of
the company from tableendeavours to comfort her; but she will not be
comforted on any termsand so the Major takes his leave. Cousin
Feenix takes his leaveand Mr Carker takes his leave. The guests all
go away. Cleopatraleft alonefeels a little giddy from her strong
emotionand falls asleep.

Giddiness prevails below stairs too. The very tall young man whose
excitement came on so soonappears to have his head glued to the
table in the pantryand cannot be detached from - it. A violent
revulsion has taken place in the spirits of Mrs Perchwho is low on
account of Mr Perchand tells cook that she fears he is not so much
attached to his homeas he used to bewhen they were only nine in
family. Mr Towlinson has a singing in his ears and a large wheel going
round and round inside his head. The housemaid wishes it wasn't wicked
to wish that one was dead.

There is a general delusion likewisein these lower regionson
the subject of time; everybody conceiving that it ought to beat the
earliestten o'clock at nightwhereas it is not yet three in the
afternoon. A shadowy idea of wickedness committedhaunts every
individual in the party; and each one secretly thinks the other a
companion in guiltwhom it would be agreeable to avoid. No man or
woman has the hardihood to hint at the projected visit to the play.
Anyone reviving the notion of the ballwould be scouted as a
malignant idiot.

Mrs Skewton sleeps upstairstwo hours afterwardsand naps are not
yet over in the kitchen. The hatchments in the dining-room look down
on crumbsdirty platesspillings of winehalf-thawed icestale
discoloured heel-tapsscraps of lobsterdrumsticks of fowlsand
pensive jelliesgradually resolving themselves into a lukewarm gummy
soup. The marriage isby this timealmost as denuded of its show and
garnish as the breakfast. Mr Dombey's servants moralise so much about
itand are so repentant over their early teaat homethat by eight
o'clock or sothey settle down into confirmed seriousness; and Mr
Percharriving at that time from the Cityfresh and jocularwith a
white waistcoat and a comic songready to spend the eveningand
prepared for any amount of dissipationis amazed to find himself
coldly receivedand Mrs Perch but poorlyand to have the pleasing
duty of escorting that lady home by the next omnibus.

Night closes in. Florencehaving rambled through the handsome
housefrom room to roomseeks her own chamberwhere the care of
Edith has surrounded her with luxuries and comforts; and divesting
herself of her handsome dressputs on her old simple mourning for
dear Pauland sits down to readwith Diogenes winking and blinking


on the ground beside her. But Florence cannot read tonight. The house
seems strange and newand there are loud echoes in it. There is a
shadow on her heart: she knows not why or what: but it is heavy.
Florence shuts her bookand gruff Diogeneswho takes that for a
signalputs his paws upon her lapand rubs his ears against her
caressing hands. But Florence cannot see him plainlyin a little
timefor there is a mist between her eyes and himand her dead
brother and dead mother shine in it like angels. Waltertoopoor
wandering shipwrecked boyohwhere is he?

The Major don't know; that's for certain; and don't care. The
Majorhaving choked and slumberedall the afternoonhas taken a
late dinner at his cluband now sits over his pint of winedriving a
modest young manwith a fresh-coloured faceat the next table (who
would give a handsome sum to be able to rise and go awaybut cannot
do it) to the verge of madnessby anecdotes of BagstockSirat
Dombey's weddingand Old Joe's devilish gentle manly friendLord
Feenix. While Cousin Feenixwho ought to be at Long'sand in bed
finds himselfinsteadat a gaming-tablewhere his wilful legs have
taken himperhapsin his own despite.

Nightlike a giantfills the churchfrom pavement to roofand
holds dominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping
through the windows: andgiving place to daysees night withdraw
into the vaultsand follows itand drives it outand hides among
the dead. The timid mice again cower close togetherwhen the great
door clashesand Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff treading the circle of their
daily livesunbroken as a marriage ringcome in. Againthe cocked
hat and the mortified bonnet stand in the background at the marriage
hour; and again this man taketh this womanand this woman taketh this
manon the solemn terms:

'To have and to holdfrom this day forwardfor better for worse
for richer for poorerin sickness and in healthto love and to
cherishuntil death do them part.'

The very words that Mr Carker rides into town repeatingwith his
mouth stretched to the utmostas he picks his dainty way.

CHAPTER 32.

The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces

Honest Captain Cuttleas the weeks flew over him in his fortified
retreatby no means abated any of his prudent provisions against
surprisebecause of the non-appearance of the enemy. The Captain
argued that his present security was too profound and wonderful to
endure much longer; he knew that when the wind stood in a fair
quarterthe weathercock was seldom nailed there; and he was too well
acquainted with the determined and dauntless character of Mrs
MacStingerto doubt that that heroic woman had devoted herself to the
task of his discovery and capture. Trembling beneath the weight of
these reasonsCaptain Cuttle lived a very close and retired life;
seldom stirring abroad until after dark; venturing even then only into
the obscurest streets; never going forth at all on Sundays; and both
within and without the walls of his retreatavoiding bonnetsas if
they were worn by raging lions.

The Captain never dreamed that in the event of his being pounced
upon by Mrs MacStingerin his walksit would be possible to offer


resistance. He felt that it could not be done. He saw himselfin his
mind's eyeput meekly in a hackney-coachand carried off to his old
lodgings. He foresaw thatonce immured therehe was a lost man: his
hat gone; Mrs MacStinger watchful of him day and night; reproaches
heaped upon his headbefore the infant family; himself the guilty
object of suspicion and distrust; an ogre in the children's eyesand
in their mother's a detected traitor.

A violent perspirationand a lowness of spiritsalways came over
the Captain as this gloomy picture presented itself to his
imagination. It generally did so previous to his stealing out of doors
at night for air and exercise. Sensible of the risk he ranthe
Captain took leave of Robat those timeswith the solemnity which
became a man who might never return: exhorting himin the event of
his (the Captain's) being lost sight offor a timeto tread in the
paths of virtueand keep the brazen instruments well polished.

But not to throw away a chance; and to secure to himself a means
in case of the worstof holding communication with the external
world; Captain Cuttle soon conceived the happy idea of teaching Rob
the Grinder some secret signalby which that adherent might make his
presence and fidelity known to his commanderin the hour of
adversity. After much cogitationthe Captain decided in favour of
instructing him to whistle the marine melody'Oh cheerilycheerily!'
and Rob the Grinder attaining a point as near perfection in that
accomplishment as a landsman could hope to reachthe Captain
impressed these mysterious instructions on his mind:

'Nowmy ladstand by! If ever I'm took - '

'TookCaptain!' interposed Robwith his round eyes wide open.

'Ah!' said Captain Cuttle darkly'if ever I goes awaymeaning to
come back to supperand don't come within hail againtwenty-four
hours arter my lossgo you to Brig Place and whistle that 'ere tune
near my old moorings - not as if you was a meaning of ityou
understandbut as if you'd drifted therepromiscuous. If I answer in
that tuneyou sheer offmy ladand come back four-and-twenty hours
arterwards; if I answer in another tunedo you stand off and onand
wait till I throw out further signals. Do you understand them orders
now?'

'What am I to stand off and on ofCaptain?' inquired Rob. 'The
horse-road?'

'Here's a smart lad for you!' cried the Captain eyeing him sternly
'as don't know his own native alphabet! Go away a bit and come back
again alternate - d'ye understand that?'

'YesCaptain' said Rob.

'Very good my ladthen' said the Captainrelenting. 'Do it!'

That he might do it the betterCaptain Cuttle sometimes
condescendedof an evening after the shop was shutto rehearse this
scene: retiring into the parlour for the purposeas into the lodgings
of a supposititious MacStingerand carefully observing the behaviour
of his allyfrom the hole of espial he had cut in the wall. Rob the
Grinder discharged himself of his duty with so much exactness and
judgmentwhen thus put to the proofthat the Captain presented him
at divers timeswith seven sixpencesin token of satisfaction; and
gradually felt stealing over his spirit the resignation of a man who
had made provision for the worstand taken every reasonable
precaution against an unrelenting fate.


Neverthelessthe Captain did not tempt ill-fortuneby being a
whit more venturesome than before. Though he considered it a point of
good breeding in himselfas a general friend of the familyto attend
Mr Dombey's wedding (of which he had heard from Mr Perch)and to show
that gentleman a pleasant and approving countenance from the gallery
he had repaired to the church in a hackney cabriolet with both windows
up; and might have scrupled even to make that venturein his dread of
Mrs MacStingerbut that the lady's attendance on the ministry of the
Reverend Melchisedech rendered it peculiarly unlikely that she would
be found in communion with the Establishment.

The Captain got safe home againand fell into the ordinary routine
of his new lifewithout encountering any more direct alarm from the
enemythan was suggested to him by the daily bonnets in the street.
But other subjects began to lay heavy on the Captain's mind. Walter's
ship was still unheard of. No news came of old Sol Gills. Florence did
not even know of the old man's disappearanceand Captain Cuttle had
not the heart to tell her. Indeed the Captainas his own hopes of the
generoushandsomegallant-hearted youthwhom he had loved
according to his rough mannerfrom a childbegan to fadeand faded
more and more from day to dayshrunk with instinctive pain from the
thought of exchanging a word with Florence. If he had had good news to
carry to herthe honest Captain would have braved the newly decorated
house and splendid furniture - though theseconnected with the lady
he had seen at churchwere awful to him - and made his way into her
presence. With a dark horizon gathering around their common hopes
howeverthat darkened every hourthe Captain almost felt as if he
were a new misfortune and affliction to her; and was scarcely less
afraid of a visit from Florencethan from Mrs MacStinger herself.

It was a chill dark autumn eveningand Captain Cuttle had ordered
a fire to be kindled in the little back parlournow more than ever
like the cabin of a ship. The rain fell fastand the wind blew hard;
and straying out on the house-top by that stormy bedroom of his old
friendto take an observation of the weatherthe Captain's heart
died within himwhen he saw how wild and desolate it was. Not that he
associated the weather of that time with poor Walter's destinyor
doubted that if Providence had doomed him to be lost and shipwrecked
it was overlong ago; but that beneath an outward influencequite
distinct from the subject-matter of his thoughtsthe Captain's
spirits sankand his hopes turned paleas those of wiser men had
often done before himand will often do again.

Captain Cuttleaddressing his face to the sharp wind and slanting
rainlooked up at the heavy scud that was flying fast over the
wilderness of house-topsand looked for something cheery there in
vain. The prospect near at hand was no better. In sundry tea-chests
and other rough boxes at his feetthe pigeons of Rob the Grinder were
cooing like so many dismal breezes getting up. A crazy weathercock of
a midshipmanwith a telescope at his eyeonce visible from the
streetbut long bricked outcreaked and complained upon his rusty
pivot as the shrill blast spun him round and roundand sported with
him cruelly. Upon the Captain's coarse blue vest the cold raindrops
started like steel beads; and he could hardly maintain himself aslant
against the stiff Nor'-Wester that came pressing against him
importunate to topple him over the parapetand throw him on the
pavement below. If there were any Hope alive that eveningthe Captain
thoughtas he held his hat onit certainly kept houseand wasn't
out of doors; so the Captainshaking his head in a despondent manner
went in to look for it.

Captain Cuttle descended slowly to the little back parlourand
seated in his accustomed chairlooked for it in the fire; but it was


not therethough the fire was bright. He took out his tobacco-box and
pipeand composing himself to smokelooked for it in the red glow
from the bowland in the wreaths of vapour that curled upward from
his lips; but there was not so much as an atom of the rust of Hope's
anchor in either. He tried a glass of grog; but melancholy truth was
at the bottom of that welland he couldn't finish it. He made a turn
or two in the shopand looked for Hope among the instruments; but
they obstinately worked out reckonings for the missing shipin spite
of any opposition he could offerthat ended at the bottom of the lone
sea.

The wind still rushingand the rain still patteringagainst the
closed shuttersthe Captain brought to before the wooden Midshipman
upon the counterand thoughtas he dried the little officer's
uniform with his sleevehow many years the Midshipman had seen
during which few changes - hardly any - had transpired among his
ship's company; how the changes had come all togetherone dayas it
might be; and of what a sweeping kind they web Here was the little
society of the back parlour broken upand scattered far and wide.
Here was no audience for Lovely Pegeven if there had been anybody to
sing itwhich there was not; for the Captain was as morally certain
that nobody but he could execute that balladhe was that he had not
the spiritunder existing circumstancesto attempt it. There was no
bright face of 'Wal'r' In the house; - here the Captain transferred
his sleeve for a moment from the Midshipman's uniform to his own
cheek; - the familiar wig and buttons of Sol Gills were a vision of
the past; Richard Whittington was knocked on the head; and every plan
and project in connexion with the Midshipmanlay driftingwithout
mast or rudderon the waste of waters.

As the Captainwith a dejected facestood revolving these
thoughtsand polishing the Midshipmanpartly in the tenderness of
old acquaintanceand partly in the absence of his minda knocking at
the shop-door communicated a frightful start to the frame of Rob the
Grinderseated on the counterwhose large eyes had been intently
fixed on the Captain's faceand who had been debating within himself
for the five hundredth timewhether the Captain could have done a
murderthat he had such an evil conscienceand was always running
away.

'What's that?' said Captain Cuttlesoftly.

'Somebody's knucklesCaptain' answered Rob the Grinder.

The Captainwith an abashed and guilty airimmediately walked on
tiptoe to the little parlour and locked himself in. Robopening the
doorwould have parleyed with the visitor on the threshold if the
visitor had come in female guise; but the figure being of the male
sexand Rob's orders only applying to womenRob held the door open
and allowed it to enter: which it did very quicklyglad to get out of
the driving rain.

'A job for Burgess and Co. at any rate' said the visitorlooking
over his shoulder compassionately at his own legswhich were very wet
and covered with splashes. 'Ohhow-de-doMr Gills?'

The salutation was addressed to the Captainnow emerging from the
back parlour with a most transparent and utterly futile affectation of
coming out by accidence.

'Thankee' the gentleman went on to say in the same breath; 'I'm
very well indeedmyselfI'm much obliged to you. My name is TootsMister
Toots.'


The Captain remembered to have seen this young gentleman at the
weddingand made him a bow. Mr Toots replied with a chuckle; and
being embarrassedas he generally wasbreathed hardshook hands
with the Captain for a long timeand then falling on Rob the Grinder
in the absence of any other resourceshook hands with him in a most
affectionate and cordial manner.


'I say! I should like to speak a word to youMr Gillsif you
please' said Toots at lengthwith surprising presence of mind. 'I
say! Miss D.O.M. you know!'


The Captainwith responsive gravity and mysteryimmediately waved
his hook towards the little parlourwhither Mr Toots followed him.


'Oh! I beg your pardon though' said Mr Tootslooking up In the
Captain's face as he sat down in a chair by the firewhich the
Captain placed for him; 'you don't happen to know the Chicken at all;
do youMr Gills?'


'The Chicken?' said the Captain.


'The Game Chicken' said Mr Toots.


The Captain shaking his headMr Toots explained that the man
alluded to was the celebrated public character who had covered himself
and his country with glory in his contest with the Nobby Shropshire
One; but this piece of information did not appear to enlighten the
Captain very much.


'Because he's outside: that's all' said Mr Toots. 'But it's of no
consequence; he won't get very wetperhaps.'


'I can pass the word for him in a moment' said the Captain.


'Wellif you would have the goodness to let him sit in the shop
with your young man' chuckled Mr Toots'I should be glad; because
you knowhe's easily offendedand the damp's rather bad for his
stamina. I'll call him inMr Gills.'


With thatMr Toots repairing to the shop-doorsent a peculiar
whistle into the nightwhich produced a stoical gentleman in a shaggy
white great-coat and a flat-brimmed hatwith very short haira
broken noseand a considerable tract of bare and sterile country
behind each ear.


'Sit downChicken' said Mr Toots.


The compliant Chicken spat out some small pieces of straw on which
he was regaling himselfand took in a fresh supply from a reserve he
carried in his hand.


'There ain't no drain of nothing short handyis there?' said the
Chickengenerally. 'This here sluicing night is hard lines to a man
as lives on his condition.


Captain Cuttle proffered a glass of rumwhich the Chicken
throwing back his heademptied into himselfas into a caskafter
proposing the brief sentiment'Towards us!' Mr Toots and the Captain
returning then to the parlourand taking their seats before the fire
Mr Toots began:


'Mr Gills - '


'Awast!' said the Captain. 'My name's Cuttle.'



Mr Toots looked greatly disconcertedwhile the Captain proceeded
gravely.

'Cap'en Cuttle is my nameand England is my nationthis here is
my dwelling-placeand blessed be creation - Job' said the Captain
as an index to his authority.

'Oh! I couldn't see Mr Gillscould I?' said Mr Toots; 'because - '

'If you could see Sol Gillsyoung gen'l'm'n' said the Captain
impressivelyand laying his heavy hand on Mr Toots's knee'old Sol
mind you - with your own eyes - as you sit there - you'd be welcomer
to methan a wind asternto a ship becalmed. But you can't see Sol
Gills. And why can't you see Sol Gills?' said the Captainapprised by
the face of Mr Toots that he was making a profound impression on that
gentleman's mind. 'Because he's inwisible.'

Mr Toots in his agitation was going to reply that it was of no
consequence at all. But he corrected himselfand said'Lor bless
me!'

'That there man' said the Captain'has left me in charge here by
a piece of writingbut though he was a'most as good as my sworn
brotherI know no more where he's goneor why he's gone; if so be to
seek his nevyor if so be along of being not quite settled in his
mind; than you do. One morning at daybreakhe went over the side'
said the Captain'without a splashwithout a ripple I have looked
for that man high and lowand never set eyesnor earsnor nothing
elseupon him from that hour.'

'Butgood GraciousMiss Dombey don't know - ' Mr Toots began.

'WhyI ask youas a feeling heart' said the Captaindropping
his voice'why should she know? why should she be made to knowuntil
such time as there wam't any help for it? She took to old Sol Gills
did that sweet creeturwith a kindnesswith a affabilitywith a what's
the good of saying so? you know her.'

'I should hope so' chuckled Mr Tootswith a conscious blush that
suffused his whole countenance.

'And you come here from her?' said the Captain.

'I should think so' chuckled Mr Toots.

'Then all I need observeis' said the Captain'that you know a
angeland are chartered a angel.'

Mr Toots instantly seized the Captain's handand requested the
favour of his friendship.

'Upon my word and honour' said Mr Tootsearnestly'I should be
very much obliged to you if you'd improve my acquaintance I should
like to know youCaptainvery much. I really am In want of a friend
I am. Little Dombey was my friend at old Blimber'sand would have
been nowif he'd have lived. The Chicken' said Mr Tootsin a
forlorn whisper'is very well - admirable in his way - the sharpest
man perhaps in the world; there's not a move he isn't up toeverybody
says so - but I don't know - he's not everything. So she is an angel
Captain. If there is an angel anywhereit's Miss Dombey. That's what
I've always said. Really thoughyou know' said Mr Toots'I should
be very much obliged to you if you'd cultivate my acquaintance.'


Captain Cuttle received this proposal in a polite mannerbut still
without committing himself to its acceptance; merely observing'Ay
aymy lad. We shall seewe shall see;' and reminding Mr Toots of his
immediate missionby inquiring to what he was indebted for the honour
of that visit.

'Why the fact is' replied Mr Toots'that it's the young woman I
come from. Not Miss Dombey - Susanyou know.

The Captain nodded his head oncewith a grave expression of face
indicative of his regarding that young woman with serious respect.

'And I'll tell you how it happens' said Mr Toots. 'You knowI go
and call sometimeson Miss Dombey. I don't go there on purposeyou
knowbut I happen to be in the neighbourhood very often; and when I
find myself therewhy - why I call.'

'Nat'rally' observed the Captain.

'Yes' said Mr Toots. 'I called this afternoon. Upon my word and
honourI don't think it's possible to form an idea of the angel Miss
Dombey was this afternoon.'

The Captain answered with a jerk of his headimplying that it
might not be easy to some peoplebut was quite so to him.

'As I was coming out' said Mr Toots'the young womanin the most
unexpected mannertook me into the pantry.

The Captain seemedfor the momentto object to this proceeding;
and leaning back in his chairlooked at Mr Toots with a distrustful
if not threatening visage.

'Where she brought out' said Mr Toots'this newspaper. She told
me that she had kept it from Miss Dombey all dayon account of
something that was in itabout somebody that she and Dombey used to
know; and then she read the passage to me. Very well. Then she said wait
a minute; what was it she saidthough!'

Mr Tootsendeavouring to concentrate his mental powers on this
questionunintentionally fixed the Captain's eyeand was so much
discomposed by its stern expressionthat his difficulty in resuming
the thread of his subject was enhanced to a painful extent.

'Oh!' said Mr Toots after long consideration. 'Ohah! Yes! She
said that she hoped there was a bare possibility that it mightn't be
true; and that as she couldn't very well come out herselfwithout
surprising Miss Dombeywould I go down to Mr Solomon Gills the
Instrument-maker's in this streetwho was the party's Uncleand ask
whether he believed it was trueor had heard anything else in the
City. She saidif he couldn't speak to meno doubt Captain Cuttle
could. By the bye!' said Mr Tootsas the discovery flashed upon him
'youyou know!'

The Captain glanced at the newspaper in Mr Toots's handand
breathed short and hurriedly.

'Wellpursued Mr Toots'the reason why I'm rather late is
because I went up as far as Finchley firstto get some uncommonly
fine chickweed that grows therefor Miss Dombey's bird. But I came on
heredirectly afterwards. You've seen the paperI suppose?'

The Captainwho had become cautious of reading the newslest he
should find himself advertised at full length by Mrs MacStingershook


his head.

'Shall I read the passage to you?' inquired Mr Toots.

The Captain making a sign in the affirmativeMr Toots read as
followsfrom the Shipping Intelligence:

'"Southampton. The barque DefianceHenry JamesCommanderarrived
in this port to-daywith a cargo of sugarcoffeeand rumreports
that being becalmed on the sixth day of her passage home from Jamaica
in" - in such and such a latitudeyou know' said Mr Tootsafter
making a feeble dash at the figuresand tumbling over them.

'Ay!' cried the Captainstriking his clenched hand on the table.
'Heave aheadmy lad!'

' - latitude' repeated Mr Tootswith a startled glance at the
Captain'and longitude so-and-so- "the look-out observedhalf an
hour before sunsetsome fragments of a wreckdrifting at about the
distance of a mile. The weather being clearand the barque making no
waya boat was hoisted outwith orders to inspect the samewhen
they were found to consist of sundry large sparsand a part of the
main rigging of an English brigof about five hundred tons burden
together with a portion of the stem on which the words and letters
'Son and H-' were yet plainly legible. No vestige of any dead body was
to be seen upon the floating fragments. Log of the Defiance states
that a breeze springing up in the nightthe wreck was seen no more.
There can be no doubt that all surmises as to the fate of the missing
vesselthe Son and Heirport of Londonbound for Barbadosare now
set at rest for ever; that she broke up in the last hurricane; and
that every soul on board perished."'

Captain Cuttlelike all mankindlittle knew how much hope had
survived within him under discouragementuntil he felt its
death-shock. During the reading of the paragraphand for a minute or
two afterwardshe sat with his gaze fixed on the modest Mr Toots
like a man entranced; thensuddenly risingand putting on his glazed
hatwhichin his visitor's honourhe had laid upon the tablethe
Captain turned his backand bent his head down on the little
chimneypiece.

'Oh' upon my word and honour' cried Mr Tootswhose tender heart
was moved by the Captain's unexpected distress'this is a most
wretched sort of affair this world is! Somebody's always dyingor
going and doing something uncomfortable in it. I'm sure I never should
have looked forward so muchto coming into my propertyif I had
known this. I never saw such a world. It's a great deal worse than
Blimber's.'

Captain Cuttlewithout altering his positionsigned to Mr Toots
not to mind him; and presently turned roundwith his glazed hat
thrust back upon his earsand his hand composing and smoothing his
brown face.

'Wal'rmy dear lad' said the Captain'farewell! Wal'r my child
my boyand manI loved you! He warn't my flesh and blood' said the
Captainlooking at the fire - 'I ain't got none - but something of
what a father feels when he loses a sonI feel in losing Wal'r. For
why?' said the Captain. 'Because it ain't one lossbut a round dozen.
Where's that there young school-boy with the rosy face and curly hair
that used to be as merry in this here parlourcome round every week
as a piece of music? Gone down with Wal'r. Where's that there fresh
ladthat nothing couldn't tire nor put outand that sparkled up and
blushed sowhen we joked him about Heart's Delightthat he was


beautiful to look at? Gone down with Wal'r. Where's that there man's
spiritall afirethat wouldn't see the old man hove down for a
minuteand cared nothing for itself? Gone down with Wal'r. It ain't
one Wal'r. There was a dozen Wal'rs that I know'd and lovedall
holding round his neck when he went downand they're a-holding round
mine now!'

Mr Toots sat silent: folding and refolding the newspaper as small
as possible upon his knee.

'And Sol Gills' said the Captaingazing at the fire'poor
nevyless old Solwhere are you got to! you was left in charge of me;
his last words wasTake care of my Uncle!What came over youSol
when you went and gave the go-bye to Ned Cuttle; and what am I to put
In my accounts that he's a looking down uponrespecting you! Sol
GillsSol Gills!' said the Captainshaking his head slowly'catch
sight of that there newspaperaway from homewith no one as know'd
Wal'r byto say a word; and broadside to you broachand down you
pitchhead foremost!'

Drawing a heavy sighthe Captain turned to Mr Tootsand roused
himself to a sustained consciousness of that gentleman's presence.

'My lad' said the Captain'you must tell the young woman honestly
that this here fatal news is too correct. They don't romanceyou see
on such pints. It's entered on the ship's logand that's the truest
book as a man can write. To-morrow morning' said the Captain'I'll
step out and make inquiries; but they'll lead to no good. They can't
do it. If you'll give me a look-in in the forenoonyou shall know
what I have heerd; but tell the young woman from Cap'en Cuttlethat
it's over. Over!' And the Captainhooking off his glazed hatpulled
his handkerchief out of the crownwiped his grizzled head
despairinglyand tossed the handkerchief in againwith the
indifference of deep dejection.

'Oh! I assure you' said Mr Toots'really I am dreadfully sorry.
Upon my word I amthough I wasn't acquainted with the party. Do you
think Miss Dombey will be very much affectedCaptain Gills - I mean
Mr Cuttle?'

'WhyLord love you' returned the Captainwith something of
compassion for Mr Toots's innocence. When she warn't no higher than
thatthey were as fond of one another as two young doves.'

'Were they though!' said Mr Tootswith a considerably lengthened
face.

'They were made for one another' said the Captainmournfully;
'but what signifies that now!'

'Upon my word and honour' cried Mr Tootsblurting out his words
through a singular combination of awkward chuckles and emotion'I'm
even more sorry than I was before. You knowCaptain GillsI - I
positively adore Miss Dombey; - I - I am perfectly sore with loving
her;' the burst with which this confession forced itself out of the
unhappy Mr Tootsbespoke the vehemence of his feelings; 'but what
would be the good of my regarding her in this mannerif I wasn't
truly sorry for her feeling painwhatever was the cause of it. Mine
ain't a selfish affectionyou know' said Mr Tootsin the confidence
engendered by his having been a witness of the Captain's tenderness.
'It's the sort of thing with meCaptain Gillsthat if I could be run
over - or - or trampled upon - or - or thrown off a very high place
-or anything of that sort - for Miss Dombey's sakeit would be the
most delightful thing that could happen to me.


All thisMr Toots said in a suppressed voiceto prevent its
reaching the jealous ears of the Chickenwho objected to the softer
emotions; which effort of restraintcoupled with the intensity of his
feelingsmade him red to the tips of his earsand caused him to
present such an affecting spectacle of disinterested love to the eyes
of Captain Cuttlethat the good Captain patted him consolingly on the
backand bade him cheer up.

'ThankeeCaptain Gills' said Mr Toots'it's kind of youin the
midst of your own troublesto say so. I'm very much obliged to you.
As I said beforeI really want a friendand should be glad to have
your acquaintance. Although I am very well off' said Mr Tootswith
energy'you can't think what a miserable Beast I am. The hollow
crowdyou knowwhen they see me with the Chickenand characters of
distinction like thatsuppose me to be happy; but I'm wretched. I
suffer for Miss DombeyCaptain Gills. I can't get through my meals; I
have no pleasure in my tailor; I often cry when I'm alone. I assure
you it'll be a satisfaction to me to come back to-morrowor to come
back fifty times.'

Mr Tootswith these wordsshook the Captain's hand; and
disguising such traces of his agitation as could be disguised on so
short a noticebefore the Chicken's penetrating glancerejoined that
eminent gentleman in the shop. The Chickenwho was apt to be jealous
of his ascendancyeyed Captain Cuttle with anything but favour as he
took leave of Mr Tootsbut followed his patron without being
otherwise demonstrative of his ill-will: leaving the Captain oppressed
with sorrow; and Rob the Grinder elevated with joyon account of
having had the honour of staring for nearly half an hour at the
conqueror of the Nobby Shropshire One.

Long after Rob was fast asleep in his bed under the counterthe
Captain sat looking at the fire; and long after there was no fire to
look atthe Captain sat gazing on the rusty barswith unavailing
thoughts of Walter and old Sol crowding through his mind. Retirement
to the stormy chamber at the top of the house brought no rest with it;
and the Captain rose up in the morningsorrowful and unrefreshed.

As soon as the City offices were openedthe Captain issued forth
to the counting-house of Dombey and Son. But there was no opening of
the Midshipman's windows that morning. Rob the Grinderby the
Captain's ordersleft the shutters closedand the house was as a
house of death.

It chanced that Mr Carker was entering the officeas Captain
Cuttle arrived at the door. Receiving the Manager's benison gravely
and silentlyCaptain Cuttle made bold to accompany him into his own
room.

'WellCaptain Cuttle' said Mr Carkertaking up his usual
position before the fireplaceand keeping on his hat'this is a bad
business.'

'You have received the news as was in print yesterdaySir?' said
the Captain.

'Yes' said Mr Carker'we have received it! It was accurately
stated. The underwriters suffer a considerable loss. We are very
sorry. No help! Such is life!'

Mr Carker pared his nails delicately with a penknifeand smiled at
the Captainwho was standing by the door looking at him.


'I excessively regret poor Gay' said Carker'and the crew. I
understand there were some of our very best men among 'em. It always
happens so. Many men with families too. A comfort to reflect that poor
Gay had no familyCaptain Cuttle!'

The Captain stood rubbing his chinand looking at the Manager. The
Manager glanced at the unopened letters lying on his deskand took up
the newspaper.

'Is there anything I can do for youCaptain Cuttle?' he asked
looking off itwith a smiling and expressive glance at the door.

'I wish you could set my mind at restSiron something it's
uneasy about' returned the Captain.

'Ay!' exclaimed the Manager'what's that? ComeCaptain CuttleI
must trouble you to be quickif you please. I am much engaged.'

'Lookee hereSir' said the Captainadvancing a step. 'Afore my
friend Wal'r went on this here disastrous voyage


'ComecomeCaptain Cuttle' interposed the smiling Manager
'don't talk about disastrous voyages in that way. We have nothing to
do with disastrous voyages heremy good fellow. You must have begun
very early on your day's allowanceCaptainif you don't remember
that there are hazards in all voyageswhether by sea or land. You are
not made uneasy by the supposition that young what's-his-name was lost
in bad weather that was got up against him in these offices - are you?
FieCaptain! Sleepand soda-waterare the best cures for such
uneasiness as that.

'My lad' returned the Captainslowly - 'you are a'most a lad to
meand so I don't ask your pardon for that slip of a word- if you
find any pleasure in this here sportyou ain't the gentleman I took
you for. And if you ain't the gentleman I took you formay be my mind
has call to be uneasy. Now this is what it isMr Carker. - Afore that
poor lad went awayaccording to ordershe told me that he warn't a
going away for his own goodor for promotionhe know'd. It was my
belief that he was wrongand I told him soand I come hereyour
head governor being absentto ask a question or two of you in a civil
wayfor my own satisfaction. Them questions you answered - free. Now
it'll ease my mind to knowwhen all is overas it isand when what
can't be cured must be endoored - for whichas a scholaryou'll
overhaul the book it's inand thereof make a note - to know once
morein a wordthat I warn't mistaken; that I warn't back'ard in my
duty when I didn't tell the old man what Wal'r told me; and that the
wind was truly in his sailwhen he highsted of it for Barbados
Harbour. Mr Carker' said the Captainin the goodness of his nature
'when I was here lastwe was very pleasant together. If I ain't been
altogether so pleasant myself this morningon account of this poor
ladand if I have chafed again any observation of yours that I might
have fended offmy name is Ed'ard Cuttleand I ask your pardon.'

'Captain Cuttle' returned the Managerwith all possible
politeness'I must ask you to do me a favour.'

'And what is itSir?' inquired the Captain.

'To have the goodness to walk offif you please' rejoined the
Managerstretching forth his arm'and to carry your jargon somewhere
else.'

Every knob in the Captain's face turned white with astonishment and
indignation; even the red rim on his forehead fadedlike a rainbow


among the gathering clouds.

'I tell you whatCaptain Cuttle' said the Managershaking his
forefinger at himand showing him all his teethbut still amiably
smiling'I was much too lenient with you when you came here before.
You belong to an artful and audacious set of people. In my desire to
save young what's-his-name from being kicked out of this placeneck
and cropmy good CaptainI tolerated you; but for onceand only
once. Nowgomy friend!'

The Captain was absolutely rooted to the groundand speechless


'Go' said the good-humoured Managergathering up his skirtsand
standing astride upon the hearth-rug'like a sensible fellowand let
us have no turning outor any such violent measures. If Mr Dombey
were hereCaptainyou might be obliged to leave in a more
ignominious mannerpossibly. I merely sayGo!'

The Captainlaying his ponderous hand upon his chestto assist
himself in fetching a deep breathlooked at Mr Carker from head to
footand looked round the little roomas if he did not clearly
understand where he wasor in what company.

'You are deepCaptain Cuttle' pursued Carkerwith the easy and
vivacious frankness of a man of the world who knew the world too well
to be ruffled by any discovery of misdoingwhen it did not
immediately concern himself'but you are not quite out of soundings
either - neither you nor your absent friendCaptain. What have you
done with your absent friendhey?'

Again the Captain laid his hand upon his chest. After drawing
another deep breathhe conjured himself to 'stand by!' But In a
whisper.

'You hatch nice little plotsand hold nice little councilsand
make nice little appointmentsand receive nice little visitorstoo
Captainhey?' said Carkerbending his brows upon himwithout
showing his teeth any the less: 'but it's a bold measure to come here
afterwards. Not like your discretion! You conspiratorsand hiders
and runners-awayshould know better than that. Will you oblige me by
going?'

'My lad' gasped the Captainin a choked and trembling voiceand
with a curious action going on in the ponderous fist; 'there's a many
words I could wish to say to youbut I don't rightly know where
they're stowed just at present. My young friendWal'rwas drownded
only last nightaccording to my reckoningand it puts me outyou
see. But you and me will come alongside o'one another againmy lad'
said the Captainholding up his hookif we live.'

'It will be anything but shrewd in youmy good fellowif we do'
returned the Managerwith the same frankness; 'for you may relyI
give you fair warningupon my detecting and exposing you. I don't
pretend to be a more moral man than my neighboursmy good Captain;
but the confidence of this Houseor of any member of this Houseis
not to be abused and undermined while I have eyes and ears. Good day!'
said Mr Carkernodding his head.

Captain Cuttlelooking at him steadily (Mr Carker looked full as
steadily at the Captain)went out of the office and left him standing
astride before the fireas calm and pleasant as if there were no more
spots upon his soul than on his pure white linenand his smooth sleek
skin.


The Captain glancedin passing through the outer counting-house
at the desk where he knew poor Walter had been used to sitnow
occupied by another young boywith a face almost as fresh and hopeful
as his on the day when they tapped the famous last bottle but one of
the old Madeirain the little back parlour. The nation of ideasthus
awakeneddid the Captain a great deal of good; it softened him in the
very height of his angerand brought the tears into his eyes.

Arrived at the wooden Midshipman's againand sitting down in a
corner of the dark shopthe Captain's indignationstrong as it was
could make no head against his grief. Passion seemed not only to do
wrong and violence to the memory of the deadbut to be infected by
deathand to droop and decline beside it. All the living knaves and
liars in the worldwere nothing to the honesty and truth of one dead
friend.

The only thing the honest Captain made out clearlyin this state
of mindbesides the loss of Walterwasthat with him almost the
whole world of Captain Cuttle had been drowned. If he reproached
himself sometimesand keenly toofor having ever connived at
Walter's innocent deceithe thought at least as often of the Mr
Carker whom no sea could ever render up; and the Mr Dombeywhom he
now began to perceive was as far beyond human recall; and the 'Heart's
Delight' with whom he must never foregather again; and the Lovely
Pegthat teak-built and trim balladthat had gone ashore upon a
rockand split into mere planks and beams of rhyme. The Captain sat
in the dark shopthinking of these thingsto the entire exclusion of
his own injury; and looking with as sad an eye upon the groundas if
in contemplation of their actual fragmentsas they floated past

But the Captain was not unmindfulfor all thatof such decent and
rest observances in memory of poor Walteras he felt within his
power. Rousing himselfand rousing Rob the Grinder (who in the
unnatural twilight was fast asleep)the Captain sallied forth with
his attendant at his heelsand the door-key in his pocketand
repairing to one of those convenient slop-selling establishments of
which there is abundant choice at the eastern end of Londonpurchased
on the spot two suits of mourning - one for Rob the Grinderwhich was
immensely too smalland one for himselfwhich was immensely too
large. He also provided Rob with a species of hatgreatly to be
admired for its symmetry and usefulnessas well as for a happy
blending of the mariner with the coal-heaver; which is usually termed
a sou'wester; and which was something of a novelty in connexion with
the instrument business. In their several garmentswhich the vendor
declared to be such a miracle in point of fit as nothing but a rare
combination of fortuitous circumstances ever brought aboutand the
fashion of which was unparalleled within the memory of the oldest
inhabitantthe Captain and Grinder immediately arrayed themselves:
presenting a spectacle fraught with wonder to all who beheld it.

In this altered formthe Captain received Mr Toots. 'I'm took
abackmy ladat present' said the Captain'and will only confirm
that there ill news. Tell the young woman to break it gentle to the
young ladyand for neither of 'em never to think of me no more '
specialmind youthat is - though I will think of themwhen night
comes on a hurricane and seas is mountains rowlingfor which overhaul
your Doctor Wattsbrotherand when found make a note on."

The Captain reserveduntil some fitter timethe consideration of
Mr Toots's offer of friendshipand thus dismissed him. Captain
Cuttle's spirits were so lowin truththat he half determinedthat
dayto take no further precautions against surprise from Mrs
MacStingerbut to abandon himself recklessly to chanceand be
indifferent to what might happen. As evening came onhe fell into a


better frame of mindhowever; and spoke much of Walter to Rob the
Grinderwhose attention and fidelity he likewise incidentally
commended. Rob did not blush to hear the Captain earnest in his
praisesbut sat staring at himand affecting to snivel with
sympathyand making a feint of being virtuousand treasuring up
every word he said (like a young spy as he was) with very promising
deceit.

When Rob had turned inand was fast asleepthe Captain trimmed
the candleput on his spectacles - he had felt it appropriate to take
to spectacles on entering into the Instrument Tradethough his eyes
were like a hawk's - and opened the prayer-book at the Burial Service.
And reading softly to himselfin the little back parlourand
stopping now and then to wipe his eyesthe CaptainIn a true and
simple spiritcommitted Walter's body to the deep.

CHAPTER 33.

Contrasts

Turn we our eyes upon two homes; not lying side by sidebut wide
apartthough both within easy range and reach of the great city of
London.

The first is situated in the green and wooded country near Norwood.
It is not a mansion; it is of no pretensions as to size; but it is
beautifully arrangedand tastefully kept. The lawnthe softsmooth
slopethe flower-gardenthe clumps of trees where graceful forms of
ash and willow are not wantingthe conservatorythe rustic verandah
with sweet-smelling creeping plants entwined about the pillarsthe
simple exterior of the housethe well-ordered officesthough all
upon the diminutive scale proper to a mere cottagebespeak an amount
of elegant comfort withinthat might serve for a palace. This
indication is not without warrant; forwithinit is a house of
refinement and luxury. Rich coloursexcellently blendedmeet the eye
at every turn; in the furniture - its proportions admirably devised to
suit the shapes and sizes of the small rooms; on the walls; upon the
floors; tingeing and subduing the light that comes in through the odd
glass doors and windows here and there. There are a few choice prints
and pictures too; in quaint nooks and recesses there is no want of
books; and there are games of skill and chance set forth on tables fantastic
chessmendicebackgammoncardsand billiards.

And yet amidst this opulence of comfortthere is something in the
general air that is not well. Is it that the carpets and the cushions
are too soft and noiselessso that those who move or repose among
them seem to act by stealth? Is it that the prints and pictures do not
commemorate great thoughts or deedsor render nature in the Poetry of
landscapehallor hutbut are of one voluptuous cast - mere shows
of form and colour - and no more? Is it that the books have all their
gold outsideand that the titles of the greater part qualify them to
be companions of the prints and pictures? Is it that the completeness
and the beauty of the place are here and there belied by an
affectation of humilityin some unimportant and inexpensive regard
which is as false as the face of the too truly painted portrait
hanging yonderor its original at breakfast in his easy chair below
it? Or is it thatwith the daily breath of that original and master
of all herethere issues forth some subtle portion of himselfwhich
gives a vague expression of himself to everything about him?


It is Mr Carker the Manager who sits in the easy chair. A gaudy
parrot in a burnished cage upon the table tears at the wires with her
beakand goes walkingupside downin its dome-topshaking her
house and screeching; but Mr Carker is indifferent to the birdand
looks with a musing smile at a picture on the opposite wall.

'A most extraordinary accidental likenesscertainly' says he.

Perhaps it is a Juno; perhaps a Potiphar's Wife'; perhaps some
scornful Nymph - according as the Picture Dealers found the market
when they christened it. It is the figure of a womansupremely
handsomewhoturning awaybut with her face addressed to the
spectatorflashes her proud glance upon him.

It is like Edith.

With a passing gesture of his hand at the picture - what! a menace?
No; yet something like it. A wave as of triumph? No; yet more like
that. An insolent salute wafted from his lips? No; yet like that too he
resumes his breakfastand calls to the chafing and imprisoned
birdwho coming down into a pendant gilded hoop within the cagelike
a great wedding-ringswings in itfor his delight.

The second home is on the other side of Londonnear to where the
busy great north road of bygone days is silent and almost deserted
except by wayfarers who toil along on foot. It is a poor small house
barely and sparely furnishedbut very clean; and there is even an
attempt to decorate itshown in the homely flowers trained about the
porch and in the narrow garden. The neighbourhood in which it stands
has as little of the country to recommend'itas it has of the town.
It is neither of the town nor country. The formerlike the giant in
his travelling bootshas made a stride and passed itand has set his
brick-and-mortar heel a long way in advance; but the intermediate
space between the giant's feetas yetis only blighted countryand
not town; andhereamong a few tall chimneys belching smoke all day
and nightand among the brick-fields and the lanes where turf is cut
and where the fences tumble downand where the dusty nettles grow
and where a scrap or two of hedge may yet be seenand where the
bird-catcher still comes occasionallythough he swears every time to
come no more - this second home is to be found.'

She who inhabits itis she who left the first in her devotion to
an outcast brother. She withdrew from that home its redeeming spirit
and from its master's breast his solitary angel: but though his liking
for her is goneafter this ungrateful slight as he considers it; and
though he abandons her altogether in returnan old idea of her is not
quite forgotten even by him. Let her flower-gardenin which he never
sets his footbut which is yet maintainedamong all his costly
alterationsas if she had quitted it but yesterdaybear witness!

Harriet Carker has changed since thenand on her beauty there has
fallen a heavier shade than Time of his unassisted self can cast
all-potent as he is - the shadow of anxiety and sorrowand the daily
struggle of a poor existence. But it is beauty still; and still a
gentlequietand retiring beauty that must be sought outfor it
cannot vaunt itself; if it couldit would be what it isno more.

Yes. This slightsmallpatient figureneatly dressed in homely
stuffsand indicating nothing but the dullhousehold virtuesthat
have so little in common with the received idea of heroism and
greatnessunlessindeedany ray of them should shine through the
lives of the great ones of the earthwhen it becomes a constellation
and is tracked in Heaven straightway - this slightsmallpatient
figureleaning on the man still young but worn and greyis shehis


sisterwhoof all the worldwent over to him in his shame and put
her hand in hisand with a sweet composure and determinationled him
hopefully upon his barren way.

'It is earlyJohn' she said. 'Why do you go so early?'

'Not many minutes earlier than usualHarriet. If I have the time
to spareI should likeI think - it's a fancy - to walk once by the
house where I took leave of him.'

'I wish I had ever seen or known himJohn.'

'It is better as it ismy dearremembering his fate.'

'But I could not regret it morethough I had known him. Is not
your sorrow mine? And if I hadperhaps you would feel that I was a
better companion to you in speaking about himthan I may seem now.

'My dearest sister! Is there anything within the range of rejoicing
or regretin which I am not sure of your companionship?'

'I hope you think notJohnfor surely there is nothing!'

'How could you be better to meor nearer to me thenthan you are
in thisor anything?' said her brother. 'I feel that you did know
himHarrietand that you shared my feelings towards him.'

She drew the hand which had been resting on his shoulderround his
neckand answeredwith some hesitation:

'Nonot quite.'

'Truetrue!' he said; 'you think I might have done him no harm if
I had allowed myself to know him better?'

'Think! I know it.'

'DesignedlyHeaven knows I would not' he repliedshaking his
head mournfully; 'but his reputation was too precious to be perilled
by such association. Whether you share that knowledgeor do notmy
dear - '

'I do not' she said quietly.

'It is still the truthHarrietand my mind is lighter when I
think of him for that which made it so much heavier then.' He checked
himself in his tone of melancholyand smiled upon her as he said
'Good-bye!'

'Good-byedear John! In the eveningat the old time and placeI
shall meet you as usual on your way home. Good-bye.'

The cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss himwas his home
his lifehis universeand yet it was a portion of his punishment and
grief; for in the cloud he saw upon it - though serene and calm as any
radiant cloud at sunset - and in the constancy and devotion of her
lifeand in the sacrifice she had made of easeenjoymentand hope
he saw the bitter fruits of his old crimefor ever ripe and fresh.

She stood at the door looking after himwith her hands loosely
clasped in each otheras he made his way over the frowzy and uneven
patch of ground which lay before their housewhich had once (and not
long ago) been a pleasant meadowand was now a very wastewith a
disorderly crop of beginnings of mean housesrising out of the


rubbishas if they had been unskilfully sown there. Whenever he
looked back - as once or twice he did - her cordial face shone like a
light upon his heart; but when he plodded on his wayand saw her not
the tears were in her eyes as she stood watching him.

Her pensive form was not long idle at the door. There was daily
duty to dischargeand daily work to do - for such commonplace spirits
that are not heroicoften work hard with their hands - and Harriet
was soon busy with her household tasks. These dischargedand the poor
house made quite neat and orderlyshe counted her little stock of
moneywith an anxious faceand went out thoughtfully to buy some
necessaries for their tableplanning and connivingas she wenthow
to save. So sordid are the lives of such lo natureswho are not only
not heroic to their valets and waiting-womenbut have neither valets
nor waiting-women to be heroic to withal!

While she was absentand there was no one in the housethere
approached it by a different way from that the brother had takena
gentlemana very little past his prime of life perhapsbut of a
healthy florid huean upright presenceand a bright clear aspect
that was gracious and good-humoured. His eyebrows were still black
and so was much of his hair; the sprinkling of grey observable among
the lattergraced the former very muchand showed his broad frank
brow and honest eyes to great advantage.

After knocking once at the doorand obtaining no responsethis
gentleman sat down on a bench in the little porch to wait. A certain
skilful action of his fingers as he hummed some barsand beat time on
the seat beside himseemed to denote the musician; and the
extraordinary satisfaction he derived from humming something very slow
and longwhich had no recognisable tuneseemed to denote that he was
a scientific one.

The gentleman was still twirlIng a themewhich seemed to go round
and round and roundand in and in and inand to involve itself like
a corkscrew twirled upon a tablewithout getting any nearer to
anythingwhen Harriet appeared returning. He rose up as she advanced
and stood with his head uncovered.

'You are come againSir!' she saidfaltering.

'I take that liberty' he answered. 'May I ask for five minutes of
your leisure?'

After a moment's hesitationshe opened the doorand gave him
admission to the little parlour. The gentleman sat down theredrew
his chair to the table over against herand saidin a voice that
perfectly corresponded to his appearanceand with a simplicity that
was very engaging:

'Miss Harrietyou cannot be proud. You signified to mewhen I
called t'other morningthat you were. Pardon me if I say that I
looked into your face while you spokeand that it contradicted you. I
look into it again' he addedlaying his hand gently on her armfor
an instant'and it contradicts you more and more.'

She was somewhat confused and agitatedand could make no ready
answer.

'It is the mirror of truth' said her visitor'and gentleness.
Excuse my trusting to itand returning.'

His manner of saying these wordsdivested them entirely of the
character of compliments. It was so plaingraveunaffectedand


sincerethat she bent her headas if at once to thank himand
acknowledge his sincerity.

'The disparity between our ages' said the gentleman'and the
plainness of my purposeempower meI am glad to thinkto speak my
mind. That is my mind; and so you see me for the second time.'

'There is a kind of prideSir' she returnedafter a moment's
silence'or what may be supposed to be pridewhich is mere duty. I
hope I cherish no other.'

'For yourself' he said.

'For myself.'

'But - pardon me - ' suggested the gentleman. 'For your brother
John?'

'Proud of his loveI am' said Harrietlooking full upon her
visitorand changing her manner on the instant - not that it was less
composed and quietbut that there was a deep impassioned earnestness
in it that made the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness
'and proud of him. Siryou who strangely know the story of his life
and repeated it to me when you were here last - '

'Merely to make my way into your confidence' interposed the
gentleman. 'For heaven's sakedon't suppose - '

'I am sure' she said'you revived itin my hearingwith a kind
and good purpose. I am quite sure of it.'

'I thank you' returned her visitorpressing her hand hastily. 'I
am much obliged to you. You do me justiceI assure you. You were
going to saythat Iwho know the story of John Carker's life - '

'May think it pride in me' she continued'when I say that I am
proud of him! I am. You know the time waswhen I was not - when I
could not be - but that is past. The humility of many yearsthe
uncomplaining expiationthe true repentancethe terrible regretthe
pain I know he has even in my affectionwhich he thinks has cost me
dearthough Heaven knows I am happybut for his sorrow I - ohSir
after what I have seenlet me conjure youif you are in any place of
powerand are ever wrongedneverfor any wronginflict a
punishment that cannot be recalled; while there is a GOD above us to
work changes in the hearts He made.'

'Your brother is an altered man' returned the gentleman
compassionately. 'I assure you I don't doubt it.'

'He was an altered man when he did wrong' said Harriet. 'He is an
altered man againand is his true self nowbelieve meSir.'

'But we go onsaid her visitorrubbing his foreheadin an absent
mannerwith his handand then drumming thoughtfully on the table
'we go on in our clockwork routinefrom day to dayand can't make
outor followthese changes. They - they're a metaphysical sort of
thing. We - we haven't leisure for it. We - we haven't courage.
They're not taught at schools or collegesand we don't know how to
set about it. In shortwe are so d-------d business-like' said the
gentlemanwalking to the windowand backand sitting down againin
a state of extreme dissatisfaction and vexation.

'I am sure' said the gentlemanrubbing his forehead again; and
drumming on the table as before'I have good reason to believe that a


jog-trot lifethe same from day to daywould reconcile one to
anything. One don't see anythingone don't hear anythingone don't
know anything; that's the fact. We go on taking everything for
grantedand so we go onuntil whatever we dogoodbador
indifferentwe do from habit. Habit is all I shall have to report
when I am called upon to plead to my conscienceon my death-bed.
''Habit says I; ''I was deaf, dumb, blind, and paralytic, to a
million things, from habit.''Very business-like indeedMr
What's-your-name' says Conscience''but it won't do here!"'

The gentleman got up and walked to the window again and back:
seriously uneasythough giving his uneasiness this peculiar
expression.

'Miss Harriet' he saidresuming his chair'I wish you would let
me serve you. Look at me; I ought to look honestfor I know I am so
at present. Do I?'

'Yes' she answered with a smile.

'I believe every word you have said' he returned. 'I am full of
self-reproach that I might have known this and seen thisand known
you and seen youany time these dozen yearsand that I never have. I
hardly know how I ever got here - creature that I amnot only of my
own habitbut of other people'sl But having done solet me do
something. I ask it in all honour and respect. You inspire me with
bothin the highest degree. Let me do something.'

'We are contentedSir.'

'Nononot quite' returned the gentleman. 'I think not quite.
There are some little comforts that might smooth your lifeand his.
And his!' he repeatedfancying that had made some impression on her.
'I have been in the habit of thinking that there was nothing wanting
to be done for him; that it was all settled and over; in shortof not
thinking at all about it. I am different now. Let me do something for
him. You too' said the visitorwith careful delicacy'have need to
watch your health closelyfor his sakeand I fear it fails.'

'Whoever you may beSir' answered Harrietraising her eyes to
his face'I am deeply grateful to you. I feel certain that in all you
sayyou have no object in the world but kindness to us. But years
have passed since we began this life; and to take from my brother any
part of what has so endeared him to meand so proved his better
resolution - any fragment of the merit of his unassistedobscureand
forgotten reparation - would be to diminish the comfort it will be to
him and mewhen that time comes to each of usof which you spoke
just now. I thank you better with these tears than any words. Believe
itpray.

The gentleman was movedand put the hand she held outto his
lipsmuch as a tender father might kiss the hand of a dutiful child.
But more reverently.

'If the day should ever comesaid Harriet'when he is restored
in partto the position he lost - '

'Restored!' cried the gentlemanquickly. 'How can that be hoped
for? In whose hands does the power of any restoration lie? It is no
mistake of minesurelyto suppose that his having gained the
priceless blessing of his lifeis one cause of the animosity shown to
him by his brother.'

'You touch upon a subject that is never breathed between us; not


even between us' said Harriet.

'I beg your forgiveness' said the visitor. 'I should have known
it. I entreat you to forget that I have done soinadvertently. And
nowas I dare urge no more - as I am not sure that I have a right to
do so - though Heaven knowseven that doubt may be habit' said the
gentlemanrubbing his headas despondently as before'let me;
though a strangeryet no stranger; ask two favours.'

'What are they?' she inquired.

'The firstthat if you should see cause to change your resolution
you will suffer me to be as your right hand. My name shall then be at
your service; it is useless nowand always insignificant.'

'Our choice of friends' she answeredsmiling faintly'is not so
greatthat I need any time for consideration. I can promise that.'

'The secondthat you will allow me sometimessay every Monday
morningat nine o'clock - habit again - I must be businesslike' said
the gentlemanwith a whimsical inclination to quarrel with himself on
that head'in walking pastto see you at the door or window. I don't
ask to come inas your brother will be gone out at that hour. I don't
ask to speak to you. I merely ask to seefor the satisfaction of my
own mindthat you are welland without intrusion to remind youby
the sight of methat you have a friend - an elderly friend
grey-haired alreadyand fast growing greyer - whom you may ever
command.'

The cordial face looked up in his; confided in it; and promised.

'I understandas before' said the gentlemanrising'that you
purpose not to mention my visit to John Carkerlest he should be at
all distressed by my acquaintance with his history. I am glad of it
for it is out of the ordinary course of thingsand - habit again!'
said the gentlemanchecking himself impatiently'as if there were no
better course than the ordinary course!'

With that he turned to goand walkingbareheadedto the outside
of the little porchtook leave of her with such a happy mixture of
unconstrained respect and unaffected interestas no breeding could
have taughtno truth mistrustedand nothing but a pure and single
heart expressed.

Many half-forgotten emotions were awakened in the sister's mind by
this visit. It was so very long since any other visitor had crossed
their threshold; it was so very long since any voice of apathy had
made sad music in her ears; that the stranger's figure remained
present to herhours afterwardswhen she sat at the windowplying
her needle; and his words seemed newly spokenagain and again. He had
touched the spring that opened her whole life; and if she lost him for
a short spaceit was only among the many shapes of the one great
recollection of which that life was made.

Musing and working by turns; now constraining herself to be steady
at her needle for a long time togetherand now letting her work fall
unregardedon her lapand straying wheresoever her busier thoughts
ledHarriet Carker found the hours glide by herand the day steal
on. The morningwhich had been bright and cleargradually became
overcast; a sharp wind set in; the rain fell heavily; and a dark mist
drooping over the distant townhid it from the view.

She often looked with compassionat such a timeupon the
stragglers who came wandering into Londonby the great highway hard


byand whofootsore and wearyand gazing fearfully at the huge town
before themas if foreboding that their misery there would be but as
a drop of water in the seaor as a grain of sea-sand on the shore
went shrinking oncowering before the angry weatherand looking as
if the very elements rejected them. Day after daysuch travellers
crept pastbut alwaysas she thoughtIn one direction - always
towards the town. Swallowed up in one phase or other of its immensity
towards which they seemed impelled by a desperate fascinationthey
never returned. Food for the hospitalsthe churchyardsthe prisons
the riverfevermadnessviceand death- they passed on to the
monsterroaring in the distanceand were lost.

The chill wind was howlingand the rain was fallingand the day
was darkening moodilywhen Harrietraising her eyes from the work on
which she had long since been engaged with unremitting constancysaw
one of these travellers approaching.

A woman. A solitary woman of some thirty years of age; tall;
well-formed; handsome; miserably dressed; the soil of many country
roads in varied weather - dustchalkclaygravel - clotted on her
grey cloak by the streaming wet; no bonnet on her headnothing to
defend her rich black hair from the rainbut a torn handkerchief;
with the fluttering ends of whichand with her hairthe wind blinded
her so that she often stopped to push them backand look upon the way
she was going.

She was in the act of doing sowhen Harriet observed her. As her
handsparting on her sunburnt foreheadswept across her faceand
threw aside the hindrances that encroached upon itthere was a
reckless and regardless beauty in it: a dauntless and depraved
indifference to more than weather: a carelessness of what was cast
upon her bare head from Heaven or earth: thatcoupled with her misery
and lonelinesstouched the heart of her fellow-woman. She thought of
all that was perverted and debased within herno less than without:
of modest graces of the mindhardened and steeledlike these
attractions of the person; of the many gifts of the Creator flung to
the winds like the wild hair; of all the beautiful ruin upon which the
storm was beating and the night was coming.

Thinking of thisshe did not turn away with a delicate indignation

-too many of her own compassionate and tender sex too often do - but
pitied her.
Her fallen sister came onlooking far before hertrying with her
eager eyes to pierce the mist in which the city was enshroudedand
glancingnow and thenfrom side to sidewith the bewildered - and
uncertain aspect of a stranger. Though her tread was bold and
courageousshe was fatiguedand after a moment of irresolutionsat
down upon a heap of stones; seeking no shelter from the rainbut
letting it rain on her as it would.

She was now opposite the house; raising her head after resting it
for a moment on both handsher eyes met those of Harriet.

In a momentHarriet was at the door; and the otherrising from
her seat at her beckcame slowlyand with no conciliatory look
towards her.

'Why do you rest in the rain?' said Harrietgently.

'Because I have no other resting-place' was the reply.

'But there are many places of shelter near here. This' referring
to the little porch'is better than where you were. You are very


welcome to rest here.'

The wanderer looked at herin doubt and surprisebut without any
expression of thankfulness; and sitting downand taking off one of
her worn shoes to beat out the fragments of stone and dust that were
insideshowed that her foot was cut and bleeding.

Harriet uttering an expression of pitythe traveller looked up
with a contemptuous and incredulous smile.

'Whywhat's a torn foot to such as me?' she said. 'And what's a
torn foot in such as meto such as you?'

'Come in and wash it' answered Harrietmildly'and let me give
you something to bind it up.'

The woman caught her armand drawing it before her own eyeshid
them against itand wept. Not like a womanbut like a stern man
surprised into that weakness; with a violent heaving of her breast
and struggle for recoverythat showed how unusual the emotion was
with her.

She submitted to be led into the houseandevidently more in
gratitude than in any care for herselfwashed and bound the injured
place. Harriet then put before her fragments of her own frugal dinner
and when she had eaten of themthough sparinglybesought herbefore
resuming her road (which she showed her anxiety to do)to dry her
clothes before the fire. Againmore in gratitude than with any
evidence of concern in her own behalfshe sat down in front of it
and unbinding the handkerchief about her headand letting her thick
wet hair fall down below her waistsat drying it with the palms of
her handsand looking at the blaze.

'I daresay you are thinking' she saidlifting her head suddenly
'that I used to be handsomeonce. I believe I was - I know I was Look
here!' She held up her hair roughly with both hands; seizing it
as if she would have torn it out; thenthrew it down againand flung
it back as though it were a heap of serpents.

'Are you a stranger in this place?' asked Harriet.

'A stranger!' she returnedstopping between each short replyand
looking at the fire. 'Yes. Ten or a dozen years a stranger. I have had
no almanack where I have been. Ten or a dozen years. I don't know this
part. It's much altered since I went away.'

'Have you been far?'

'Very far. Months upon months over the seaand far away even then.
I have been where convicts go' she addedlooking full upon her
entertainer. 'I have been one myself.'

'Heaven help you and forgive you!' was the gentle answer.

'Ah! Heaven help me and forgive me!' she returnednodding her head
at the fire. 'If man would help some of us a little moreGod would
forgive us all the sooner perhaps.'

But she was softened by the earnest mannerand the cordial face so
full of mildness and so free from judgmentof herand saidless
hardily:

'We may be about the same ageyou and me. If I am olderit is not
above a year or two. Oh think of that!'


She opened her armsas though the exhibition of her outward form
would show the moral wretch she was; and letting them drop at her
sideshung down her head.

'There is nothing we may not hope to repair; it is never too late
to amend' said Harriet. 'You are penitent

'No' she answered. 'I am not! I can't be. I am no such thing. Why
should I be penitentand all the world go free? They talk to me of my
penitence. Who's penitent for the wrongs that have been done to me?'

She rose upbound her handkerchief about her headand turned to
move away.

'Where are you going?' said Harriet.

'Yonder' she answeredpointing with her hand. 'To London.'

'Have you any home to go to?'

'I think I have a mother. She's as much a motheras her dwelling
is a home' she answered with a bitter laugh.

'Take this' cried Harrietputting money in her hand. 'Try to do
well. It is very littlebut for one day it may keep you from harm.'

'Are you married?' said the otherfaintlyas she took it.

'No. I live here with my brother. We have not much to spareor I
would give you more.'

'Will you let me kiss you?'

Seeing no scorn or repugnance in her facethe object of her
charity bent over her as she asked the questionand pressed her lips
against her cheek. Once more she caught her armand covered her eyes
with it; and then was gone.

Gone into the deepening nightand howling windand pelting rain;
urging her way on towards the mist-enshrouded city where the blurred
lights gleamed; and with her black hairand disordered head-gear
fluttering round her reckless face.

CHAPTER 34.

Another Mother and Daughter

In an ugly and dark rooman old womanugly and dark toosat
listening to the wind and rainand crouching over a meagre fire. More
constant to the last-named occupation than the firstshe never
changed her attitudeunlesswhen any stray drops of rain fell
hissing on the smouldering embersto raise her head with an awakened
attention to the whistling and pattering outsideand gradually to let
it fall again lower and lower and lower as she sunk into a brooding
state of thoughtin which the noises of the night were as
indistinctly regarded as is the monotonous rolling of a sea by one who
sits in contemplation on its shore.

There was no light in the room save that which the fire afforded.


Glaring sullenly from time to time like the eye of a fierce beast half
asleepit revealed no objects that needed to be jealous of a better
display. A heap of ragsa heap of bonesa wretched bedtwo or three
mutilated chairs or stoolsthe black walls and blacker ceilingwere
all its winking brightness shone upon. As the old womanwith a
gigantic and distorted image of herself thrown half upon the wall
behind herhalf upon the roof abovesat bending over the few loose
bricks within which it was penton the damp hearth of the chimney for
there was no stove - she looked as if she were watching at some
witch's altar for a favourable token; and but that the movement of her
chattering jaws and trembling chin was too frequent and too fast for
the slow flickering of the fireit would have seemed an illusion
wrought by the lightas it came and wentupon a face as motionless
as the form to which it belonged.

If Florence could have stood within the room and looked upon the
original of the shadow thrown upon the wall and roof as it cowered
thus over the firea glance might have sufficed to recall the figure
of Good Mrs Brown; notwithstanding that her childish recollection of
that terrible old woman was as grotesque and exaggerated a presentment
of the truthperhapsas the shadow on the wall. But Florence was not
there to look on; and Good Mrs Brown remained unrecognisedand sat
staring at her fireunobserved.

Attracted by a louder sputtering than usualas the rain came
hissing down the chimney in a little streamthe old woman raised her
headimpatientlyto listen afresh. And this time she did not drop it
again; for there was a hand upon the doorand a footstep in the room.

'Who's that?' she saidlooking over her shoulder.

'One who brings you newswas the answerin a woman's voice.

'News? Where from?'

'From abroad.'

'From beyond seas?' cried the old womanstarting up.

'Ayfrom beyond seas.'

The old woman raked the fire togetherhurriedlyand going close
to her visitor who had enteredand shut the doorand who now stood
in the middle of the roomput her hand upon the drenched cloakand
turned the unresisting figureso as to have it in the full light of
the fire. She did not find what she had expectedwhatever that might
be; for she let the cloak go againand uttered a querulous cry of
disappointment and misery.

'What is the matter?' asked her visitor.

'Oho! Oho!' cried the old womanturning her face upwardwith a
terrible howl.

'What is the matter?' asked the visitor again.

'It's not my gal!' cried the old womantossing up her armsand
clasping her hands above her head. 'Where's my Alice? Where's my
handsome daughter? They've been the death of her!'

'They've not been the death of her yetif your name's Marwood'
said the visitor.

'Have you seen my galthen?' cried the old woman. 'Has she wrote


to me?'

'She said you couldn't read' returned the other.

'No more I can!' exclaimed the old womanwringing her hands.

'Have you no light here?' said the otherlooking round the room.

The old womanmumbling and shaking her headand muttering to
herself about her handsome daughterbrought a candle from a cupboard
in the cornerand thrusting it into the fire with a trembling hand
lighted it with some difficulty and set it on the table. Its dirty
wick burnt dimly at firstbeing choked in its own grease; and when
the bleared eyes and failing sight of the old woman could distinguish
anything by its lighther visitor was sitting with her arms folded
her eyes turned downwardsand a handkerchief she had worn upon her
head lying on the table by her side.

'She sent to me by word of mouth thenmy galAlice?' mumbled the
old womanafter waiting for some moments. 'What did she say?'

'Look' returned the visitor.

The old woman repeated the word in a scared uncertain way; and
shading her eyeslooked at the speakerround the roomand at the
speaker once again.

'Alice said look againmother;' and the speaker fixed her eyes
upon her.

Again the old woman looked round the roomand at her visitorand
round the room once more. Hastily seizing the candleand rising from
her seatshe held it to the visitor's faceuttered a loud cryset
down the lightand fell upon her neck!

'It's my gal! It's my Alice! It's my handsome daughterliving and
come back!' screamed the old womanrocking herself to and fro upon
the breast that coldly suffered her embrace. 'It's my gal! It's my
Alice! It's my handsome daughterliving and come back!' she screamed
againdropping on the floor before herclasping her kneeslaying
her head against themand still rocking herself to and fro with every
frantic demonstration of which her vitality was capable.

'Yesmother' returned Alicestooping forward for a moment and
kissing herbut endeavouringeven in the actto disengage herself
from her embrace. 'I am hereat last. Let gomother; let go. Get up
and sit in your chair. What good does this do?'

'She's come back harder than she went!' cried the motherlooking
up in her faceand still holding to her knees. 'She don't care for
me! after all these yearsand all the wretched life I've led!'

'Why> mother!' said Aliceshaking her ragged skirts to detach the
old woman from them: 'there are two sides to that. There have been
years for me as well as youand there has been wretchedness for me as
well as you. Get upget up!'

Her mother roseand criedand wrung her handsand stood at a
little distance gazing on her. Then she took the candle againand
going round hersurveyed her from head to footmaking a low moaning
all the time. Then she put the candle downresumed her chairand
beating her hands together to a kind of weary tuneand rolling
herself from side to sidecontinued moaning and wailing to herself.


Alice got uptook off her wet cloakand laid it aside. That done
she sat down as beforeand with her arms foldedand her eyes gazing
at the fireremained silently listening with a contemptuous face to
her old mother's inarticulate complainings.


'Did you expect to see me return as youthful as I went away
mother?' she said at lengthturning her eyes upon the old woman. 'Did
you think a foreign lifelike minewas good for good looks? One
would believe soto hear you!'


'It ain't that!' cried the mother. 'She knows it!'


'What is it then?' returned the daughter. 'It had best be something
that don't lastmotheror my way out is easier than my way in.


'Hear that!' exclaimed the mother. 'After all these years she
threatens to desert me in the moment of her coming back again!'


'I tell youmotherfor the second timethere have been years for
me as well as you' said Alice. 'Come back harder? Of course I have
come back harder. What else did you expect?'


'Harder to me! To her own dear mother!' cried the old woman


'I don't know who began to harden meif my own dear mother
didn't' she returnedsitting with her folded armsand knitted
browsand compressed lips as if she were bent on excludingby force
every softer feeling from her breast. 'Listenmotherto a word or
two. If we understand each other nowwe shall not fall out any more
perhaps. I went away a girland have come back a woman. I went away
undutiful enoughand have come back no betteryou may swear. But
have you been very dutiful to me?'


'I!' cried the old woman. 'To my gal! A mother dutiful to her own
child!'


'It sounds unnaturaldon't it?' returned the daughterlooking
coldly on her with her sternregardlesshardybeautiful face; 'but
I have thought of it sometimesin the course of my lone yearstill I
have got used to it. I have heard some talk about duty first and last;
but it has always been of my duty to other people. I have wondered now
and then - to pass away the time - whether no one ever owed any duty
to me.


Her mother sat mowingand mumblingand shaking her headbut
whether angrily or remorsefullyor in denialor only in her physical
infirmitydid not appear.


'There was a child called Alice Marwood' said the daughterwith a
laughand looking down at herself in terrible derision of herself
'bornamong poverty and neglectand nursed in it. Nobody taught her
nobody stepped forward to help hernobody cared for her.'


'Nobody!' echoed the motherpointing to herselfand striking her
breast.


'The only care she knew' returned the daughter'was to be beaten
and stintedand abused sometimes; and she might have done better
without that. She lived in homes like thisand in the streetswith a
crowd of little wretches like herself; and yet she brought good looks
out of this childhood. So much the worse for her. She had better have
been hunted and worried to death for ugliness.'


'Go on! go on!' exclaimed the mother.



'I am going on' returned the daughter. 'There was a girl called
Alice Marwood. She was handsome. She was taught too lateand taught
all wrong. She was too well cared fortoo well trainedtoo well
helped ontoo much looked after. You were very fond of her - you were
better off then. What came to that girl comes to thousands every year.
It was only ruinand she was born to it.'

'After all these years!' whined the old woman. 'My gal begins with
this.'

'She'll soon have ended' said the daughter. 'There was a criminal
called Alice Marwood - a girl stillbut deserted and an outcast. And
she was triedand she was sentenced. And lordhow the gentlemen in
the Court talked about it! and how grave the judge was on her duty
and on her having perverted the gifts of nature - as if he didn't know
better than anybody therethat they had been made curses to her! and
how he preached about the strong arm of the Law - so very strong
to save herwhen she was an innocent and helpless little wretch! and
how solemn and religious it all was! I have thought of thatmany
times sinceto be sure!'

She folded her arms tightly on her breastand laughed in a tone
that made the howl of the old woman musical.

'So Alice Marwood was transportedmother' she pursued'and was
sent to learn her dutywhere there was twenty times less dutyand
more wickednessand wrongand infamythan here. And Alice Marwood
is come back a woman. Such a woman as she ought to beafter all this.
In good timethere will be more solemnityand more fine talkand
more strong armmost likelyand there will be an end of her; but the
gentlemen needn't be afraid of being thrown out of work. There's
crowds of little wretchesboy and girlgrowing up in any of the
streets they live inthat'll keep them to it till they've made their
fortunes.'

The old woman leaned her elbows on the tableand resting her face
upon her two handsmade a show of being in great distress - or really
wasperhaps.

'There! I have donemother' said the daughterwith a motion of
her headas if in dismissal of the subject. 'I have said enough.
Don't let you and I talk of being dutifulwhatever we do. Your
childhood was like mineI suppose. So much the worse for both of us.
I don't want to blame youor to defend myself; why should I? That's
all over long ago. But I am a woman - not a girlnow - and you and I
needn't make a show of our historylike the gentlemen in the Court.
We know all about itwell enough.'

Lost and degraded as she wasthere was a beauty in herboth of
face and formwhicheven in its worst expressioncould not but be
recognised as such by anyone regarding her with the least attention.
As she subsided into silenceand her face which had been harshly
agitatedquieted down; while her dark eyesfixed upon the fire
exchanged the reckless light that had animated themfor one that was
softened by something like sorrow; there shone through all her wayworn
misery and fatiguea ray of the departed radiance of the fallen
angel.'

Her motherafter watching her for some time without speaking
ventured to steal her withered hand a little nearer to her across the
table; and finding that she permitted thisto touch her faceand
smooth her hair. With the feelingas it seemedthat the old woman
was at least sincere in this show of interestAlice made no movement


to check her; soadvancing by degreesshe bound up her daughter's
hair afreshtook off her wet shoesif they deserved the namespread
something dry upon her shouldersand hovered humbly about her
muttering to herselfas she recognised her old features and
expression more and more.

'You are very poormotherI see' said Alicelooking roundwhen
she had sat thus for some time.

'Bitter poormy deary' replied the old woman.

She admired her daughterand was afraid of her. Perhaps her
admirationsuch as it washad originated long agowhen she first
found anything that was beautiful appearing in the midst of the
squalid fight of her existence. Perhaps her fear was referablein
some sortto the retrospect she had so lately heard. Be this as it
mightshe stoodsubmissively and deferentiallybefore her child
and inclined her headas if in a pitiful entreaty to be spared any
further reproach.

'How have you lived?'

'By beggingmy deary.

'And pilferingmother?'

'SometimesAlly - in a very small way. I am old and timid. I have
taken trifles from children now and thenmy dearybut not often. I
have tramped about the countrypetand I know what I know. I have
watched.'

'Watched?' returned the daughterlooking at her.

'I have hung about a familymy deary' said the mothereven more
humbly and submissively than before.

'What family?'

'Hushdarling. Don't be angry with me. I did it for the love of
you. In memory of my poor gal beyond seas.' She put out her hand
deprecatinglyand drawing it back againlaid it on her lips.

'Years agomy deary' she pursuedglancing timidly at the
attentive and stem face opposed to her'I came across his little
childby chance.'

'Whose child?'

'Not hisAlice deary; don't look at me like that; not his. How
could it be his? You know he has none.'

'Whose then?' returned the daughter. 'You said his.'

'HushAlly; you frighten medeary. Mr Dombey's - only Mr
Dombey's. Since thendarlingI have seen them often. I have seen
him.'

In uttering this last wordthe old woman shrunk and recoiledas
if with sudden fear that her daughter would strike her. But though the
daughter's face was fixed upon herand expressed the most vehement
passionshe remained still: except that she clenched her arms tighter
and tighter within each otheron her bosomas if to restrain them by
that means from doing an injury to herselfor someone elsein the
blind fury of the wrath that suddenly possessed her.


'Little he thought who I was!' said the old womanshaking her
clenched hand.

'And little he cared!' muttered her daughterbetween her teeth.

'But there we weresaid the old woman'face to face. I spoke to
himand he spoke to me. I sat and watched him as he went away down a
long grove of trees: and at every step he tookI cursed him soul and
body.'

'He will thrive in spite of that' returned the daughter
disdainfully.

'Ayhe is thriving' said the mother.

She held her peace; for the face and form before her were unshaped
by rage. It seemed as if the bosom would burst with the emotions that
strove within it. The effort that constrained and held it pent upwas
no less formidable than the rage itself: no less bespeaking the
violent and dangerous character of the woman who made it. But it
succeededand she askedafter a silence:

'Is he married?'

'Nodeary' said the mother.

'Going to be?'

'Not that I know ofdeary. But his master and friend is married.
Ohwe may give him joy! We may give 'em all joy!' cried the old
womanhugging herself with her lean arms in her exultation. 'Nothing
but joy to us will come of that marriage. Mind met'

The daughter looked at her for an explanation.

'But you are wet and tired; hungry and thirsty' said the old
womanhobbling to the cupboard; 'and there's little hereand little'

-diving down into her pocketand jingling a few half- pence on the
table - 'little here. Have you any moneyAlicedeary?'
The covetoussharpeager facewith which she 'asked the question
and looked onas her daughter took out of her bosom the little gift
she had so lately receivedtold almost as much of the history of this
parent and child as the child herself had told in words.

'Is that all?' said the mother.

'I have no more. I should not have thisbut for charity.'

'But for charityehdeary?' said the old womanbending greedily
over the table to look at the moneywhich she appeared distrustful of
her daughter's still retaining in her handand gazing on. 'Humph! six
and six is twelveand six eighteen - so - we must make the most of
it. I'll go buy something to eat and drink.'

With greater alacrity than might have been expected in one of her
appearance - for age and misery seemed to have made her as decrepit as
ugly - she began to occupy her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet
on her headand folding a torn shawl about herself: still eyeing the
money in her daughter's handwith the same sharp desire.

'What joy is to come to us of this marriagemother?' asked the
daughter. 'You have not told me that.'


'The joy' she repliedattiring herselfwith fumbling fingers
'of no love at alland much pride and hatemy deary. The joy of
confusion and strife among 'emproud as they areand of danger danger
Alice!'

'What danger?'

'I have seen what I have seen. I know what I know!' chuckled the
mother. 'Let some look to it. Let some be upon their guard. My gal may
keep good company yet!'

Thenseeing that in the wondering earnestness with which her
daughter regarded herher hand involuntarily closed upon the money
the old woman made more speed to secure itand hurriedly added'but
I'll go buy something; I'll go buy something.'

As she stood with her hand stretched out before her daughterher
daughterglancing again at the moneyput it to her lips before
parting with it.

'WhatAlly! Do you kiss it?' chuckled the old woman. 'That's like
me - I often do. Ohit's so good to us!' squeezing her own tarnished
halfpence up to her bag of a throat'so good to us in everything but
not coming in heaps!'

'I kiss itmother' said the daughter'or I did then - I don't
know that I ever did before - for the giver's sake.'

'The giverehdeary?' retorted the old womanwhose dimmed eyes
glistened as she took it. 'Ay! I'll kiss it for the giver's saketoo
when the giver can make it go farther. But I'll go spend itdeary.
I'll be back directly.'

'You seem to say you know a great dealmother' said the daughter
following her to the door with her eyes. 'You have grown very wise
since we parted.'

'Know!' croaked the old womancoming back a step or two'I know
more than you think I know more than he thinksdearyas I'll tell
you by and bye. I know all'

The daughter smiled incredulously.

'I know of his brotherAlice' said the old womanstretching out
her neck with a leer of malice absolutely frightful'who might have
been where you have been - for stealing money - and who lives with his
sisterover yonderby the north road out of London.'

'Where?'

'By the north road out of Londondeary. You shall see the house if
you like. It ain't much to boast ofgenteel as his own is. Nono
no' cried the old womanshaking her head and laughing; for her
daughter had started up'not now; it's too far off; it's by the
milestonewhere the stones are heaped; - to-morrowdearyif it's
fineand you are in the humour. But I'll go spend - '

'Stop!' and the daughter flung herself upon herwith her former
passion raging like a fire. 'The sister is a fair-faced Devilwith
brown hair?'

The old womanamazed and terrifiednodded her head.


'I see the shadow of him in her face! It's a red house standing by
itself. Before the door there is a small green porch.'

Again the old woman nodded.

'In which I sat to-day! Give me back the money.'

'Alice! Deary!'

'Give me back the moneyor you'll be hurt.'

She forced it from the old woman's hand as she spokeand utterly
indifferent to her complainings and entreatiesthrew on the garments
she had taken offand hurried outwith headlong speed.

The mother followedlimping after her as she couldand
expostulating with no more effect upon her than upon the wind and rain
and darkness that encompassed them. Obdurate and fierce in her own
purposeand indifferent to all besidesthe daughter defied the
weather and the distanceas if she had known no travel or fatigue
and made for the house where she had been relieved. After some quarter
of an hour's walkingthe old womanspent and out of breathventured
to hold by her skirts; but she ventured no moreand they travelled on
in silence through the wet and gloom. If the mother now and then
uttered a word of complaintshe stifled it lest her daughter should
break away from her and leave her behind; and the daughter was dumb.

It was within an hour or so of midnightwhen they left the regular
streets behind themand entered on the deeper gloom of that neutral
ground where the house was situated. The town lay in the distance
lurid and lowering; the bleak wind howled over the open space; all
around was blackwilddesolate.

'This is a fit place for me!' said the daughterstopping to look
back. 'I thought sowhen I was here beforeto-day.'

'Alicemy deary' cried the motherpulling her gently by the
skirt. 'Alice!'

'What nowmother?'

'Don't give the money backmy darling; please don't. We can't
afford it. We want supperdeary. Money is moneywhoever gives it.
Say what you willbut keep the money.'

'See there!' was all the daughter's answer. 'That is the house I
mean. Is that it?'

The old woman nodded in the affirmative; and a few more paces
brought them to the threshold. There was the light of fire and candle
in the room where Alice had sat to dry her clothes; and on her
knocking at the doorJohn Carker appeared from that room.

He was surprised to see such visitors at such an hourand asked
Alice what she wanted.

'I want your sister' she said. 'The woman who gave me money
to-day.'

At the sound of her raised voiceHarriet came out.

'Oh!' said Alice. 'You are here! Do you remember me?'

'Yes' she answeredwondering.


The face that had humbled itself before herlooked on her now with
such invincible hatred and defiance; and the hand that had gently
touched her armwas clenched with such a show of evil purposeas if
it would gladly strangle her; that she drew close to her brother for
protection.

'That I could speak with youand not know you! That I could come
near youand not feel what blood was running in your veinsby the
tingling of my own!' said Alicewith a menacing gesture.

'What do you mean? What have I done?'

'Done!' returned the other. 'You have sat me by your fire; you have
given me food and money; you have bestowed your compassion on me! You!
whose name I spit upon!'

The old womanwith a malevolence that made her uglIness quite
awfulshook her withered hand at the brother and sister in
confirmation of her daughterbut plucked her by the skirts again
neverthelessimploring her to keep the money.

'If I dropped a tear upon your handmay it wither it up! If I
spoke a gentle word in your hearingmay it deafen you! If I touched
you with my lipsmay the touch be poison to you! A curse upon this
roof that gave me shelter! Sorrow and shame upon your head! Ruin upon
all belonging to you!'

As she said the wordsshe threw the money down upon the ground
and spurned it with her foot.

'I tread it in the dust: I wouldn't take it if it paved my way to
Heaven! I would the bleeding foot that brought me here to-dayhad
rotted offbefore it led me to your house!'

Harrietpale and tremblingrestrained her brotherand suffered
her to go on uninterrupted.

'It was well that I should be pitied and forgiven by youor anyone
of your namein the first hour of my return! It was well that you
should act the kind good lady to me! I'll thank you when I die; I'll
pray for youand all your raceyou may be sure!'

With a fierce action of her handas if she sprinkled hatred on the
groundand with it devoted those who were standing there to
destructionshe looked up once at the black skyand strode out into
the wild night.

The motherwho had plucked at her skirts again and again in vain
and had eyed the money lying on the threshold with an absorbing greed
that seemed to concentrate her faculties upon itwould have prowled
aboutuntil the house was darkand then groped in the mire on the
chance of repossessing herself of it. But the daughter drew her away
and they set forthstraighton their return to their dwelling; the
old woman whimpering and bemoaning their loss upon the roadand
fretfully bewailingas openly as she daredthe undutiful conduct of
her handsome girl in depriving her of a supperon the very first
night of their reunion.

Supperless to bed she wentsaving for a few coarse fragments; and
those she sat mumbling and munching over a scrap of firelong after
her undutiful daughter lay asleep.

Were this miserable motherand this miserable daughteronly the


reduction to their lowest gradeof certain social vices sometimes
prevailing higher up? In this round world of many circles within
circlesdo we make a weary journey from the high grade to the lowto
find at last that they lie close togetherthat the two extremes
touchand that our journey's end is but our starting-place? Allowing
for great difference of stuff and texturewas the pattern of this
woof repeated among gentle blood at all?

SayEdith Dombey! And Cleopatrabest of motherslet us have your
testimony!

CHAPTER 35.

The Happy Pair

The dark blot on the street is gone. Mr Dombey's mansionif it be
a gap among the other houses any longeris only so because it is not
to be vied with in its brightnessand haughtily casts them off. The
saying isthat home is homebe it never so homely. If it hold good
in the opposite contingencyand home is home be it never so stately
what an altar to the Household Gods is raised up here!

Lights are sparkling in the windows this eveningand the ruddy
glow of fires is warm and bright upon the hangings and soft carpets
and the dinner waits to be servedand the dinner-table is handsomely
set forththough only for four personsand the side board is
cumbrous with plate. It is the first time that the house has been
arranged for occupation since its late changesand the happy pair are
looked for every minute.

Only second to the wedding morningin the interest and expectation
it engenders among the householdis this evening of the coming home.
Mrs Perch is in the kitchen taking tea; and has made the tour of the
establishmentand priced the silks and damasks by the yardand
exhausted every interjection in the dictionary and out of it
expressive of admiration and wonder. The upholsterer's foremanwho
has left his hatwith a pocket-handkerchief in itboth smelling
strongly of varnishunder a chair in the halllurks about the house
gazing upwards at the cornicesand downward at the carpetsand
occasionallyin a silent transport of enjoymenttaking a rule out of
his pocketand skirmishingly measuring expensive objectswith
unutterable feelings. Cook is in high spiritsand says give her a
place where there's plenty of company (as she'll bet you sixpence
there will be now)for she is of a lively dispositionand she always
was from a childand she don't mind who knows it; which sentiment
elicits from the breast of Mrs Perch a responsive murmur of support
and approbation. All the housemaid hopes ishappiness for 'em - but
marriage is a lotteryand the more she thinks about itthe more she
feels the independence and the safety of a single life. Mr Towlinson
is saturnine and grim' and says that's his opinion tooand give him
War besidesand down with the French - for this young man has a
general impression that every foreigner is a Frenchmanand must be by
the laws of nature.

At each new sound of wheelsthey all stop> whatever they are
sayingand listen; and more than once there is a general starting up
and a cry of 'Here they are!' But here they are not yet; and Cook
begins to mourn over the dinnerwhich has been put back twiceand
the upholsterer's foreman still goes lurking about the rooms
undisturbed in his blissful reverie!


Florence is ready to receive her father and her new Mama Whether
the emotions that are throbbing in her breast originate In pleasure or
in painshe hardly knows. But the fluttering heart sends added colour
to her cheeksand brightness to her eyes; and they say downstairs
drawing their heads together - for they always speak softly when they
speak of her - how beautiful Miss Florence looks to-nightand what a
sweet young lady she has grownpoor dear! A pause succeeds; and then
Cookfeelingas presidentthat her sentiments are waited for
wonders whether - and there stops. The housemaid wonders tooand so
does Mrs Perchwho has the happy social faculty of always wondering
when other people wonderwithout being at all particular what she
wonders at. Mr Towlinsonwho now descries an opportunity of bringing
down the spirits of the ladies to his own levelsays wait and see; he
wishes some people were well out of this. Cook leads a sigh thenand
a murmur of 'Ahit's a strange worldit is indeed!' and when it has
gone round the tableadds persuasively'but Miss Florence can't well
be the worse for any changeTom.' Mr Towlinson's rejoinderpregnant
with frightful meaningis 'Ohcan't she though!' and sensible that a
mere man can scarcely be more propheticor improve upon thathe
holds his peace.

Mrs Skewtonprepared to greet her darling daughter and dear
son-in-law with open armsis appropriately attired for that purpose
in a very youthful costumewith short sleeves. At presenthowever
her ripe charms are blooming in the shade of her own apartments
whence she had not emerged since she took possession of them a few
hours agoand where she is fast growing fretfulon account of the
postponement of dinner. The maid who ought to be a skeletonbut is in
truth a buxom damselison the other handIn a most amiable state:
considering her quarterly stipend much safer than heretoforeand
foreseeing a great improvement in her board and lodging.

Where are the happy pairfor whom this brave home is waiting? Do
steamtidewindand horsesall abate their speedto linger on
such happiness? Does the swarm of loves and graces hovering about them
retard their progress by its numbers? Are there so many flowers in
their happy paththat they can scarcely move alongwithout
entanglement in thornless rosesand sweetest briar?

They are here at last! The noise of wheels is heardgrows louder
and a carriage drives up to the door! A thundering knock from the
obnoxious foreigner anticipates the rush of Mr Towlinson and party to
open it; and Mr Dombey and his bride alightand walk in arm in arm.

'My sweetest Edith!' cries an agitated voice upon the stairs. 'My
dearest Dombey!' and the short sleeves wreath themselves about the
happy couple in turnand embrace them.

Florence had come down to the hall toobut did not advance:
reserving her timid welcome until these nearer and dearer transports
should subside. But the eyes of Edith sought her outupon the
threshold; and dismissing her sensitive parent with a slight kiss on
the cheekshe hurried on to Florence and embraced her.

'How do you doFlorence?' said Mr Dombeyputting out his hand.

As Florencetremblingraised it to her lipsshe met his glance.
The look was cold and distant enoughbut it stirred her heart to
think that she observed in it something more of interest than he had
ever shown before. It even expressed a kind of faint surpriseand not
a disagreeable surpriseat sight of her. She dared not raise her eyes
to his any more; but she felt that he looked at her once againand
not less favourably. Oh what a thrill of joy shot through her


awakened by even this intangible and baseless confirmation of her hope
that she would learn to win himthrough her new and beautiful Mama!

'You will not be long dressingMrs DombeyI presume?' said Mr
Dombey.

'I shall be ready immediately.'

'Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour.'

With that Mr Dombey stalked away to his own dressing-roomand Mrs
Dombey went upstairs to hers. Mrs Skewton and Florence repaired to the
drawing-roomwhere that excellent mother considered it incumbent on
her to shed a few irrepressible tearssupposed to be forced from her
by her daughter's felicity; and which she was still dryingvery
gingerlywith a laced corner of her pocket-handkerchiefwhen her
son-in-law appeared.

'And howmy dearest Dombeydid you find that delightfullest of
citiesParis?' she askedsubduing her emotion.

'It was cold' returned Mr Dombey.

'Gay as ever' said Mrs Skewton'of course.

'Not particularly. I thought it dull' said Mr Dombey.

'Fiemy dearest Dombey!' archly; 'dull!'

'It made that impression upon meMadam' said Mr Dombeywith
grave politeness. 'I believe Mrs Dombey found it dull too. She
mentioned once or twice that she thought it so.'

'Whyyou naughty girl!' cried Mrs Skewtonrallying her dear
childwho now entered'what dreadfully heretical things have you
been saying about Paris?'

Edith raised her eyebrows with an air of weariness; and passing the
folding-doors which were thrown open to display the suite of rooms in
their new and handsome garnitureand barely glancing at them as she
passedsat down by Florence.

'My dear Dombey' said Mrs Skewton'how charmingly these people
have carried out every idea that we hinted. They have made a perfect
palace of the housepositively.'

'It is handsome' said Mr Dombeylooking round. 'I directed that
no expense should be spared; and all that money could dohas been
doneI believe.'

'And what can it not dodear Dombey?' observed Cleopatra.

'It is powerfulMadam' said Mr Dombey.

He looked in his solemn way towards his wifebut not a word said
she.

'I hopeMrs Dombey' addressing her after a moment's silencewith
especial distinctness; 'that these alterations meet with your
approval?'

'They are as handsome as they can be' she returnedwith haughty
carelessness. 'They should be soof' course. And I suppose they are.'


An expression of scorn was habitual to the proud faceand seemed
inseparable from it; but the contempt with which it received any
appeal to admirationrespector consideration on the ground of his
richesno matter how slight or ordinary in itselfwas a new and
different expressionunequalled in intensity by any other of which it
was capable. Whether Mr Dombeywrapped in his own greatnesswas at
all aware of thisor nothere had not been wanting opportunities
already for his complete enlightenment; and at that moment it might
have been effected by the one glance of the dark eye that lighted on
himafter it had rapidly and scornfully surveyed the theme of his
self-glorification. He might have read in that one glance that nothing
that his wealth could dothough it were increased ten thousand fold
could win him for its own sakeone look of softened recognition from
the defiant womanlinked to himbut arrayed with her whole soul
against him. He might have read in that one glance that even for its
sordid and mercenary influence upon herselfshe spurned itwhile she
claimed its utmost power as her righther bargain - as the base and
worthless recompense for which she had become his wife. He might have
read in it thatever baring her own head for the lightning of her own
contempt and pride to strikethe most innocent allusion to the power
of his riches degraded her anewsunk her deeper in her own respect
and made the blight and waste within her more complete.

But dinner was announcedand Mr Dombey led down Cleopatra; Edith
and his daughter following. Sweeping past the gold and silver
demonstration on the sideboard as if it were heaped-up dirtand
deigning to bestow no look upon the elegancies around hershe took
her place at his board for the first timeand satlike a statueat
the feast.

Mr Dombeybeing a good deal in the statue way himselfwas well
enough pleased to see his handsome wife immovable and proud and cold.
Her deportment being always elegant and gracefulthis as a general
behaviour was agreeable and congenial to him. Presidingtherefore
with his accustomed dignityand not at all reflecting on his wife by
any warmth or hilarity of his ownhe performed his share of the
honours of the table with a cool satisfaction; and the installation
dinnerthough not regarded downstairs as a great successor very
promising beginningpassed oilabovein a sufficiently polite
genteeland frosty manner.

Soon after tea' Mrs Skewtonwho affected to be quite overcome and
worn Out by her emotions of happinessarising in the contemplation of
her dear child united to the man of her heartbut whothere is
reason to supposefound this family party somewhat dullas she
yawned for one hour continually behind her fanretired to bed. Edith
alsosilently withdrew and came back' no more. Thusit happened that
Florencewho had been upstairs to have some conversation with
Diogenesreturning to the drawing-room with her little work-basket
found no one there but her fatherwho was walking to and froin
dreary magnificence.

'I beg your pardon. Shall I go awayPapa?' said Florence faintly
hesitating at the door.

'No' returned Mr Dombeylooking round over his shoulder; you can
come and go hereFlorenceas you please. This is not my private
room.

Florence enteredand sat down at a distant little table with her
work: finding herself for the first time in her life - for the very
first time within her memory from her infancy to that hour - alone
with her fatheras his companion. Shehis natural companionhis
only childwho in her lonely life and grief had known the suffering


of a breaking heart; whoin her rejected lovehad never breathed his
name to God at nightbut with a tearful blessingheavier on him than
a curse; who had prayed to die youngso she might only die in his
arms; who hadall throughrepaid the agony of slight and coldness
and dislikewith patient unexacting loveexcusing himand pleading
for himlike his better angel!

She trembledand her eyes were dim. His figure seemed to grow in
height and bulk before her as he paced the room: now it was all
blurred and indistinct; now clear againand plain; and now she seemed
to think that this had happenedjust the samea multitude of years
ago. She yearned towards himand yet shrunk from his approach.
Unnatural emotion in a childinnocent of wrong! Unnatural the hand
that had directed the sharp ploughwhich furrowed up her gentle
nature for the sowing of its seeds!

Bent upon not distressing or offending him by her distress
Florence controlled herselfand sat quietly at her work. After a few
more turns across and across the roomhe left off pacing it; and
withdrawing into a shadowy corner at some distancewhere there was an
easy chaircovered his head with a handkerchiefand composed himself
to sleep.

It was enough for Florence to sit there watching him; turning her
eyes towards his chair from time to time; watching him with her
thoughtswhen her face was intent upon her work; and sorrowfully glad
to think that he could sleepwhile she was thereand that he was not
made restless by her strange and long-forbidden presence.

What would have been her thoughts if she had known that he was
steadily regarding her; that the veil upon his faceby accident or by
designwas so adjusted that his sight was freeand that itnever
wandered from her face face an instant That when she looked towards
him' In the obscure dark cornerher speaking eyesmore earnest and
pathetic in their voiceless speech than all the orators of all the
worldand impeaching him more nearly in their mute addressmet his
and did not know it! That when she bent her head again over her work
he drew his breath more easilybut with the same attention looked
upon her still - upon her white brow and her falling hairand busy
hands; and once attractedseemed to have no power to turn his eyes
away!

And what were his thoughts meanwhile? With what emotions did he
prolong the attentive gaze covertly directed on his unknown daughter?
Was there reproach to him in the quiet figure and the mild eyes? Had
he begun to her disregarded claims and did they touch him home at
lastand waken him to some sense of his cruel injustice?

There are yielding moments in the lives of the sternest and
harshest menthough such men often keep their secret well. The sight
ofher in her beautyalmost changed into a woman without his
knowledgemay have struck out some such moments even In his life of
pride. Some passing thought that he had had a happy home within his
reach-had had a household spirit bending at has feet - had overlooked
it in his stiffnecked sullen arroganceand wandered away and lost
himselfmay have engendered them. Some simple eloquence distinctly
heardthough only uttered in her eyesunconscious that he read them'
as'By the death-beds I have tendedby the childhood I have suffered
by our meeting in this dreary house at midnightby the cry wrung from
me in the anguish of my heartohfatherturn to me and seek a
refuge in my love before it is too late!' may have arrested them.
Meaner and lower thoughtsas that his dead boy was now superseded by
new tiesand he could forgive the having been supplanted in his
affectionmay have occasioned them. The mere association of her as an


ornamentwith all the ornament and pomp about himmay have been
sufficient. But as he lookedhe softened to hermore and more. As he
lookedshe became blended with the child he had lovedand he could
hardly separate the two. As he lookedhe saw her for an instant by a
clearer and a brighter lightnot bending over that child's pillow as
his rival - monstrous thought - but as the spirit of his homeand in
the action tending himself no lessas he sat once more with his
bowed-down head upon his hand at the foot of the little bed. He felt
inclined to speak to herand call her to him. The words 'Florence
come here!' were rising to his lips - but slowly and with difficulty
they were so very strange - when they were checked and stifled by a
footstep on the stair.

It was his wife's. She had exchanged her dinner dress for a loose
robeand unbound her hairwhich fell freely about her neck. But this
was not the change in her that startled him.

'Florencedear' she said'I have been looking for you
everywhere.'

As she sat down by the side of Florenceshe stooped and kissed her
hand. He hardly knew his wife. She was so changed. It was not merely
that her smile was new to him - though that he had never seen; but her
mannerthe tone of her voicethe light of her eyesthe interest
and confidenceand winning wish to pleaseexpressed in all-this was
not Edith.

'Softlydear Mama. Papa is asleep.'

It was Edith now. She looked towards the corner where he wasand
he knew that face and manner very well.

'I scarcely thought you could be hereFlorence.'

Againhow altered and how softenedin an instant!

'I left here early' pursued Edith'purposely to sit upstairs and
talk with you. Butgoing to your roomI found my bird was flownand
I have been waiting there ever sinceexpecting its return.

If it had been a birdindeedshe could not have taken it more
tenderly and gently to her breastthan she did Florence.

'Comedear!'

'Papa will not expect to find meI supposewhen he wakes'
hesitated Florence.

'Do you think he willFlorence?' said Edithlooking full upon
her.

Florence drooped her headand roseand put up her work-basket
Edith drew her hand through her armand they went out of the room
like sisters. Her very step was different and new to him' Mr Dombey
thoughtas his eyes followed her to the door.

He sat in his shadowy corner so longthat the church clocks struck
the hour three times before he moved that night. All that while his
face was still intent upon the spot where Florence had been seated.
The room grew darkeras the candles waned and went out; but a
darkness gathered on his faceexceeding any that the night could
castand rested there.

Florence and Edithseated before the fire in the remote room where


little Paul had diedtalked together for a long time. Diogeneswho
was of the partyhad at first objected to the admission of Edith
andeven In deference to his mistress's wishhad only permitted it
under growling protest. Butemerging by little and little from the
ante-roomwhither he had retired in dudgeonhe soon appeared to
comprehendthat with the most amiable intentions he had made one of
those mistakes which will occasionally arise in the best-regulated
dogs' minds; as a friendly apology for which he stuck himself up on
end between the twoin a very hot place in front of the fireand sat
panting at itwith his tongue outand a most imbecile expression of
countenancelistening to the conversation.

It turnedat firston Florence's books and favourite pursuits
and on the manner in which she had beguiled the interval since the
marriage. The last theme opened up to her a subject which lay very
near her heartand she saidwith the tears starting to her eyes:

'OhMama! I have had a great sorrow since that day.'

'You a great sorrowFlorence!'

'Yes. Poor Walter is drowned.'

Florence spread her hands before her faceand wept with all her
heart. Many as were the secret tears which Walter's fate had cost her
they flowed yetwhen she thought or spoke of him.

'But tell medear' said Edithsoothing her. 'Who was Walter?
What was he to you?'

'He was my brotherMama. After dear Paul diedwe said we would be
brother and sister. I had known him a long time - from a little child.
He knew Paulwho liked him very much; Paul saidalmost at the last
Take care of Walter, dear Papa! I was fond of him!Walter had been
brought in to see himand was there then - in this room.

'And did he take care of Walter?' inquired Edithsternly.

'Papa? He appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in shipwreck
on his voyage' said Florencesobbing.

'Does he know that he is dead?' asked Edith.

'I cannot tellMama. I have no means of knowing. Dear Mama!' cried
Florenceclinging to her as for helpand hiding her face upon her
bosom'I know that you have seen - '

'Stay! StopFlorence.' Edith turned so paleand spoke so
earnestlythat Florence did not need her restraining hand upon her
lips. 'Tell me all about Walter first; let me understand this history
all through.'

Florence related itand everything belonging to iteven down to
the friendship of Mr Tootsof whom she could hardly speak in her
distress without a tearful smilealthough she was deeply grateful to
him. When she had concluded her accountto the whole of which Edith
holding her handlistened with close attentionand when a silence
had succeededEdith said:

'What is it that you know I have seenFlorence?'

'That I am not' said Florencewith the same mute appealand the
same quick concealment of her face as before'that I am not a
favourite childMama. I never have been. I have never known how to


be. I have missed the wayand had no one to show it to me. Ohlet me
learn from you how to become dearer to Papa Teach me! youwho can so
well!' and clinging closer to herwith some broken fervent words of
gratitude and endearmentFlorencerelieved of her sad secretwept
longbut not as painfully as of yorewithin the encircling arms of
her new mother.

Pale even to her lipsand with a face that strove for composure
until its proud beauty was as fixed as deathEdith looked down upon
the weeping girland once kissed her. Then gradually disengaging
herselfand putting Florence awayshe saidstatelyand quiet as a
marble imageand in a voice that deepened as she spokebut had no
other token of emotion in it:

'Florenceyou do not know me! Heaven forbid that you should learn
from me!'

'Not learn from you?' repeated Florencein surprise.

'That I should teach you how to loveor be lovedHeaven forbid!'
said Edith. 'If you could teach methat were better; but it is too
late. You are dear to meFlorence. I did not think that anything
could ever be so dear to meas you are in this little time.'

She saw that Florence would have spoken hereso checked her with
her handand went on.

'I will be your true friend always. I will cherish youas muchif
not as well as anyone in this world could. You may trust in me - I
know it and I say itdear- with the whole confidence even of your
pure heart. There are hosts of women whom he might have married
better and truer in all other respects than I amFlorence; but there
is not one who could come herehis wifewhose heart could beat with
greater truth to you than mine does.'

'I know itdear Mama!' cried Florence. 'From that first most happy
day I have known it.'

'Most happy day!' Edith seemed to repeat the words involuntarily
and went on. 'Though the merit is not minefor I thought little of
you until I saw youlet the undeserved reward be mine in your trust
and love. And in this - in thisFlorence; on the first night of my
taking up my abode here; I am led on as it is best I should beto say
it for the first and last time.'

Florencewithout knowing whyfelt almost afraid to hear her
proceedbut kept her eyes riveted on the beautiful face so fixed upon
her own.

'Never seek to find in me' said Edithlaying her hand upon her
breast'what is not here. Never if you can help itFlorencefall
off from me because it is not here. Little by little you will know me
betterand the time will come when you will know meas I know
myself. Thenbe as lenient to me as you canand do not turn to
bitterness the only sweet remembrance I shall have.

The tears that were visible in her eyes as she kept them fixed on
Florenceshowed that the composed face was but as a handsome mask;
but she preserved itand continued:

'I have seen what you sayand know how true it is. But believe me

-you will soonif you cannot now - there is no one on this earth
less qualified to set it right or help youFlorencethan I. Never
ask me whyor speak to me about it or of my husbandmore. There

should beso fara divisionand a silence between us twolike the
grave itself.'

She sat for some time silent; Florence scarcely venturing to
breathe meanwhileas dim and imperfect shadows of the truthand all
its daily consequenceschased each other through her terrifiedyet
incredulous imagination. Almost as soon as she had ceased to speak
Edith's face began to subside from its set composure to that quieter
and more relenting aspectwhich it usually wore when she and Florence
were alone together. She shaded itafter this changewith her hands;
and when she aroseand with an affectionate embrace bade Florence
good-nightwent quicklyand without looking round.

But when Florence was in bedand the room was dark except for the
glow of the fireEdith returnedand saying that she could not sleep
and that her dressing-room was lonelydrew a chair upon the hearth
and watched the embers as they died away. Florence watched them too
from her beduntil theyand the noble figure before themcrowned
with its flowing hairand in its thoughtful eyes reflecting back
their lightbecame confused and indistinctand finally were lost in
slumber.

In her sleephoweverFlorence could not lose an undefined
impression of what had so recently passed. It formed the subject of
her dreamsand haunted her; now in one shapenow in another; but
always oppressively; and with a sense of fear. She dreamed of seeking
her father in wildernessesof following his track up fearful heights
and down into deep mines and caverns; of being charged with something
that would release him from extraordinary suffering - she knew not
whator why - yet never being able to attain the goal and set him
free. Then she saw him deadupon that very bedand in that very
roomand knew that he had never loved her to the lastand fell upon
his cold breastpassionately weeping. Then a prospect openedand a
river flowedand a plaintive voice she knewcried'It is running
onFloy! It has never stopped! You are moving with it!' And she saw
him at a distance stretching out his arms towards herwhile a figure
such as Walter's used to bestood near himawfully serene and still.
In every visionEdith came and wentsometimes to her joysometimes
to her sorrowuntil they were alone upon the brink of a dark grave
and Edith pointing downshe looked and saw - what! - another Edith
lying at the bottom.

In the terror of this dreamshe cried out and awokeshe thought.
A soft voice seemed to whisper in her ear'Florencedear Florence
it is nothing but a dream!' and stretching out her armsshe returned
the caress of her new Mamawho then went out at the door in the light
of the grey morning. In a momentFlorence sat up wondering whether
this had really taken place or not; but she was only certain that it
was grey morning indeedand that the blackened ashes of the fire were
on the hearthand that she was alone.

So passed the night on which the happy pair came home.

CHAPTER 36.

Housewarming

Many succeeding days passed in like manner; except that there were
numerous visits received and paidand that Mrs Skewton held little
levees in her own apartmentsat which Major Bagstock was a frequent


attendantand that Florence encountered no second look from her
fatheralthough she saw him every day. Nor had she much communication
in words with her new Mamawho was imperious and proud to all the
house but her - Florence could not but observe that - and who
although she always sent for her or went to her when she came home
from visitingand would always go into her room at nightbefore
retiring to resthowever late the hourand never lost an opportunity
of being with herwas often her silent and thoughtful companion for a
long time together.

Florencewho had hoped for so much from this marriagecould not
help sometimes comparing the bright house with the faded dreary place
out of which it had arisenand wondering whenin any shapeit would
begin to be a home; for that it was no home thenfor anyonethough
everything went on luxuriously and regularlyshe had always a secret
misgiving. Many an hour of sorrowful reflection by day and nightand
many a tear of blighted hopeFlorence bestowed upon the assurance her
new Mama had given her so stronglythat there was no one on the earth
more powerless than herself to teach her how to win her father's
heart. And soon Florence began to think - resolved to think would be
the truer phrase - that as no one knew so wellhow hopeless of being
subdued or changed her father's coldness to her wasso she had given
her this warningand forbidden the subject in very compassion.
Unselfish hereas in her every act and fancyFlorence preferred to
bear the pain of this new woundrather than encourage any faint
foreshadowings of the truth as it concerned her father; tender of him
even in her wandering thoughts. As for his homeshe hoped it would
become a better onewhen its state of novelty and transition should
be over; and for herselfthought little and lamented less.

If none of the new family were particularly at home in privateit
was resolved that Mrs Dombey at least should be at home in public
without delay. A series of entertainments in celebration of the late
nuptialsand in cultivation of societywere arrangedchiefly by Mr
Dombey and Mrs Skewton; and it was settled that the festive
proceedings should commence by Mrs Dombey's being at home upon a
certain eveningand by Mr and Mrs Dombey's requesting the honour of
the company of a great many incongruous people to dinner on the same
day.

AccordinglyMr Dombey produced a list of sundry eastern magnates
who were to be bidden to this feast on his behalf; to which Mrs
Skewtonacting for her dearest childwho was haughtily careless on
the subjectsubjoined a western listcomprising Cousin Feenixnot
yet returned to Baden-Badengreatly to the detriment of his personal
estate; and a variety of moths of various degrees and ageswho had
at various timesfluttered round the light of her fair daughteror
herselfwithout any lasting injury to their wings. Florence was
enrolled as a member of the dinner-partyby Edith's command elicited
by a moment's doubt and hesitation on the part of Mrs
Skewton; and Florencewith a wondering heartand with a quick
instinctive sense of everything that grated on her father in the
leasttook her silent share in the proceedings of the day.

The proceedings commenced by Mr Dombeyin a cravat of
extraordinary height and stiffnesswalking restlessly about the
drawing-room until the hour appointed for dinner; punctual to which
an East India Director' of immense wealthin a waistcoat apparently
constructed in serviceable deal by some plain carpenterbut really
engendered in the tailor's artand composed of the material called
nankeenarrived and was received by Mr Dombey alone. The next stage
of the proceedings was Mr Dombey's sending his compliments to Mrs
Dombeywith a correct statement of the time; and the nextthe East
India Director's falling prostratein a conversational point of view


and as Mr Dombey was not the man to pick him upstaring at the fire
until rescue appeared in the shape of Mrs Skewton; whom the director
as a pleasant start in life for the eveningmistook for Mrs Dombey
and greeted with enthusiasm.

The next arrival was a Bank Directorreputed to be able to buy up
anything - human Nature generallyif he should take it in his head to
influence the money market in that direction - but who was a
wonderfully modest-spoken manalmost boastfully soand mentioned his
'little place' at Kingston-upon-Thamesand its just being barely
equal to giving Dombey a bed and a chopif he would come and visit
it. Ladieshe saidit was not for a man who lived in his quiet way
to take upon himself to invite - but if Mrs Skewton and her daughter
Mrs Dombeyshould ever find themselves in that directionand would
do him the honour to look at a little bit of a shrubbery they would
find thereand a poor little flower-bed or soand a humble apology
for a pineryand two or three little attempts of that sort without
any pretensionthey would distinguish him very much. Carrying out his
characterthis gentleman was very plainly dressedin a wisp of
cambric for a neckclothbig shoesa coat that was too loose for him
and a pair of trousers that were too spare; and mention being made of
the Opera by Mrs Skewtonhe said he very seldom went therefor he
couldn't afford it. It seemed greatly to delight and exhilarate him to
say so: and he beamed on his audience afterwardswith his hands in
his pocketsand excessive satisfaction twinkling in his eyes.

Now Mrs Dombey appearedbeautiful and proudand as disdainful and
defiant of them all as if the bridal wreath upon her head had been a
garland of steel spikes put on to force concession from her which she
would die sooner than yield. With her was Florence. When they entered
togetherthe shadow of the night of the return again darkened Mr
Dombey's face. But unobserved; for Florence did not venture to raise
her eyes to hisand Edith's indifference was too supreme to take the
least heed of him.

The arrivals quickly became numerous. More directorschairmen of
public companieselderly ladies carrying burdens on their heads for
full dressCousin FeenixMajor Bagstockfriends of Mrs Skewton
with the same bright bloom on their complexionand very precious
necklaces on very withered necks. Among thesea young lady of
sixty-fiveremarkably coolly dressed as to her back and shoulders
who spoke with an engaging lispand whose eyelids wouldn't keep up
wellwithout a great deal of trouble on her partand whose manners
had that indefinable charm which so frequently attaches to the
giddiness of youth. As the greater part of Mr Dombey's list were
disposed to be taciturnand the greater part of Mrs Dombey's list
were disposed to be talkativeand there was no sympathy between them
Mrs Dombey's listby magnetic agreemententered into a bond of union
against Mr Dombey's listwhowandering about the rooms in a desolate
manneror seeking refuge in cornersentangled themselves with
company coming inand became barricaded behind sofasand had doors
opened smartly from without against their headsand underwent every
sort of discomfiture.

When dinner was announcedMr Dombey took down an old lady like a
crimson velvet pincushion stuffed with bank noteswho might have been
the identical old lady of Threadneedle Streetshe was so richand
looked so unaccommodating; Cousin Feenix took down Mrs Dombey; Major
Bagstock took down Mrs Skewton; the young thing with the shoulders was
bestowedas an extinguisherupon the East India Director; and the
remaining ladies were left on view in the drawing-room by the
remaining gentlemenuntil a forlorn hope volunteered to conduct them
downstairsand those brave spirits with their captives blocked up the
dining-room doorshutting out seven mild men in the stony-hearted


hall. When all the rest were got in and were seatedone of these mild
men still appearedin smiling confusiontotally destitute and
unprovided forandescorted by the butlermade the complete circuit
of the table twice before his chair could be foundwhich it finally
wason Mrs Dombey's left hand; after which the mild man never held up
his head again.

Nowthe spacious dining-roomwith the company seated round the
glittering tablebusy with their glittering spoonsand knives and
forksand platesmight have been taken for a grown-up exposition of
Tom Tiddler's groundwhere children pick up gold and silver.' Mr
Dombeyas Tiddlerlooked his character to admiration; and the long
plateau of precious metal frostedseparating him from Mrs Dombey
whereon frosted Cupids offered scentless flowers to each of themwas
allegorical to see.

Cousin Feenix was in great forceand looked astonishingly young.
But he was sometimes thoughtless in his good humour - his memory
occasionally wandering like his legs - and on this occasion caused the
company to shudder. It happened thus. The young lady with the back
who regarded Cousin Feenix with sentiments of tendernesshad
entrapped the East India Director into leading her to the chair next
him; in return for which good officeshe immediately abandoned the
Directorwhobeing shaded on the other side by a gloomy black velvet
hat surmounting a bony and speechless female with a fanyielded to a
depression of spirits and withdrew into himself. Cousin Feenix and the
young lady were very lively and humorousand the young lady laughed
so much at something Cousin Feenix related to herthat Major Bagstock
begged leave to inquire on behalf of Mrs Skewton (they were sitting
oppositea little lower down)whether that might not be considered
public property.

'Whyupon my life' said Cousin Feenix'there's nothing in it; it
really is not worth repeating: in point of factit's merely an
anecdote of Jack Adams. I dare say my friend Dombey;' for the general
attention was concentrated on Cousin Feenix; 'may remember Jack Adams
Jack Adamsnot Joe; that was his brother. Jack - little Jack - man
with a cast in his eyeand slight impediment in his speech - man who
sat for somebody's borough. We used to call him in my parliamentary
time W. P. Adamsin consequence of his being Warming Pan for a young
fellow who was in his minority. Perhaps my friend Dombey may have
known the man?'

Mr Dombeywho was as likely to have known Guy Fawkesreplied in
the negative. But one of the seven mild men unexpectedly leaped into
distinctionby saying he had known himand adding - 'always wore
Hessian boots!'

'Exactly' said Cousin Feenixbending forward to see the mild man
and smile encouragement at him down the table. 'That was Jack. Joe
wore - '

'Tops!' cried the mild manrising in public estimation every
Instant.

'Of course' said Cousin Feenix'you were intimate with em?'

'I knew them both' said the mild man. With whom Mr Dombey
immediately took wine.

'Devilish good fellowJack!' said Cousin Feenixagain bending
forwardand smiling.

'Excellent' returned the mild manbecoming bold on his success.


'One of the best fellows I ever knew.'

'No doubt you have heard the story?' said Cousin Feenix.

'I shall know' replied the bold mild man'when I have heard your
Ludship tell it.' With thathe leaned back in his chair and smiled at
the ceilingas knowing it by heartand being already tickled.

'In point of factit's nothing of a story in itself' said Cousin
Feenixaddressing the table with a smileand a gay shake of his
head'and not worth a word of preface. But it's illustrative of the
neatness of Jack's humour. The fact isthat Jack was invited down to
a marriage - which I think took place in Berkshire?'

'Shropshire' said the bold mild manfinding himself appealed to.

'Was it? Well! In point of fact it might have been in any shire'
said Cousin Feenix. 'So my friend being invited down to this marriage
in Anyshire' with a pleasant sense of the readiness of this joke
'goes. Just as some of ushaving had the honour of being invited to
the marriage of my lovely and accomplished relative with my friend
Dombeydidn't require to be asked twiceand were devilish glad to be
present on so interesting an occasion. - Goes - Jack goes. Nowthis
marriage wasin point of factthe marriage of an uncommonly fine
girl with a man for whom she didn't care a buttonbut whom she
accepted on account of his propertywhich was immense. When Jack
returned to townafter the nuptialsa man he knewmeeting him in
the lobby of the House of CommonssaysWell, Jack, how are the
ill-matched couple?Ill-matched,says Jack "Not at all. It's a
perfectly and equal transaction. She is regularly boughtand you may
take your oath he is as regularly sold!"'

In his full enjoyment of this culminating point of his storythe
shudderwhich had gone all round the table like an electric spark
struck Cousin Feenixand he stopped. Not a smile occasioned by the
only general topic of conversation broached that dayappeared on any
face. A profound silence ensued; and the wretched mild manwho had
been as innocent of any real foreknowledge of the story as the child
unbornhad the exquisite misery of reading in every eye that he was
regarded as the prime mover of the mischief.

Mr Dombey's face was not a changeful oneand being cast in its
mould of state that dayshowed little other apprehension of the
storyif anythan that which he expressed when he said solemnly
amidst the silencethat it was 'Very good.' There was a rapid glance
from Edith towards Florencebut otherwise she remainedexternally
impassive and unconscious.

Through the various stages of rich meats and winescontinual gold
and silverdainties of earthairfireand waterheaped-up fruits
and that unnecessary article in Mr Dombey's banquets - ice- the dinner
slowly made its way: the later stages being achieved to the sonorous
music of incessant double knocksannouncing the arrival of visitors
whose portion of the feast was limited to the smell thereof. When Mrs
Dombey roseit was a sight to see her lordwith stiff throat and
erect headhold the door open for the withdrawal of the ladies; and
to see how she swept past him with his daughter on her arm.

Mr Dombey was a grave sightbehind the decantersin a state of
dignity; and the East India Director was a forlorn sight near the
unoccupied end of the tablein a state of solitude; and the Major was
a military sightrelating stories of the Duke of York to six of the
seven mild men (the ambitious one was utterly quenched); and the Bank
Director was a lowly sightmaking a plan of his little attempt at a


pinerywith dessert-knivesfor a group of admirers; and Cousin
Feenix was a thoughtful sightas he smoothed his long wristbands and
stealthily adjusted his wig. But all these sights were of short
durationbeing speedily broken up by coffeeand the desertion of the
room.

There was a throng in the state-rooms upstairsincreasing every
minute; but still Mr Dombey's list of visitors appeared to have some
native impossibility of amalgamation with Mrs Dombey's listand no
one could have doubted which was which. The single exception to this
rule perhaps was Mr Carkerwho now smiled among the companyand who
as he stood in the circle that was gathered about Mrs Dombey watchful
of herof themhis chiefCleopatra and the Major
Florenceand everything around - appeared at ease with both divisions
of guestsand not marked as exclusively belonging to either.

Florence had a dread of himwhich made his presence in the room a
nightmare to her. She could not avoid the recollection of itfor her
eyes were drawn towards him every now and thenby an attraction of
dislike and distrust that she could not resist. Yet her thoughts were
busy with other things; for as she sat apart - not unadmired or
unsoughtbut in the gentleness of her quiet spirit - she felt how
little part her father had in what was going onand sawwith pain
how ill at ease he seemed to beand how little regarded he was as he
lingered about near the doorfor those visitors whom he wished to
distinguish with particular attentionand took them up to introduce
them to his wifewho received them with proud coldnessbut showed no
interest or wish to pleaseand neverafter the bare ceremony of
receptionin consultation of his wishesor in welcome of his
friendsopened her lips. It was not the less perplexing or painful to
Florencethat she who acted thustreated her so kindly and with such
loving considerationthat it almost seemed an ungrateful return on
her part even to know of what was passing before her eyes.

Happy Florence would have beenmight she have ventured to bear her
father companyby so much as a look; and happy Florence wasin
little suspecting the main cause of his uneasiness. But afraid of
seeming to know that he was placed at any did advantagelest he
should be resentful of that knowledge; and divided between her impulse
towards himand her grateful affection for Edith; she scarcely dared
to raise her eyes towards either. Anxious and unhappy for them both
the thought stole on her through the crowdthat it might have been
better for them if this noise of tongues and tread of feet had never
come there- if the old dulness and decay had never been replaced by
novelty and splendour- if the neglected child had found no friend in
Edithbut had lived her solitary lifeunpitied and forgotten.

Mrs Chick had some such thoughts toobut they were not so quietly
developed in her mind. This good matron had been outraged in the first
instance by not receiving an invitation to dinner. That blow partially
recoveredshe had gone to a vast expense to make such a figure before
Mrs Dombey at homeas should dazzle the senses of that ladyand heap
mortificationmountains highon the head of Mrs Skewton.

'But I am made' said Mrs Chick to Mr Chick'of no more account
than Florence! Who takes the smallest notice of me? No one!'

'No onemy dear' assented Mr Chickwho was seated by the side of
Mrs Chick against the walland could console himselfeven thereby
softly whistling.

'Does it at all appear as if I was wanted here?' exclaimed Mrs
Chickwith flashing eyes.


'Nomy dearI don't think it does' said Mr Chic

'Paul's mad!' said Mrs Chic

Mr Chick whistled.

'Unless you are a monsterwhich I sometimes think you are' said
Mrs Chick with candour'don't sit there humming tunes. How anyone
with the most distant feelings of a mancan see that mother-in-law of
Paul'sdressed as she isgoing on like thatwith Major Bagstock
for whomamong other precious thingswe are indebted to your
Lucretia Tox

'My Lucretia Toxmy dear!' said Mr Chickastounded.

'Yes' retorted Mrs Chickwith great severity'your Lucretia Tox

-I say how anybody can see that mother-in-law of Paul'sand that
haughty wife of Paul'sand these indecent old frights with their
backs and shouldersand in short this at home generallyand hum - '
on which word Mrs Chick laid a scornful emphasis that made Mr Chick
start'isI thank Heavena mystery to me!
Mr Chick screwed his mouth into a form irreconcilable with humming
or whistlingand looked very contemplative.

'But I hope I know what is due to myself' said Mrs Chickswelling
with indignation'though Paul has forgotten what is due to me. I am
not going to sit herea member of this familyto be taken no notice
of. I am not the dirt under Mrs Dombey's feetyet - not quite yet'
said Mrs Chickas if she expected to become soabout the day after
to-morrow. 'And I shall go. I will not say (whatever I may think) that
this affair has been got up solely to degrade and insult me. I shall
merely go. I shall not be missed!'

Mrs Chick rose erect with these wordsand took the arm of Mr
Chickwho escorted her from the roomafter half an hour's shady
sojourn there. And it is due to her penetration to observe that she
certainly was not missed at all.

But she was not the only indignant guest; for Mr Dombey's list
(still constantly in difficulties) wereas a bodyindignant with Mrs
Dombey's listfor looking at them through eyeglassesand audibly
wondering who all those people were; while Mrs Dombey's list
complained of wearinessand the young thing with the shoulders
deprived of the attentions of that gay youth Cousin Feenix (who went
away from the dinner-table)confidentially alleged to thirty or forty
friends that she was bored to death. All the old ladies with the
burdens on their headshad greater or less cause of complaint against
Mr Dombey; and the Directors and Chairmen coincided in thinking that
if Dombey must marryhe had better have married somebody nearer his
own agenot quite so handsomeand a little better off. The general
opinion among this class of gentlemen wasthat it was a weak thing in
Dombeyand he'd live to repent it. Hardly anybody thereexcept the
mild menstayedor went awaywithout considering himself or herself
neglected and aggrieved by Mr Dombey or Mrs Dombey; and the speechless
female in the black velvet hat was found to have been stricken mute
because the lady in the crimson velvet had been handed down before
her. The nature even of the mild men got corruptedeither from their
curdling it with too much lemonadeor from the general inoculation
that prevailed; and they made sarcastic jokes to one anotherand
whispered disparagement on stairs and in bye-places. The general
dissatisfaction and discomfort so diffused itselfthat the assembled
footmen in the hall were as well acquainted with it as the company
above. Naythe very linkmen outside got hold of itand compared the


party to a funeral out of mourningwith none of the company
remembered in the will. At lastthe guests were all goneand the
linkmen too; and the streetcrowded so long with carriageswas
clear; and the dying lights showed no one in the roomsbut Mr Dombey
and Mr Carkerwho were talking together apartand Mrs Dombey and her
mother: the former seated on an ottoman; the latter reclining in the
Cleopatra attitudeawaiting the arrival of her maid. Mr Dombey having
finished his communication to Carkerthe latter advanced obsequiously
to take leave.

'I trust' he said'that the fatigues of this delightful evening
will not inconvenience Mrs Dombey to-morrow.'

'Mrs Dombey' said Mr Dombeyadvancing'has sufficiently spared
herself fatigueto relieve you from any anxiety of that kind. I
regret to sayMrs Dombeythat I could have wished you had fatigued
yourself a little more on this occasion.

She looked at him with a supercilious glancethat it seemed not
worth her while to protractand turned away her eyes without
speaking.

'I am sorryMadam' said Mr Dombey'that you should not have
thought it your duty -

She looked at him again.

'Your dutyMadam' pursued Mr Dombey'to have received my friends
with a little more deference. Some of those whom you have been pleased
to slight to-night in a very marked mannerMrs Dombeyconfer a
distinction upon youI must tell youin any visit they pay you.

'Do you know that there is someone here?' she returnednow looking
at him steadily.

'No! Carker! I beg that you do not. I insist that you do not'
cried Mr Dombeystopping that noiseless gentleman in his withdrawal.
'Mr CarkerMadamas you knowpossesses my confidence. He is as well
acquainted as myself with the subject on which I speak. I beg to tell
youfor your informationMrs Dombeythat I consider these wealthy
and important persons confer a distinction upon me:' and Mr Dombey
drew himself upas having now rendered them of the highest possible
importance.

'I ask you' she repeatedbending her disdainfulsteady gaze upon
him'do you know that there is someone hereSir?'

'I must entreat' said Mr Carkerstepping forward'I must begI
must demandto be released. Slight and unimportant as this difference
is - '

Mrs Skewtonwho had been intent upon her daughter's facetook him
up here.

'My sweetest Edith' she said'and my dearest Dombey; our
excellent friend Mr Carkerfor so I am sure I ought to mention him '


Mr Carker murmured'Too much honour.'

' - has used the very words that were in my mindand that I have
been dyingthese agesfor an opportunity of introducing. Slight and
unimportant! My sweetest Edithand my dearest Dombeydo we not know
that any difference between you two - NoFlowers; not now.


Flowers was the maidwhofinding gentlemen presentretreated
with precipitation.

'That any difference between you two' resumed Mrs Skewton'with
the Heart you possess in commonand the excessively charming bond of
feeling that there is between youmust be slight and unimportant?
What words could better define the fact? None. Therefore I am glad to
take this slight occasion - this trifling occasionthat is so replete
with Natureand your individual charactersand all that - so truly
calculated to bring the tears into a parent's eyes - to say that I
attach no importance to them in the leastexcept as developing these
minor elements of Soul; and thatunlike most Mamas-in-law (that
odious phrasedear Dombey!) as they have been represented to me to
exist in this I fear too artificial worldI never shall attempt to
interpose between youat such a timeand never can much regret
after allsuch little flashes of the torch of What's-his-name - not
Cupidbut the other delightful creature.

There was a sharpness in the good mother's glance at both her
children as she spokethat may have been expressive of a direct and
well-considered purpose hidden between these rambling words. That
purposeprovidently to detach herself in the beginning from all the
clankings of their chain that were to comeand to shelter herself
with the fiction of her innocent belief in their mutual affectionand
their adaptation to each other.

'I have pointed out to Mrs Dombey' said Mr Dombeyin his most
stately manner'that in her conduct thus early in our married life
to which I objectand whichI requestmay be corrected. Carker'
with a nod of dismissal'good-night to you!'

Mr Carker bowed to the imperious form of the Bridewhose sparkling
eye was fixed upon her husband; and stopping at Cleopatra's couch on
his way outraised to his lips the hand she graciously extended to
himin lowly and admiring homage.

If his handsome wife had reproached himor even changed
countenanceor broken the silence in which she remainedby one word
now that they were alone (for Cleopatra made off with all speed)Mr
Dombey would have been equal to some assertion of his case against
her. But the intenseunutterablewithering scornwith whichafter
looking upon himshe dropped her eyesas if he were too worthless
and indifferent to her to be challenged with a syllable - the
ineffable disdain and haughtiness in which she sat before him - the
cold inflexible resolve with which her every feature seemed to bear
him downand put him by - thesehe had no resource against; and he
left herwith her whole overbearing beauty concentrated on despising
him.

Was he coward enough to watch heran hour afterwardson the old
well staircasewhere he had once seen Florence in the moonlight
toiling up with Paul? Or was he in the dark by accidentwhenlooking
uphe saw her comingwith a lightfrom the room where Florence lay
and marked again the face so changedwhich he could not subdue?

But it could never alter as his own did. It neverin its uttermost
pride and passionknew the shadow that had fallen on hisin the dark
corneron the night of the return; and often since; and which
deepened on it nowas he looked up.

CHAPTER 37.


More Warnings than One

FlorenceEdithand Mrs Skewton were together next dayand the
carriage was waiting at the door to take them out. For Cleopatra had
her galley again nowand Withersno longer the-wanstood upright in
a pigeon-breasted jacket and military trousersbehind her wheel-less
chair at dinner-time and butted no more. The hair of Withers was
radiant with pomatumin these days of downand he wore kid gloves
and smelt of the water of Cologne.

They were assembled in Cleopatra's room The Serpent of old Nile
(not to mention her disrespectfully) was reposing on her sofasipping
her morning chocolate at three o'clock in the afternoonand Flowers
the Maid was fastening on her youthful cuffs and frillsand
performing a kind of private coronation ceremony on herwith a
peach-coloured velvet bonnet; the artificial roses in which nodded to
uncommon advantageas the palsy trifled with themlike a breeze.

'I think I am a little nervous this morningFlowers' said Mrs
Skewton. 'My hand quite shakes.'

'You were the life of the party last nightMa'amyou know'
returned Flowers' and you suffer for itto-dayyou see.'

Edithwho had beckoned Florence to the windowand was looking
outwith her back turned on the toilet of her esteemed mother
suddenly withdrew from itas if it had lightened.

'My darling child' cried Cleopatralanguidly'you are not
nervous? Don't tell memy dear Ediththat youso enviably
self-possessedare beginning to be a martyr toolike your
unfortunately constituted mother! Witherssomeone at the door.'

'CardMa'am' said Witherstaking it towards Mrs Dombey.

'I am going out' she said without looking at it.

'My dear love' drawled Mrs Skewton'how very odd to send that
message without seeing the name! Bring it hereWithers. Dear memy
love; Mr Carkertoo! That very sensible person!'

'I am going out' repeated Edithin so imperious a tone that
Withersgoing to the doorimperiously informed the servant who was
waiting'Mrs Dombey is going out. Get along with you' and shut it on
him.'

But the servant came back after a short absenceand whispered to
Withers againwho once moreand not very willinglypresented
himself before Mrs Dombey.

'If you pleaseMa'amMr Carker sends his respectful compliments
and begs you would spare him one minuteif you could - for business
Ma'amif you please.'

'Reallymy love' said Mrs Skewton in her mildest manner; for her
daughter's face was threatening; 'if you would allow me to offer a
wordI should recommend - '

'Show him this way' said Edith. As Withers disappeared to execute
the commandshe addedfrowning on her mother'As he comes at your
recommendationlet him come to your room.'


'May I - shall I go away?' asked Florencehurriedly.

Edith nodded yesbut on her way to the door Florence met the
visitor coming in. With the same disagreeable mixture of familiarity
and forbearancewith which he had first addressed herhe addressed
her now in his softest manner - hoped she was quite well - needed not
to askwith such looks to anticipate the answer - had scarcely had
the honour to know herlast nightshe was so greatly changed - and
held the door open for her to pass out; with a secret sense of power
in her shrinking from himthat all the deference and politeness of
his manner could not quite conceal.

He then bowed himself for a moment over Mrs Skewton's condescending
handand lastly bowed to Edith. Coldly returning his salute without
looking at himand neither seating herself nor inviting him to be
seatedshe waited for him to speak.

Entrenched in her pride and powerand with all the obduracy of her
spirit summoned about herstill her old conviction that she and her
mother had been known by this man in their worst coloursfrom their
first acquaintance; that every degradation she had suffered in her own
eyes was as plain to him as to herself; that he read her life as
though it were a vile bookand fluttered the leaves before her in
slight looks and tones of voice which no one else could detect;
weakened and undermined her. Proudly as she opposed herself to him
with her commanding face exacting his humilityher disdainful lip
repulsing himher bosom angry at his intrusionand the dark lashes
of her eyes sullenly veiling their lightthat no ray of it might
shine upon him - and submissively as he stood before herwith an
entreating injured mannerbut with complete submission to her will she
knewin her own soulthat the cases were reversedand that the
triumph and superiority were hisand that he knew it full well.

'I have presumed' said Mr Carker'to solicit an interviewand I
have ventured to describe it as being one of businessbecause - '

'Perhaps you are charged by Mr Dombey with some message of
reproof' said Edit 'You possess Mr Dombey's confidence in such an
unusual degreeSirthat you would scarcely surprise me if that were
your business.'

'I have no message to the lady who sheds a lustre upon his name'
said Mr Carker. 'But I entreat that ladyon my own behalf to be just
to a very humble claimant for justice at her hands - a mere dependant
of Mr Dombey's - which is a position of humility; and to reflect upon
my perfect helplessness last nightand the impossibility of my
avoiding the share that was forced upon me in a very painful
occasion.'

'My dearest Edith' hinted Cleopatra in a low voiceas she held
her eye-glass aside'really very charming of Mr What's-his-name. And
full of heart!'

'For I do' said Mr Carkerappealing to Mrs Skewton with a look of
grateful deference- 'I do venture to call it a painful occasion
though merely because it was so to mewho had the misfortune to be
present. So slight a differenceas between the principals - between
those who love each other with disinterested devotionand would make
any sacrifice of self in such a cause - is nothing. As Mrs Skewton
herself expressedwith so much truth and feeling last nightit is
nothing.'

Edith could not look at himbut she said after a few moments


'And your businessSir - '

'Edithmy pet' said Mrs Skewton'all this time Mr Carker is
standing! My dear Mr Carkertake a seatI beg.'

He offered no reply to the motherbut fixed his eyes on the proud
daughteras though he would only be bidden by herand was resolved
to he bidden by her. Edithin spite of herself sat downand slightly
motioned with her hand to him to be seated too. No action could be
colderhaughtiermore insolent in its air of supremacy and
disrespectbut she had struggled against even that concession
ineffectuallyand it was wrested from her. That was enough! Mr Carker
sat down.

'May I be allowedMadam' said Carkerturning his white teeth on
Mrs Skewton like a light - 'a lady of your excellent sense and quick
feeling will give me creditfor good reasonI am sure - to address
what I have to sayto Mrs Dombeyand to leave her to impart it to
you who are her best and dearest friend - next to Mr Dombey?'

Mrs Skewton would have retiredbut Edith stopped her. Edith would
have stopped him tooand indignantly ordered him to speak openly or
not at allbut that he saidin a low Voice - 'Miss Florence - the
young lady who has just left the room - '

Edith suffered him to proceed. She looked at him now. As he bent
forwardto be nearerwith the utmost show of delicacy and respect
and with his teeth persuasively arrayedin a self-depreciating smile
she felt as if she could have struck him dead.

'Miss Florence's position' he began'has been an unfortunate one.
I have a difficulty in alluding to it to youwhose attachment to her
father is naturally watchful and jealous of every word that applies to
him.' Always distinct and soft in speechno language could describe
the extent of his distinctness and softnesswhen he said these words
or came to any others of a similar import. 'Butas one who is devoted
to Mr Dombey in his different wayand whose life is passed in
admiration of Mr Dombey's charactermay I saywithout offence to
your tenderness as a wifethat Miss Florence has unhappily been
neglected - by her father. May I say by her father?'

Edith replied'I know it.'

'You know it!' said Mr Carkerwith a great appearance of relief.
'It removes a mountain from my breast. May I hope you know how the
neglect originated; in what an amiable phase of Mr Dombey's pride character
I mean?'

'You may pass that bySir' she returned'and come the sooner to
the end of what you have to say.'

'IndeedI am sensibleMadam' replied Carker- 'trust meI am
deeply sensiblethat Mr Dombey can require no justification in
anything to you. Butkindly judge of my breast by your ownand you
will forgive my interest in himif in its excessit goes at all
astray.

What a stab to her proud heartto sit thereface to face with
himand have him tendering her false oath at the altar again and
again for her acceptanceand pressing it upon her like the dregs of a
sickening cup she could not own her loathing of or turn away from'.
How shameremorseand passion raged within herwhenupright and
majestic in her beauty before himshe knew that in her spirit she was


down at his feet!

'Miss Florence' said Carker'left to the care - if one may call
it care - of servants and mercenary peoplein every way her
inferiorsnecessarily wanted some guide and compass in her younger
daysandnaturallyfor want of themhas been indiscreetand has
in some degree forgotten her station. There was some folly about one
Waltera common ladwho is fortunately dead now: and some very
undesirable associationI regret to saywith certain coasting
sailorsof anything but good reputeand a runaway old bankrupt.'

'I have heard the circumstancesSir' said Edithflashing her
disdainful glance upon him'and I know that you pervert them. You may
not know it. I hope so.'

'Pardon me' said Mr Carker'I believe that nobody knows them so
well as I. Your generous and ardent natureMadam - the same nature
which is so nobly imperative in vindication of your beloved and
honoured husbandand which has blessed him as even his merits deserve

-I must respectdefer tobow before. Butas regards the
circumstanceswhich is indeed the business I presumed to solicit your
attention toI can have no doubtsincein the execution of my trust
as Mr Dombey's confidential - I presume to say - friendI have fully
ascertained them. In my execution of that trust; in my deep concern
which you can so well understandfor everything relating to him
intensifiedif you will (for I fear I labour under your displeasure)
by the lower motive of desire to prove my diligenceand make myself
the more acceptable; I have long pursued these circumstances by myself
and trustworthy instrumentsand have innumerable and most minute
proofs.'
She raised her eyes no higher than his mouthbut she saw the means
of mischief vaunted in every tooth it contained.

'Pardon meMadam' he continued'if in my perplexityI presume
to take counsel with youand to consult your pleasure. I think I have
observed that you are greatly interested in Miss Florence?'

What was there in her he had not observedand did not know?
Humbled and yet maddened by the thoughtin every new presentment of
ithowever faintshe pressed her teeth upon her quivering lip to
force composure on itand distantly inclined her head in reply.

'This interestMadam - so touching an evidence of everything
associated with Mr Dombey being dear to you - induces me to pause
before I make him acquainted with these circumstanceswhichas yet
he does not know. It so shakes meif I may make the confessionin my
allegiancethat on the intimation of the least desire to that effect
from youI would suppress them.'

Edith raised her head quicklyand starting backbent her dark
glance upon him. He met it with his blandest and most deferential
smileand went on.

'You say that as I describe themthey are perverted. I fear not I
fear not: but let us assume that they are. The uneasiness I have for
some time felt on the subjectarises in this: that the mere
circumstance of such association often repeatedon the part of Miss
Florencehowever innocently and confidinglywould be conclusive with
Mr Dombeyalready predisposed against herand would lead him to take
some step (I know he has occasionally contemplated it) of separation
and alienation of her from his home. Madambear with meand remember
my intercourse with Mr Dombeyand my knowledge of himand my
reverence for himalmost from childhoodwhen I say that if he has a


faultit is a lofty stubbornnessrooted in that noble pride and
sense of power which belong to himand which we must all defer to;
which is not assailable like the obstinacy of other characters; and
which grows upon itself from day to dayand year to year.

She bent her glance upon him still; butlook as steadfast as she
wouldher haughty nostrils dilatedand her breath came somewhat
deeperand her lip would slightly curlas he described that in his
patron to which they must all bow down. He saw it; and though his
expression did not changeshe knew he saw it.

'Even so slight an incident as last night's' he said'if I might
refer to it once morewould serve to illustrate my meaningbetter
than a greater one. Dombey and Son know neither timenor placenor
seasonbut bear them all down. But I rejoice in its occurrencefor
it has opened the way for me to approach Mrs Dombey with this subject
to-dayeven if it has entailed upon me the penalty of her temporary
displeasure. Madamin the midst of my uneasiness and apprehension on
this subjectI was summoned by Mr Dombey to Leamington. There I saw
you. There I could not help knowing what relation you would shortly
occupy towards him - to his enduring happiness and yours. There I
resolved to await the time of your establishment at home hereand to
do as I have now done. I haveat heartno fear that I shall be
wanting in my duty to Mr Dombeyif I bury what I know in your breast;
for where there is but one heart and mind between two persons - as in
such a marriage - one almost represents the other. I can acquit my
conscience thereforealmost equallyby confidenceon such a theme
in you or him. For the reasons I have mentioned I would select you.
May I aspire to the distinction of believing that my confidence is
acceptedand that I am relieved from my responsibility?'

He long remembered the look she gave him - who could see itand
forget it? - and the struggle that ensued within her. At last she
said:

'I accept itSir You will please to consider this matter at an
endand that it goes no farther.'

He bowed lowand rose. She rose tooand he took leave with all
humility. But Withersmeeting him on the stairsstood amazed at the
beauty of his teethand at his brilliant smile; and as he rode away
upon his white-legged horsethe people took him for a dentistsuch
was the dazzling show he made. The people took herwhen she rode out
in her carriage presentlyfor a great ladyas happy as she was rich
and fine. But they had not seen herjust beforein her own room with
no one by; and they had not heard her utterance of the three words
'Oh FlorenceFlorence!'

Mrs Skewtonreposing on her sofaand sipping her chocolatehad
heard nothing but the low word businessfor which she had a mortal
aversioninsomuch that she had long banished it from her vocabulary
and had gone nighin a charming manner and with an immense amount of
heartto say nothing of soulto ruin divers milliners and others in
consequence. Therefore Mrs Skewton asked no questionsand showed no
curiosity. Indeedthe peach-velvet bonnet gave her sufficient
occupation out of doors; for being perched on the back of her head
and the day being rather windyit was frantic to escape from Mrs
Skewton's companyand would be coaxed into no sort of compromise.
When the carriage was closedand the wind shut outthe palsy played
among the artificial roses again like an almshouse-full of
superannuated zephyrs; and altogether Mrs Skewton had enough to do
and got on but indifferently.

She got on no better towards night; for when Mrs Dombeyin her


dressing-roomhad been dressed and waiting for her half an hourand
Mr Dombeyin the drawing-roomhad paraded himself into a state of
solemn fretfulness (they were all three going out to dinner)Flowers
the Maid appeared with a pale face to Mrs Dombeysaying:

'If you pleaseMa'amI beg your pardonbut I can't do nothing
with Missis!'

'What do you mean?' asked Edith.

'WellMa'am' replied the frightened maid'I hardly know. She's
making faces!'

Edith hurried with her to her mother's room. Cleopatra was arrayed
in full dresswith the diamondsshort sleevesrougecurlsteeth
and other juvenility all complete; but Paralysis was not to be
deceivedhad known her for the object of its errandand had struck
her at her glasswhere she lay like a horrible doll that had tumbled
down.

They took her to pieces in very shameand put the little of her
that was real on a bed. Doctors were sent forand soon came. Powerful
remedies were resorted to; opinions given that she would rally from
this shockbut would not survive another; and there she lay
speechlessand staring at the ceilingfor days; sometimes making
inarticulate sounds in answer to such questions as did she know who
were presentand the like: sometimes giving no reply either by sign
or gestureor in her unwinking eyes.

At length she began to recover consciousnessand in some degree
the power of motionthough not yet of speech. One day the use of her
right hand returned; and showing it to her maid who was in attendance
on herand appearing very uneasy in her mindshe made signs for a
pencil and some paper. This the maid immediately providedthinking
she was going to make a willor write some last request; and Mrs
Dombey being from homethe maid awaited the result with solemn
feelings.

After much painful scrawling and erasingand putting in of wrong
characterswhich seemed to tumble out of the pencil of their own
accordthe old woman produced this document:

'Rose-coloured curtains.'

The maid being perfectly transfixedand with tolerable reason
Cleopatra amended the manuscript by adding two words morewhen it
stood thus:

'Rose-coloured curtains for doctors.'

The maid now perceived remotely that she wished these articles to
be provided for the better presentation of her complexion to the
faculty; and as those in the house who knew her besthad no doubt of
the correctness of this opinionwhich she was soon able to establish
for herself the rose-coloured curtains were added to her bedand she
mended with increased rapidity from that hour. She was soon able to
sit upin curls and a laced cap and nightgownand to have a little
artificial bloom dropped into the hollow caverns of her cheeks.

It was a tremendous sight to see this old woman in her finery
leering and mincing at Deathand playing off her youthful tricks upon
him as if he had been the Major; but an alteration in her mind that
ensued on the paralytic stroke was fraught with as much matter for
reflectionand was quite as ghastly.


Whether the weakening of her intellect made her more cunning and
false than beforeor whether it confused her between what she had
assumed to be and what she really had beenor whether it had awakened
any glimmering of remorsewhich could neither struggle into light nor
get back into total darknessor whetherin the jumble of her
facultiesa combination of these effects had been shaken upwhich is
perhaps the more likely suppositionthe result was this: - That she
became hugely exacting in respect of Edith's affection and gratitude
and attention to her; highly laudatory of herself as a most
inestimable parent; and very jealous of having any rival in Edith's
regard. Furtherin place of remembering that compact made between
them for an avoidance of the subjectshe constantly alluded to her
daughter's marriage as a proof of her being an incomparable mother;
and all thiswith the weakness and peevishness of such a state
always serving for a sarcastic commentary on her levity and
youthfulness.

'Where is Mrs Dombey? she would say to her maid.

'Gone outMa'am.'

'Gone out! Does she go out to shun her MamaFlowers?'

'La bless younoMa'am. Mrs Dombey has only gone out for a ride
with Miss Florence.'

'Miss Florence. Who's Miss Florence? Don't tell me about Miss
Florence. What's Miss Florence to hercompared to me?'

The apposite display of the diamondsor the peach-velvet bonnet
(she sat in the bonnet to receive visitorsweeks before she could
stir out of doors)or the dressing of her up in some gaud or other
usually stopped the tears that began to flow hereabouts; and she would
remain in a complacent state until Edith came to see her; whenat a
glance of the proud faceshe would relapse again.

'WellI am sureEdith!' she would cryshaking her head.

'What is the mattermother?'

'Matter! I really don't know what is the matter. The world is
coming to such an artificial and ungrateful statethat I begin to
think there's no Heart - or anything of that sort - left in it
positively. Withers is more a child to me than you are. He attends to
me much more than my own daughter. I almost wish I didn't look so
young - and all that kind of thing - and then perhaps I should be more
considered.'

'What would you havemother?'

'Oha great dealEdith' impatiently.

'Is there anything you want that you have not? It is your own fault
if there be.'

'My own fault!' beginning to whimper. 'The parent I have been to
youEdith: making you a companion from your cradle! And when you
neglect meand have no more natural affection for me than if I was a
stranger - not a twentieth part of the affection that you have for
Florence - but I am only your motherand should corrupt her in a day!

-you reproach me with its being my own fault.'
'MothermotherI reproach you with nothing. Why will you always


dwell on this?'

'Isn't it natural that I should dwell on thiswhen I am all
affection and sensitivenessand am wounded in the cruellest way
whenever you look at me?'

'I do not mean to wound youmother. Have you no remembrance of
what has been said between us? Let the Past rest.'

'Yesrest! And let gratitude to me rest; and let affection for me
rest; and let me rest in my out-of-the-way roomwith no society and
no attentionwhile you find new relations to make much ofwho have
no earthly claim upon you! Good graciousEdithdo you know what an
elegant establishment you are at the head of?'

'Yes. Hush!'

'And that gentlemanly creatureDombey? Do you know that you are
married to himEdithand that you have a settlement and a position
and a carriageand I don't know what?'

'IndeedI know itmother; well.'

'As you would have had with that delightful good soul - what did
they call him? - Granger - if he hadn't died. And who have you to
thank for all thisEdith?'

'Youmother; you.'

'Then put your arms round my neckand kiss me; and show meEdith
that you know there never was a better Mama than I have been to you.
And don't let me become a perfect fright with teasing and wearing
myself at your ingratitudeor when I'm out again in society no soul
will know menot even that hateful animalthe Major.'

Butsometimeswhen Edith went nearer to herand bending down her
stately headPut her cold cheek to hersthe mother would draw back
as If she were afraid of herand would fall into a fit of trembling
and cry out that there was a wandering in her wits. And sometimes she
would entreat herwith humilityto sit down on the chair beside her
bedand would look at her (as she sat there brooding) with a face
that even the rose-coloured curtains could not make otherwise than
scared and wild.

The rose-coloured curtains blushedin course of timeon
Cleopatra's bodily recoveryand on her dress - more juvenile than
everto repair the ravages of illness - and on the rougeand on the
teethand on the curlsand on the diamondsand the short sleeves
and the whole wardrobe of the doll that had tumbled down before the
mirror. They blushedtoonow and thenupon an indistinctness in her
speech which she turned off with a girlish giggleand on an
occasional failing In her memorythat had no rule in itbut came and
went fantasticallyas if in mockery of her fantastic self.

But they never blushed upon a change in the new manner of her
thought and speech towards her daughter. And though that daughter
often came within their influencethey never blushed upon her
loveliness irradiated by a smileor softened by the light of filial
lovein its stem beauty.

CHAPTER 38.


Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance

The forlorn Miss Toxabandoned by her friend Louisa Chickand
bereft of Mr Dombey's countenance - for no delicate pair of wedding
cardsunited by a silver threadgraced the chimney-glass in
Princess's Placeor the harpsichordor any of those little posts of
display which Lucretia reserved for holiday occupation - became
depressed in her spiritsand suffered much from melancholy. For a
time the Bird Waltz was unheard in Princess's Placethe plants were
neglectedand dust collected on the miniature of Miss Tox's ancestor
with the powdered head and pigtail.

Miss Toxhoweverwas not of an age or of a disposition long to
abandon herself to unavailing regrets. Only two notes of the
harpsichord were dumb from disuse when the Bird Waltz again warbled
and trilled in the crooked drawing-room: only one slip of geranium
fell a victim to imperfect nursingbefore she was gardening at her
green baskets againregularly every morning; the powdered-headed
ancestor had not been under a cloud for more than six weekswhen Miss
Tox breathed on his benignant visageand polished him up with a piece
of wash-leather.

StillMiss Tox was lonelyand at a loss. Her attachmentshowever
ludicrously shownwere real and strong; and she wasas she expressed
it'deeply hurt by the unmerited contumely she had met with from
Louisa.' But there was no such thing as anger in Miss Tox's
composition. If she had ambled on through lifein her soft spoken
waywithout any opinionsshe hadat leastgot so far without any
harsh passions. The mere sight of Louisa Chick in the street one day
at a considerable distanceso overpowered her milky naturethat she
was fain to seek immediate refuge in a pastrycook'sand therein a
musty little back room usually devoted to the consumption of soups
and pervaded by an ox-tail atmosphererelieve her feelings by weeping
plentifully.

Against Mr Dombey Miss Tox hardly felt that she had any reason of
complaint. Her sense of that gentleman's magnificence was suchthat
once removed from himshe felt as if her distance always had been
immeasurableand as if he had greatly condescended in tolerating her
at all. No wife could be too handsome or too stately for him
according to Miss Tox's sincere opinion. It was perfectly natural that
in looking for onehe should look high. Miss Tox with tears laid down
this propositionand fully admitted ittwenty times a day. She never
recalled the lofty manner in which Mr Dombey had made her subservient
to his convenience and capricesand had graciously permitted her to
be one of the nurses of his little son. She only thoughtin her own
words'that she had passed a great many happy hours in that house
which she must ever remember with gratificationand that she could
never cease to regard Mr Dombey as one of the most impressive and
dignified of men.'

Cut offhoweverfrom the implacable Louisaand being shy of the
Major (whom she viewed with some distrust now)Miss Tox found it very
irksome to know nothing of what was going on in Mr Dombey's
establishment. And as she really had got into the habit of considering
Dombey and Son as the pivot on which the world in general turnedshe
resolvedrather than be ignorant of intelligence which so strongly
interested herto cultivate her old acquaintanceMrs Richardswho
she knewsince her last memorable appearance before Mr Dombeywas in
the habit of sometimes holding communication with his servants.
Perhaps Miss Toxin seeking out the Toodle familyhad the tender


motive hidden in her breast of having somebody to whom she could talk
about Mr Dombeyno matter how humble that somebody might be.

At all eventstowards the Toodle habitation Miss Tox directed her
steps one eveningwhat time Mr Toodlecindery and swartwas
refreshing himself with teain the bosom of his family. Mr Toodle had
only three stages of existence. He was either taking refreshment in
the bosom just mentionedor he was tearing through the country at
from twenty-five to fifty miles an houror he was sleeping after his
fatigues. He was always in a whirlwind or a calmand a peaceable
contentedeasy-going man Mr Toodle was in either statewho seemed to
have made over all his own inheritance of fuming and fretting to the
engines with which he was connectedwhich pantedand gaspedand
chafedand wore themselves outin a most unsparing mannerwhile Mr
Toodle led a mild and equable life.

'Pollymy gal' said Mr Toodlewith a young Toodle on each knee
and two more making tea for himand plenty more scattered about - Mr
Toodle was never out of childrenbut always kept a good supply on
hand - 'you ain't seen our Biler latelyhave you?'

'No' replied Polly'but he's almost certain to look in tonight.
It's his right eveningand he's very regular.'

'I suppose' said Mr Toodlerelishing his meal infinitely'as our
Biler is a doin' now about as well as a boy can doehPolly?'

'Oh! he's a doing beautiful!' responded Polly.

'He ain't got to be at all secret-like - has hePolly?' inquired
Mr Toodle.

'No!' said Mrs Toodleplumply.

'I'm glad he ain't got to be at all secret-likePolly' observed
Mr Toodle in his slow and measured wayand shovelling in his bread
and butter with a clasp knifeas if he were stoking himself'because
that don't look well; do itPolly?'

'Whyof course it don'tfather. How can you ask!'

'You seemy boys and gals' said Mr Toodlelooking round upon his
family'wotever you're up to in a honest wayit's my opinion as you
can't do better than be open. If you find yourselves in cuttings or in
tunnelsdon't you play no secret games. Keep your whistles goingand
let's know where you are.

The rising Toodles set up a shrill murmurexpressive of their
resolution to profit by the paternal advice.

'But what makes you say this along of Robfather?' asked his wife
anxiously.

'Pollyold ooman' said Mr Toodle'I don't know as I said it
partickler along o' RobI'm sure. I starts light with Rob only; I
comes to a branch; I takes on what I finds there; and a whole train of
ideas gets coupled on to himafore I knows where I amor where they
comes from. What a Junction a man's thoughts is' said Mr Toodle
'to-be-sure!'

This profound reflection Mr Toodle washed down with a pint mug of
teaand proceeded to solidify with a great weight of bread and
butter; charging his young daughters meanwhileto keep plenty of hot
water in the potas he was uncommon dryand should take the


indefinite quantity of 'a sight of mugs' before his thirst was
appeased.

In satisfying himselfhoweverMr Toodle was not regardless of the
younger branches about himwhoalthough they had made their own
evening repastwere on the look-out for irregular morselsas
possessing a relish. These he distributed now and then to the
expectant circleby holding out great wedges of bread and butterto
be bitten at by the family in lawful successionand by serving out
small doses of tea in like manner with a spoon; which snacks had such
a relish in the mouths of these young Toodlesthatafter partaking
of the samethey performed private dances of ecstasy among
themselvesand stood on one leg apieceand hoppedand indulged in
other saltatory tokens of gladness. These vents for their excitement
foundthey gradually closed about Mr Toodle againand eyed him hard
as he got through more bread and butter and tea; affectinghowever
to have no further expectations of their own in reference to those
viandsbut to be conversing on foreign subjectsand whispering
confidentially.

Mr Toodlein the midst of this family groupand setting an awful
example to his children in the way of appetitewas conveying the two
young Toodles on his knees to Birmingham by special engineand was
contemplating the rest over a barrier of bread and butterwhen Rob
the Grinderin his sou'wester hat and mourning slopspresented
himselfand was received with a general rush of brothers and sisters.

'Wellmother!' said Robdutifully kissing her; 'how are you
mother?'

'There's my boy!' cried Pollygiving him a hug and a pat on the
back. 'Secret! Bless youfathernot he!'

This was intended for Mr Toodle's private edificationbut Rob the
Grinderwhose withers were not unwrungcaught the words as they were
spoken.

'What! father's been a saying something more again mehas he?'
cried the injured innocent. 'Ohwhat a hard thing it is that when a
cove has once gone a little wronga cove's own father should be
always a throwing it in his face behind his back! It's enough' cried
Robresorting to his coat-cuff in anguish of spirit'to make a cove
go and do somethingout of spite!'

'My poor boy!' cried Polly'father didn't mean anything.'

'If father didn't mean anything' blubbered the injured Grinder
'why did he go and say anythingmother? Nobody thinks half so bad of
me as my own father does. What a unnatural thing! I wish somebody'd
take and chop my head off. Father wouldn't mind doing itI believe
and I'd much rather he did that than t'other.'

At these desperate words all the young Toodles shrieked; a pathetic
effectwhich the Grinder improved by ironically adjuring them not to
cry for himfor they ought to hate himthey oughtif they was good
boys and girls; and this so touched the youngest Toodle but onewho
was easily movedthat it touched him not only in his spirit but in
his wind too; making him so purple that Mr Toodle in consternation
carried him out to the water-buttand would have put him under the
tapbut for his being recovered by the sight of that instrument.

Matters having reached this pointMr Toodle explainedand the
virtuous feelings of his son being thereby calmedthey shook hands
and harmony reigned again.


'Will you do as I doBilermy boy?' inquired his father
returning to his tea with new strength.

'Nothank'eefather. Master and I had tea together.'

'And how is masterRob?' said Polly.

'WellI don't knowmother; not much to boast on. There ain't no
bis'ness doneyou see. He don't know anything about it - the Cap'en
don't. There was a man come into the shop this very dayand saysI
want a so-and-so,he says - some hard name or another. "A which?"
says the Cap'en. "A so-and-so says the man. Brother says the
Cap'en, will you take a observation round the shop." "Well says the
man, I've done" "Do you see wot you want?" says the Cap'en "NoI
don't says the man. Do you know it wen you do see it?" says the
Cap'en. "NoI don't says the man. Whythen I tell you wotmy
lad says the Cap'en, you'd better go back and ask wot it's like
outsidefor no more don't I!"'

'That ain't the way to make moneythoughis it?' said Polly.

'Moneymother! He'll never make money. He has such ways as I never
see. He ain't a bad master thoughI'll say that for him. But that
ain't much to mefor I don't think I shall stop with him long.'

'Not stop in your placeRob!' cried his mother; while Mr Toodle
opened his eyes.

'Not in that placep'raps' returned the Grinderwith a wink. 'I
shouldn't wonder - friends at court you know - but never you mind
motherjust now; I'm all rightthat's all.'

The indisputable proof afforded in these hintsand in the
Grinder's mysterious mannerof his not being subject to that failing
which Mr Toodle hadby implicationattributed to himmight have led
to a renewal of his wrongsand of the sensation in the familybut
for the opportune arrival of another visitorwhoto Polly's great
surpriseappeared at the doorsmiling patronage and friendship on
all there.

'How do you doMrs Richards?' said Miss Tox. 'I have come to see
you. May I come in?'

The cheery face of Mrs Richards shone with a hospitable replyand
Miss Toxaccepting the proffered chairand grab fully recognising Mr
Toodle on her way to ituntied her bonnet stringsand said that in
the first place she must beg the dear childrenone and allto come
and kiss her.

The ill-starred youngest Toodle but onewho would appearfrom the
frequency of his domestic troublesto have been born under an unlucky
planetwas prevented from performing his part in this general
salutation by having fixed the sou'wester hat (with which he had been
previously trifling) deep on his headhind side beforeand being
unable to get it off again; which accident presenting to his terrified
imagination a dismal picture of his passing the rest of his days in
darknessand in hopeless seclusion from his friends and family
caused him to struggle with great violenceand to utter suffocating
cries. Being releasedhis face was discovered to be very hotand
redand damp; and Miss Tox took him on her lapmuch exhausted.

'You have almost forgotten meSirI daresay' said Miss Tox to Mr
Toodle.


'NoMa'amno' said Toodle. 'But we've all on us got a little
older since then.'

'And how do you find yourselfSir?' inquired Miss Toxblandly.

'HeartyMa'amthank'ee' replied Toodle. 'How do you find
yourselfMa'am? Do the rheumaticks keep off pretty wellMa'am? We
must all expect to grow into 'emas we gets on.'

'Thank you' said Miss Tox. 'I have not felt any inconvenience from
that disorder yet.'

'You're wery fortunateMa'am' returned Mr Toodle. 'Many people at
your time of lifeMa'amis martyrs to it. There was my mother - '
But catching his wife's eye hereMr Toodle judiciously buried the
rest in another mug of tea

'You never mean to sayMrs Richards' cried Miss Toxlooking at
Rob'that that is your - '

'EldestMa'am' said Polly. 'Yesindeedit is. That's the little
fellowMa'amthat was the innocent cause of so much.'

'This hereMa'am' said Toodle'is him with the short legs - and
they was' said Mr Toodlewith a touch of poetry in his tone
'unusual short for leathers - as Mr Dombey made a Grinder on.'

The recollection almost overpowered Miss Tox. The subject of it had
a peculiar interest for her directly. She asked him to shake hands
and congratulated his mother on his frankingenuous face. Rob
overhearing hercalled up a lookto justify the eulogiumbut it was
hardly the right look.

'And nowMrs Richards' said Miss Tox- 'and you tooSir'
addressing Toodle - 'I'll tell youplainly and trulywhat I have
come here for. You may be awareMrs Richards - andpossiblyyou may
be aware tooSir - that a little distance has interposed itself
between me and some of my friendsand that where I used to visit a
good dealI do not visit now.'

Pollywhowith a woman's tactunderstood this at onceexpressed
as much in a little look. Mr Toodlewho had not the faintest idea of
what Miss Tox was talking aboutexpressed that alsoin a stare.

'Of course' said Miss Tox'how our little coolness has arisen is
of no momentand does not require to be discussed. It is sufficient
for me to saythat I have the greatest possible respect forand
interest inMr Dombey;' Miss Tox's voice faltered; 'and everything
that relates to him.'

Mr Toodleenlightenedshook his headand said he had heerd it
saidandfor his own parthe did thinkas Mr Dombey was a
difficult subject.

'Pray don't say soSirif you please' returned Miss Tox. 'Let me
entreat you not to say soSireither nowor at any future time.
Such observations cannot but be very painful to me; and to a
gentlemanwhose mind is constituted asI am quite sureyours is
can afford no permanent satisfaction.'

Mr Toodlewho had not entertained the least doubt of offering a
remark that would be received with acquiescencewas greatly
confounded.


'All that I wish to sayMrs Richards' resumed Miss Tox- 'and I
address myself to you tooSir- is this. That any intelligence of
the proceedings of the familyof the welfare of the familyof the
health of the familythat reaches youwill be always most acceptable
to me. That I shall be always very glad to chat with Mrs Richards
about the familyand about old time And as Mrs Richards and I never
had the least difference (though I could wish now that we had been
better acquaintedbut I have no one but myself to blame for that)I
hope she will not object to our being very good friends nowand to my
coming backwards and forwards herewhen I likewithout being a
stranger. NowI really hopeMrs Richards' said Miss Tox -
earnestly'that you will take thisas I mean itlike a
good-humoured creatureas you always were.'


Polly was gratifiedand showed it. Mr Toodle didn't know whether
he was gratified or notand preserved a stolid calmness.


'You seeMrs Richards' said Miss Tox - 'and I hope you see too
Sir - there are many little ways in which I can be slightly useful to
youif you will make no stranger of me; and in which I shall be
delighted to be so. For instanceI can teach your children something.
I shall bring a few little booksif you'll allow meand some work
and of an evening now and thenthey'll learn - dear methey'll learn
a great dealI trustand be a credit to their teacher.'


Mr Toodlewho had a great respect for learningjerked his head
approvingly at his wifeand moistened his hands with dawning
satisfaction.


'Thennot being a strangerI shall be in nobody's way' said Miss
Tox'and everything will go on just as if I were not here. Mrs
Richards will do her mendingor her ironingor her nursingwhatever
it iswithout minding me: and you'll smoke your pipetooif you're
so disposedSirwon't you?'


'Thank'eeMum' said Mr Toodle. 'Yes; I'll take my bit of backer.'


'Very good of you to say soSir' rejoined Miss Tox'and I really
do assure you nowunfeignedlythat it will be a great comfort to me
and that whatever good I may be fortunate enough to do the children
you will more than pay back to meif you'll enter into this little
bargain comfortablyand easilyand good-naturedlywithout another
word about it.'


The bargain was ratified on the spot; and Miss Tox found herself so
much at home alreadythat without delay she instituted a preliminary
examination of the children all round - which Mr Toodle much admired -
and booked their agesnamesand acquirementson a piece of paper.
This ceremonyand a little attendant gossipprolonged the time until
after their usual hour of going to bedand detained Miss Tox at the
Toodle fireside until it was too late for her to walk home alone. The
gallant Grinderhoweverbeing still therepolitely offered to
attend her to her own door; and as it was something to Miss Tox to be
seen home by a youth whom Mr Dombey had first inducted into those
manly garments which are rarely mentioned by name' she very readily
accepted the proposal.


After shaking hands with Mr Toodle and Pollyand kissing all the
childrenMiss Tox left the housethereforewith unlimited
popularityand carrying away with her so light a heart that it might
have given Mrs Chick offence if that good lady could have weighed it.


Rob the Grinderin his modestywould have walked behindbut Miss



Tox desired him to keep beside herfor conversational purposes; and
as she afterwards expressed it to his mother'drew him out' upon the
road.

He drew out so brightand clearand shiningthat Miss Tox was
charmed with him. The more Miss Tox drew him outthe finer he came like
wire. There never was a better or more promising youth - a more
affectionatesteadyprudentsoberhonestmeekcandid young man than
Rob drew outthat night.

'I am quite glad' said Miss Toxarrived at her own door'to know
you. I hope you'll consider me your friendand that you'll come and
see me as often as you like. Do you keep a money-box?'

'YesMa'am' returned Rob; 'I'm saving upagainst I've got enough
to put in the BankMa'am.

'Very laudable indeed' said Miss Tox. 'I'm glad to hear it. Put
this half-crown into itif you please.'

'Oh thank youMa'am' replied Rob'but really I couldn't think of
depriving you.'

'I commend your independent spirit' said Miss Tox'but it's no
deprivationI assure you. I shall be offended if you don't take it
as a mark of my good-will. Good-nightRobin.'

'Good-nightMa'am' said Rob'and thank you!'

Who ran sniggering off to get changeand tossed it away with a
pieman. But they never taught honour at the Grinders' Schoolwhere
the system that prevailed was particularly strong in the engendering
of hypocrisy. Insomuchthat many of the friends and masters of past
Grinders saidif this were what came of education for the common
peoplelet us have none. Some more rational saidlet us have a
better one. But the governing powers of the Grinders' Company were
always ready for themby picking out a few boys who had turned out
well in spite of the systemand roundly asserting that they could
have only turned out well because of it. Which settled the business of
those objectors out of handand established the glory of the
Grinders' Institution.

CHAPTER 39.

Further Adventures of Captain Edward CuttleMariner

Timesure of foot and strong of willhad so pressed onwardthat
the year enjoined by the old Instrument-makeras the term during
which his friend should refrain from opening the sealed packet
accompanying the letter he had left for himwas now nearly expired
and Captain Cuttle began to look at itof an eveningwith feelings
of mystery and uneasiness

The Captainin his honourwould as soon have thought of opening
the parcel one hour before the expiration of the termas he would
have thought of opening himselfto study his own anatomy. He merely
brought it outat a certain stage of his first evening pipelaid it
on the tableand sat gazing at the outside of itthrough the smoke
in silent gravityfor two or three hours at a spell. Sometimeswhen
he had contemplated it thus for a pretty long whilethe Captain would


hitch his chairby degreesfarther and farther offas if to get
beyond the range of its fascination; but if this were his designhe
never succeeded: for even when he was brought up by the parlour wall
the packet still attracted him; or if his eyesin thoughtful
wanderingroved to the ceiling or the fireits image immediately
followedand posted itself conspicuously among the coalsor took up
an advantageous position on the whitewash.


In respect of Heart's Delightthe Captain's parental and
admiration knew no change. But since his last interview with Mr
CarkerCaptain Cuttle had come to entertain doubts whether his former
intervention in behalf of that young lady and his dear boy Wal'rhad
proved altogether so favourable as he could have wishedand as he at
the time believed. The Captain was troubled with a serious misgiving
that he had done more harm than goodin short; and in his remorse and
modesty he made the best atonement he could think ofby putting
himself out of the way of doing any harm to anyoneandas it were
throwing himself overboard for a dangerous person.


Self-buriedthereforeamong the instrumentsthe Captain never
went near Mr Dombey's houseor reported himself in any way to
Florence or Miss Nipper. He even severed himself from Mr Perchon the
occasion of his next visitby dryly informing that gentlemanthat he
thanked him for his companybut had cut himself adrift from all such
acquaintanceas he didn't know what magazine he mightn't blow up
without meaning of it. In this self-imposed retirementthe Captain
passed whole days and weeks without interchanging a word with anyone
but Rob the Grinderwhom he esteemed as a pattern of disinterested
attachment and fidelity. In this retirementthe Captaingazing at
the packet of an eveningwould sit smokingand thinking of Florence
and poor Walteruntil they both seemed to his homely fancy to be
deadand to have passed away into eternal youththe beautiful and
innocent children of his first remembrance.


The Captain did nothoweverin his musingsneglect his own
improvementor the mental culture of Rob the Grinder. That young man
was generally required to read out of some book to the Captainfor
one hourevery evening; and as the Captain implicitly believed that
all books were truehe accumulatedby this meansmany remarkable
facts. On Sunday nightsthe Captain always read for himselfbefore
going to beda certain Divine Sermon once delivered on a Mount; and
although he was accustomed to quote the textwithout bookafter his
own mannerhe appeared to read it with as reverent an understanding
of its heavenly spiritas if he had got it all by heart in Greekand
had been able to write any number of fierce theological disquisitions
on its every phrase.


Rob the Grinderwhose reverence for the inspired writingsunder
the admirable system of the Grinders' Schoolhad been developed by a
perpetual bruising of his intellectual shins against all the proper
names of all the tribes of Judahand by the monotonous repetition of
hard versesespecially by way of punishmentand by the parading of
him at six years old in leather breechesthree times a Sundayvery
high upin a very hot churchwith a great organ buzzing against his
drowsy headlike an exceedingly busy bee - Rob the Grinder made a
mighty show of being edified when the Captain ceased to readand
generally yawned and nodded while the reading was in progress. The
latter fact being never so much as suspected by the good Captain.


Captain Cuttlealsoas a man of business; took to keeping books.
In these he entered observations on the weatherand on the currents
of the waggons and other vehicles: which he observedin that quarter
to set westward in the morning and during the greater part of the day
and eastward towards the evening. Two or three stragglers appearing in



one weekwho 'spoke him' - so the Captain entered it- on the subject
of spectaclesand whowithout positively purchasingsaid they would
look in againthe Captain decided that the business was improving
and made an entry in the day-book to that effect: the wind then
blowing (which he first recorded) pretty freshwest and by north;
having changed in the night.

One of the Captain's chief difficulties was Mr Tootswho called
frequentlyand who without saying much seemed to have an idea that
the little back parlour was an eligible room to chuckle inas he
would sit and avail himself of its accommodations in that regard by
the half-hour togetherwithout at all advancing in intimacy with the
Captain. The Captainrendered cautious by his late experiencewas
unable quite to satisfy his mind whether Mr Toots was the mild subject
he appeared to beor was a profoundly artful and dissimulating
hypocrite. His frequent reference to Miss Dombey was suspicious; but
the Captain had a secret kindness for Mr Toots's apparent reliance on
himand forbore to decide against him for the present; merely eyeing
himwith a sagacity not to be describedwhenever he approached the
subject that was nearest to his heart.

'Captain Gills' blurted out Mr Tootsone day all at onceas his
manner was'do you think you could think favourably of that
proposition of mineand give me the pleasure of your acquaintance?'

'WhyI tell you what it ismy lad' replied the Captainwho had
at length concluded on a course of action; 'I've been turning that
thereover.'

'Captain Gillsit's very kind of you' retorted Mr Toots. 'I'm
much obliged to you. Upon my word and honourCaptain Gillsit would
be a charity to give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. It really
would.'

'You seebrother' argued the Captain slowly'I don't know you.

'But you never can know meCaptain Gills' replied Mr Toots
steadfast to his point'if you don't give me the pleasure of your
acquaintance.

The Captain seemed struck by the originality and power of this
remarkand looked at Mr Toots as if he thought there was a great deal
more in him than he had expected.

'Well saidmy lad' observed the Captainnodding his head
thoughtfully; 'and true. Now look'ee here: You've made some
observations to mewhich gives me to understand as you admire a
certain sweet creetur. Hey?'

'Captain Gills' said Mr Tootsgesticulating violently with the
hand in which he held his hat'Admiration is not the word. Upon my
honouryou have no conception what my feelings are. If I could be
dyed blackand made Miss Dombey's slaveI should consider it a
compliment. Ifat the sacrifice of all my propertyI could get
transmigrated into Miss Dombey's dog - I - I really think I should
never leave off wagging my tail. I should be so perfectly happy
Captain Gills!'

Mr Toots said it with watery eyesand pressed his hat against his
bosom with deep emotion.

'My lad' returned the Captainmoved to compassion'if you're in
arnest



'Captain Gills' cried Mr Toots'I'm in such a state of mindand
am so dreadfully in earnestthat if I could swear to it upon a hot
piece of ironor a live coalor melted leador burning sealing-wax
Or anything of that sortI should be glad to hurt myselfas a relief
to my feelings.' And Mr Toots looked hurriedly about the roomas if
for some sufficiently painful means of accomplishing his dread
purpose.

The Captain pushed his glazed hat back upon his headstroked his
face down with his heavy hand - making his nose more mottled in the
process - and planting himself before Mr Tootsand hooking him by the
lapel of his coataddressed him in these wordswhile Mr Toots looked
up into his facewith much attention and some wonder.

'If you're in arnestyou seemy lad' said the Captain'you're a
object of clemencyand clemency is the brightest jewel in the crown
of a Briton's headfor which you'll overhaul the constitution as laid
down in Rule Britanniaandwhen foundthat is the charter as them
garden angels was a singing ofso many times over. Stand by! This
here proposal o' you'rn takes me a little aback. And why? Because I
holds my own onlyyou understandin these here watersand haven't
got no consortand may be don't wish for none. Steady! You hailed me
firstalong of a certain young ladyas you was chartered by. Now if
you and me is to keep one another's company at allthat there young
creetur's name must never be named nor referred to. I don't know what
harm mayn't have been done by naming of it too freeafore nowand
thereby I brings up short. D'ye make me out pretty clearbrother?'

'Wellyou'll excuse meCaptain Gills' replied Mr Toots'if I
don't quite follow you sometimes. But upon my word I - it's a hard
thingCaptain Gillsnot to be able to mention Miss Dombey. I really
have got such a dreadful load here!' - Mr Toots pathetically touched
his shirt-front with both hands - 'that I feel night and dayexactly
as if somebody was sitting upon me.

'Them' said the Captain'is the terms I offer. If they're hard
upon youbrotheras mayhap they aregive 'em a wide berthsheer
offand part company cheerily!'

'Captain Gills' returned Mr Toots'I hardly know how it isbut
after what you told me when I came herefor the first timeI - I
feel that I'd rather think about Miss Dombey in your society than talk
about her in almost anybody else's. ThereforeCaptain Gillsif
you'll give me the pleasure of your acquaintanceI shall be very
happy to accept it on your own conditions. I wish to be honourable
Captain Gills' said Mr Tootsholding back his extended hand for a
moment'and therefore I am obliged to say that I can not help
thinking about Miss Dombey. It's impossible for me to make a promise
not to think about her.'

'My lad' said the Captainwhose opinion of Mr Toots was much
improved by this candid avowal'a man's thoughts is like the winds
and nobody can't answer for 'em for certainany length of time
together. Is it a treaty as to words?'

'As to wordsCaptain Gills' returned Mr Toots'I think I can
bind myself.'

Mr Toots gave Captain Cuttle his hand upon itthen and there; and
the Captain with a pleasant and gracious show of condescension
bestowed his acquaintance upon him formally. Mr Toots seemed much
relieved and gladdened by the acquisitionand chuckled rapturously
during the remainder of his visit. The Captainfor his partwas not
ill pleased to occupy that position of patronageand was exceedingly


well satisfied by his own prudence and foresight.

But rich as Captain Cuttle was in the latter qualityhe received a
surprise that same evening from a no less ingenuous and simple youth
than Rob the Grinder. That artless laddrinking tea at the same
tableand bending meekly over his cup and saucerhaving taken
sidelong observations of his master for some timewho was reading the
newspaper with great difficultybut much dignitythrough his
glassesbroke silence by saying


'Oh! I beg your pardonCaptainbut you mayn't be in want of any
pigeonsmay youSir?'

'Nomy lad' replied the Captain.

'Because I was wishing to dispose of mineCaptain' said Rob.

'Ayay?' cried the Captainlifting up his bushy eyebrows a
little.

'Yes; I'm goingCaptainif you please' said Rob.

'Going? Where are you going?' asked the Captainlooking round at
him over the glasses.

'What? didn't you know that I was going to leave youCaptain?'
asked Robwith a sneaking smile.

The Captain put down the papertook off his spectaclesand
brought his eyes to bear on the deserter.

'Oh yesCaptainI am going to give you warning. I thought you'd
have known that beforehandperhaps' said Robrubbing his handsand
getting up. 'If you could be so good as provide yourself soon
Captainit would be a great convenience to me. You couldn't provide
yourself by to-morrow morningI am afraidCaptain: could youdo you
think?'

'And you're a going to desert your coloursare youmy lad?' said
the Captainafter a long examination of his face.

'Ohit's very hard upon a coveCaptain' cried the tender Rob
injured and indignant in a moment'that he can't give lawful warning
without being frowned at in that wayand called a deserter. You
haven't any right to call a poor cove namesCaptain. It ain't because
I'm a servant and you're a masterthat you're to go and libel me.
What wrong have I done? ComeCaptainlet me know what my crime is
will you?'

The stricken Grinder weptand put his coat-cuff in his eye.

'ComeCaptain' cried the injured youth'give my crime a name!
What have I been and done? Have I stolen any of the property? have I
set the house a-fire? If I havewhy don't you give me in chargeand
try it? But to take away the character of a lad that's been a good
servant to youbecause he can't afford to stand in his own light for
your goodwhat a injury it isand what a bad return for faithful
service! This is the way young coves is spiled and drove wrong. I
wonder at youCaptainI do.'

All of which the Grinder howled forth in a lachrymose whineand
backing carefully towards the door.

'And so you've got another berthhave youmy lad?' said the


Captaineyeing him intently.

'YesCaptainsince you put it in that shapeI have got another
berth' cried Robbacking more and more; 'a better berth than I've
got hereand one where I don't so much as want your good word
Captainwhich is fort'nate for meafter all the dirt you've throw'd
at mebecause I'm poorand can't afford to stand in my own light for
your good. YesI have got another berth; and if it wasn't for leaving
you unprovidedCaptainI'd go to it nowsooner than I'd take them
names from youbecause I'm poorand can't afford to stand in my own
light for your good. Why do you reproach me for being poorand not
standing in my own light for your goodCaptain? How can you so demean
yourself?'

'Look ye heremy boy' replied the peaceful Captain. 'Don't you
pay out no more of them words.'

'Wellthendon't you pay in no more of your wordsCaptain'
retorted the roused innocentgetting louder in his whineand backing
into the shop. 'I'd sooner you took my blood than my character.'

'Because' pursued the Captain calmly'you have heerdmay beof
such a thing as a rope's end.'

'Ohhave I thoughCaptain?' cried the taunting Grinder. 'No I
haven't. I never heerd of any such a article!'

'Well' said the Captain'it's my belief as you'll know more about
it pretty soonif you don't keep a bright look-out. I can read your
signalsmy lad. You may go.'

'Oh! I may go at oncemay ICaptain?' cried Robexulting in his
success. 'But mind! I never asked to go at onceCaptain. You are not
to take away my character againbecause you send me off of your own
accord. And you're not to stop any of my wagesCaptain!'

His employer settled the last point by producing the tin canister
and telling the Grinder's money out in full upon the table. Rob
snivelling and sobbingand grievously wounded in his feelingstook
up the pieces one by onewith a sob and a snivel for eachand tied
them up separately in knots in his pockethandkerchief; then he
ascended to the roof of the house and filled his hat and pockets with
pigeons; thencame down to his bed under the counter and made up his
bundlesnivelling and sobbing louderas if he were cut to the heart
by old associations; then he whined'Good-nightCaptain. I leave you
without malice!' and thengoing out upon the door-steppulled the
little Midshipman's nose as a parting indignityand went away down
the street grinning triumphantly.

The Captainleft to himselfresumed his perusal of the news as if
nothing unusual or unexpected had taken placeand went reading on
with the greatest assiduity. But never a word did Captain Cuttle
understandthough he read a vast numberfor Rob the Grinder was
scampering up one column and down another all through the newspaper.

It is doubtful whether the worthy Captain had ever felt himself
quite abandoned until now; but nowold Sol GillsWalterand Heart's
Delight were lost to him indeedand now Mr Carker deceived and jeered
him cruelly. They were all represented in the false Robto whom he
had held forth many a time on the recollections that were warm within
him; he had believed in the false Roband had been glad to believe in
him; he had made a companion of him as the last of the old ship's
company; he had taken the command of the little Midshipman with him at
his right hand; he had meant to do his duty by himand had felt


almost as kindly towards the boy as if they had been shipwrecked and
cast upon a desert place together. And nowthat the false Rob had
brought distrusttreacheryand meanness into the very parlourwhich
was a kind of sacred placeCaptain Cuttle felt as if the parlour
might have gone down nextand not surprised him much by its sinking
or given him any very great concern.

Therefore Captain Cuttle read the newspaper with profound attention
and no comprehensionand therefore Captain Cuttle said nothing
whatever about Rob to himselfor admitted to himself that he was
thinking about himor would recognise in the most distant manner that
Rob had anything to do with his feeling as lonely as Robinson Crusoe.

In the same composedbusiness-like waythe Captain stepped over
to Leadenhall Market in the duskand effected an arrangement with a
private watchman on duty thereto come and put up and take down the
shutters of the wooden Midshipman every night and morning. He then
called in at the eating-house to diminish by one half the daily
rations theretofore supplied to the Midshipmanand at the
public-house to stop the traitor's beer. 'My young man' said the
Captainin explanation to the young lady at the bar'my young man
having bettered himselfMiss.' Lastlythe Captain resolved to take
possession of the bed under the counterand to turn in there o'
nights instead of upstairsas sole guardian of the property.

From this bed Captain Cuttle daily rose thenceforthand clapped on
his glazed hat at six o'clock in the morningwith the solitary air of
Crusoe finishing his toilet with his goat-skin cap; and although his
fears of a visitation from the savage tribeMacStingerwere somewhat
cooledas similar apprehensions on the part of that lone mariner used
to be by the lapse of a long interval without any symptoms of the
cannibalshe still observed a regular routine of defensive
operationsand never encountered a bonnet without previous survey
from his castle of retreat. In the meantime (during which he received
no call from Mr Tootswho wrote to say he was out of town) his own
voice began to have a strange sound in his ears; and he acquired such
habits of profound meditation from much polishing and stowing away of
the stockand from much sitting behind the counter readingor
looking out of windowthat the red rim made on his forehead by the
hard glazed hatsometimes ached again with excess of reflection.

The year being now expiredCaptain Cuttle deemed it expedient to
open the packet; but as he had always designed doing this in the
presence of Rob the Grinderwho had brought it to himand as he had
an idea that it would be regular and ship-shape to open it in the
presence of somebodyhe was sadly put to it for want of a witness. In
this difficultyhe hailed one day with unusual delight the
announcement in the Shipping Intelligence of the arrival of the
Cautious ClaraCaptain John Bunsbyfrom a coasting voyage; and to
that philosopher immediately dispatched a letter by postenjoining
inviolable secrecy as to his place of residenceand requesting to be
favoured with an early visitin the evening season.

Bunsbywho was one of those sages who act upon convictiontook
some days to get the conviction thoroughly into his mindthat he had
received a letter to this effect. But when he had grappled with the
factand mastered ithe promptly sent his boy with the message
'He's a coming to-night.' Who being instructed to deliver those words
and disappearfulfilled his mission like a tarry spiritcharged with
a mysterious warning.

The Captainwell pleased to receive itmade preparation of pipes
and rum and waterand awaited his visitor in the back parlour. At the
hour of eighta deep lowingas of a nautical Bulloutside the


shop-doorsucceeded by the knocking of a stick on the panel
announced to the listening ear of Captain Cuttlethat Bunsby was
alongside; whom he instantly admittedshaggy and looseand with his
stolid mahogany visageas usualappearing to have no consciousness
of anything before itbut to be attentively observing something that
was taking place in quite another part of the world.

'Bunsby' said the Captaingrasping him by the hand'what cheer
my ladwhat cheer?'

'Shipmet' replied the voice within Bunsbyunaccompanied by any
sign on the part of the Commander himself'heartyhearty.'

'Bunsby!' said the Captainrendering irrepressible homage to his
genius'here you are! a man as can give an opinion as is brighter
than di'monds - and give me the lad with the tarry trousers as shines
to me like di'monds brightfor which you'll overhaul the Stanfell's
Budgetand when found make a note.' Here you area man as gave an
opinion in this here very placethat has come trueevery letter on
it' which the Captain sincerely believed.

'Ayay?' growled Bunsby.

'Every letter' said the Captain.

'For why?' growled Bunsbylooking at his friend for the first
time. 'Which way? If sowhy not? Therefore.' With these oracular
words - they seemed almost to make the Captain giddy; they launched
him upon such a sea of speculation and conjecture - the sage submitted
to be helped off with his pilot-coatand accompanied his friend into
the back parlourwhere his hand presently alighted on the rum-bottle
from which he brewed a stiff glass of grog; and presently afterwards
on a pipewhich he filledlightedand began to smoke.

Captain Cuttleimitating his visitor in the matter of these
particularsthough the rapt and imperturbable manner of the great
Commander was far above his powerssat in the opposite corner of the
firesideobserving him respectfullyand as if he waited for some
encouragement or expression of curiosity on Bunsby's part which should
lead him to his own affairs. But as the mahogany philosopher gave no
evidence of being sentient of anything but warmth and tobaccoexcept
oncewhen taking his pipe from his lips to make room for his glass
he incidentally remarked with exceeding gruffnessthat his name was
Jack Bunsby - a declaration that presented but small opening for
conversation - the Captain bespeaking his attention in a short
complimentary exordiumnarrated the whole history of Uncle Sol's
departurewith the change it had produced in his own life and
fortunes; and concluded by placing the packet on the table.

After a long pauseMr Bunsby nodded his head.

'Open?' said the Captain.

Bunsby nodded again.

The Captain accordingly broke the sealand disclosed to view two
folded papersof which he severally read the endorsementsthus:
'Last Will and Testament of Solomon Gills.' 'Letter for Ned Cuttle.'

Bunsbywith his eye on the coast of Greenlandseemed to listen
for the contents. The Captain therefore hemmed to clear his throat
and read the letter aloud.

'"My dear Ned Cuttle. When I left home for the West Indies" - '


Here the Captain stoppedand looked hard at Bunsbywho looked
fixedly at the coast of Greenland.

' - "in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear boyI knew that
if you were acquainted with my designyou would thwart itor
accompany me; and therefore I kept it secret. If you ever read this
letterNedI am likely to be dead. You will easily forgive an old
friend's folly thenand will feel for the restlessness and
uncertainty in which he wandered away on such a wild voyage. So no
more of that. I have little hope that my poor boy will ever read these
wordsor gladden your eyes with the sight of his frank face any
more." Nono; no more' said Captain Cuttlesorrowfully meditating;
'no more. There he laysall his days - '

Mr Bunsbywho had a musical earsuddenly bellowed'In the Bays
of BiscayO!' which so affected the good Captainas an appropriate
tribute to departed worththat he shook him by the hand in
acknowledgmentand was fain to wipe his eyes.

'Wellwell!' said the Captain with a sighas the Lament of Bunsby
ceased to ring and vibrate in the skylight. 'Affliction sorelong
time he boreand let us overhaul the wollumeand there find it.'

'Physicians' observed Bunsby'was in vain."

'Ayayto be sure' said the Captain'what's the good o' them in
two or three hundred fathoms o' water!' Thenreturning to the letter
he read on: - '"But if he should be bywhen it is opened;"' the
Captain involuntarily looked roundand shook his head; '"or should
know of it at any other time;"' the Captain shook his head again; '"my
blessing on him! In case the accompanying paper is not legally
writtenit matters very littlefor there is no one interested but
you and heand my plain wish isthat if he is living he should have
what little there may beand if (as I fear) otherwisethat you
should have itNed. You will respect my wishI know. God bless you
for itand for all your friendliness besidesto Solomon Gills."
Bunsby!' said the Captainappealing to him solemnly'what do you
make of this? There you sita man as has had his head broke from
infancy up'ardsand has got a new opinion into it at every seam as
has been opened. Nowwhat do you make o' this?'

'If so be' returned Bunsbywith unusual promptitude'as he's
deadmy opinion is he won't come back no more. If so be as he's
alivemy opinion is he will. Do I say he will? No. Why not? Because
the bearings of this obserwation lays in the application on it.'

'Bunsby!' said Captain Cuttlewho would seem to have estimated the
value of his distinguished friend's opinions in proportion to the
immensity of the difficulty he experienced in making anything out of
them; 'Bunsby' said the Captainquite confounded by admiration'you
carry a weight of mind easyas would swamp one of my tonnage soon.
But in regard o' this here willI don't mean to take no steps towards
the property - Lord forbid! - except to keep it for a more rightful
owner; and I hope yet as the rightful ownerSol Gillsis living
and'll come backstrange as it is that he ain't forwarded no
dispatches. Nowwhat is your opinionBunsbyas to stowing of these
here papers away againand marking outside as they was openedsuch a
dayin the presence of John Bunsby and Ed'ard Cuttle?'

Bunsbydescrying no objectionon the coast of Greenland or
elsewhereto this proposalit was carried into execution; and that
great manbringing his eye into the present for a momentaffixed his
sign-manual to the covertotally abstainingwith characteristic


modestyfrom the use of capital letters. Captain Cuttlehaving
attached his own left-handed signatureand locked up the packet in
the iron safeentreated his guest to mix another glass and smoke
another pipe; and doing the like himselffell a musing over the fire
on the possible fortunes of the poor old Instrument-maker.

And now a surprise occurredso overwhelming and terrific that
Captain Cuttleunsupported by the presence of Bunsbymust have sunk
beneath itand been a lost man from that fatal hour.

How the Captaineven in the satisfaction of admitting such a
guestcould have only shut the doorand not locked itof which
negligence he was undoubtedly guiltyis one of those questions that
must for ever remain mere points of speculationor vague charges
against destiny. But by that unlocked doorat this quiet momentdid
the fell MacStinger dash into the parlourbringing Alexander
MacStinger in her parental armsand confusion and vengeance (not to
mention Juliana MacStingerand the sweet child's brotherCharles
MacStingerpopularly known about the scenes of his youthful sports
as Chowley) in her train. She came so swiftly and so silentlylike a
rushing air from the neighbourhood of the East India Docksthat
Captain Cuttle found himself in the very act of sitting looking at
herbefore the calm face with which he had been meditatingchanged
to one of horror and dismay.

But the moment Captain Cuttle understood the full extent of his
misfortuneself-preservation dictated an attempt at flight. Darting
at the little door which opened from the parlour on the steep little
range of cellar-stepsthe Captain made a rushhead-foremostat the
latterlike a man indifferent to bruises and contusionswho only
sought to hide himself in the bowels of the earth. In this gallant
effort he would probably have succeededbut for the affectionate
dispositions of Juliana and Chowleywho pinning him by the legs - one
of those dear children holding on to each - claimed him as their
friendwith lamentable cries. In the meantimeMrs MacStingerwho
never entered upon any action of importance without previously
inverting Alexander MacStingerto bring him within the range of a
brisk battery of slapsand then sitting him down to cool as the
reader first beheld himperformed that solemn riteas if on this
occasion it were a sacrifice to the Furies; and having deposited the
victim on the floormade at the Captain with a strength of purpose
that appeared to threaten scratches to the interposing Bunsby.

The cries of the two elder MacStingersand the wailing of young
Alexanderwho may be said to have passed a piebald childhood
forasmuch as he was black in the face during one half of that fairy
period of existencecombined to make this visitation the more awful.
But when silence reigned againand the Captainin a violent
perspirationstood meekly looking at Mrs MacStingerits terrors were
at their height.

'OhCap'en CuttleCap'en Cuttle!' said Mrs MacStingermaking her
chin rigidand shaking it in unison with whatbut for the weakness
of her sexmight be described as her fist. 'OhCap'en CuttleCap'en
Cuttledo you dare to look me in the faceand not be struck down in
the herth!'

The Captainwho looked anything but daringfeebly muttered
'Standby!'

'Oh I was a weak and trusting Fool when I took you under my roof
Cap'en CuttleI was!' cried Mrs MacStinger. 'To think of the benefits
I've showered on that manand the way in which I brought my children
up to love and honour him as if he was a father to 'emwhen there


ain't a housekeeperno nor a lodger in our streetdon't know that I
lost money by that manand by his guzzlings and his muzzlings' - Mrs
MacStinger used the last word for the joint sake of alliteration and
aggravationrather than for the expression of any idea - 'and when
they cried out one and allshame upon him for putting upon an
industrious womanup early and late for the good of her young family
and keeping her poor place so clean that a individual might have ate
his dinneryesand his tea tooif he was so disposedoff any one
of the floors or stairsin spite of all his guzzlings and his
muzzlingssuch was the care and pains bestowed upon him!'

Mrs MacStinger stopped to fetch her breath; and her face flushed
with triumph in this second happy introduction of Captain Cuttle's
muzzlings.

'And he runs awa-a-a-y!'cried Mrs MacStingerwith a lengthening
out of the last syllable that made the unfortunate Captain regard
himself as the meanest of men; 'and keeps away a twelve-month! From a
woman! Such is his conscience! He hasn't the courage to meet her
hi-i-igh;' long syllable again; 'but steals awaylike a felion. Why
if that baby of mine' said Mrs MacStingerwith sudden rapidity'was
to offer to go and steal awayI'd do my duty as a mother by himtill
he was covered with wales!'

The young Alexanderinterpreting this into a positive promiseto
be shortly redeemedtumbled over with fear and griefand lay upon
the floorexhibiting the soles of his shoes and making such a
deafening outcrythat Mrs MacStinger found it necessary to take him
up in her armswhere she quieted himever and anonas he broke out
againby a shake that seemed enough to loosen his teeth.

'A pretty sort of a man is Cap'en Cuttle' said Mrs MacStinger
with a sharp stress on the first syllable of the Captain's name'to
take on for - and to lose sleep for- and to faint along of- and to
think dead forsooth - and to go up and down the blessed town like a
madwomanasking questions after! Oha pretty sort of a man! Ha ha ha
ha! He's worth all that trouble and distress of mindand much more.
That's nothingbless you! Ha ha ha ha! Cap'en Cuttle' said Mrs
MacStingerwith severe reaction in her voice and manner'I wish to
know if you're a-coming home.

The frightened Captain looked into his hatas if he saw nothing
for it but to put it onand give himself up.

'Cap'en Cuttle' repeated Mrs MacStingerin the same determined
manner'I wish to know if you're a-coming homeSir.'

The Captain seemed quite ready to gobut faintly suggested
something to the effect of 'not making so much noise about it.'

'Ayayay' said Bunsbyin a soothing tone. 'Awastmy lass
awast!'

'And who may you beif you please!' retorted Mrs MacStingerwith
chaste loftiness. 'Did you ever lodge at Number NineBrig PlaceSir?
My memory may be badbut not with meI think. There was a Mrs
Jollson lived at Number Nine before meand perhaps you're mistaking
me for her. That is my only ways of accounting for your familiarity
Sir.'

'Comecomemy lassawastawast!' said Bunsby.

Captain Cuttle could hardly believe iteven of this great man
though he saw it done with his waking eyes; but Bunsbyadvancing


boldlyput his shaggy blue arm round Mrs MacStingerand so softened
her by his magic way of doing itand by these few words - he said no
more - that she melted into tearsafter looking upon him for a few
momentsand observed that a child might conquer her nowshe was so
low in her courage.

Speechless and utterly amazedthe Captain saw him gradually
persuade this inexorable woman into the shopreturn for rum and water
and a candletake them to herand pacify her without appearing to
utter one word. Presently he looked in with his pilot-coat onand
said'CuttleI'm a-going to act as convoy home;' and Captain Cuttle
more to his confusion than if he had been put in irons himselffor
safe transport to Brig Placesaw the family pacifically filing off
with Mrs MacStinger at their head. He had scarcely time to take down
his canisterand stealthily convey some money into the hands of
Juliana MacStingerhis former favouriteand Chowleywho had the
claim upon him that he was naturally of a maritime buildbefore the
Midshipman was abandoned by them all; and Bunsby whispering that he'd
carry on smartand hail Ned Cuttle again before he went aboardshut
the door upon himselfas the last member of the party.

Some uneasy ideas that he must be walking in his sleepor that he
had been troubled with phantomsand not a family of flesh and blood
beset the Captain at firstwhen he went back to the little parlour
and found himself alone. Illimitable faith inand immeasurable
admiration ofthe Commander of the Cautious Clarasucceededand
threw the Captain into a wondering trance.

Stillas time wore onand Bunsby failed to reappearthe Captain
began to entertain uncomfortable doubts of another kind. Whether
Bunsby had been artfully decoyed to Brig Placeand was there detained
in safe custody as hostage for his friend; in which case it would
become the Captainas a man of honourto release himby the
sacrifice of his own liberty. Whether he had been attacked and
defeated by Mrs MacStingerand was ashamed to show himself after his
discomfiture. Whether Mrs MacStingerthinking better of itin the
uncertainty of her temperhad turned back to board the Midshipman
againand Bunsbypretending to conduct her by a short cutwas
endeavouring to lose the family amid the wilds and savage places of
the City. Above allwhat it would behove himCaptain Cuttleto do
in case of his hearing no moreeither of the MacStingers or of
Bunsbywhichin these wonderful and unforeseen conjunctions of
eventsmight possibly happen.

He debated all this until he was tired; and still no Bunsby. He
made up his bed under the counterall ready for turning in; and still
no Bunsby. At lengthwhen the Captain had given him upfor that
night at leastand had begun to undressthe sound of approaching
wheels was heardandstopping at the doorwas succeeded by Bunsby's
hail.

The Captain trembled to think that Mrs MacStinger was not to be got
rid ofand had been brought back in a coach.

But no. Bunsby was accompanied by nothing but a large boxwhich he
hauled into the shop with his own handsand as soon as he had hauled
insat upon. Captain Cuttle knew it for the chest he had left at Mrs
MacStinger's houseand lookingcandle in handat Bunsby more
attentivelybelieved that he was three sheets in the windorin
plain wordsdrunk. It was difficulthoweverto be sure of this; the
Commander having no trace of expression in his face when sober.

'Cuttle' said the Commandergetting off the chestand opening
the lid'are these here your traps?'


Captain Cuttle looked in and identified his property.

'Done pretty taut and trimheyshipmet?' said Bunsby.

The grateful and bewildered Captain grasped him by the handand
was launching into a reply expressive of his astonished feelingswhen
Bunsby disengaged himself by a jerk of his wristand seemed to make
an effort to wink with his revolving eyethe only effect of which
attemptin his conditionwas nearly to over-balance him. He then
abruptly opened the doorand shot away to rejoin the Cautious Clara
with all speed - supposed to be his invariable customwhenever he
considered he had made a point.

As it was not his humour to be often soughtCaptain Cuttle decided
not to go or send to him next dayor until he should make his
gracious pleasure known in such wiseor failing thatuntil some
little time should have lapsed. The Captainthereforerenewed his
solitary life next morningand thought profoundlymany mornings
noonsand nightsof old Sol Gillsand Bunsby's sentiments
concerning himand the hopes there were of his return. Much of such
thinking strengthened Captain Cuttle's hopes; and he humoured them and
himself by watching for the Instrument-maker at the door - as he
ventured to do nowin his strange liberty - and setting his chair in
its placeand arranging the little parlour as it used to bein case
he should come home unexpectedly. He likewisein his thoughtfulness
took down a certain little miniature of Walter as a schoolboyfrom
its accustomed naillest it should shock the old man on his return.
The Captain had his presentimentstoosometimesthat he would come
on such a day; and one particular Sundayeven ordered a double
allowance of dinnerhe was so sanguine. But comeold Solomon did
not; and still the neighbours noticed how the seafaring man in the
glazed hatstood at the shop-door of an eveninglooking up and down
the street.

CHAPTER 40.

Domestic Relations

It was not in the nature of things that a man of Mr Dombey's mood
opposed to such a spirit as he had raised against himselfshould be
softened in the imperious asperity of his temper; or that the cold
hard armour of pride in which he lived encasedshould be made more
flexible by constant collision with haughty scorn and defiance. It is
the curse of such a nature - it is a main part of the heavy
retribution on itself it bears within itself - that while deference
and concession swell its evil qualitiesand are the food it grows
uponresistance and a questioning of its exacting claimsfoster it
toono less. The evil that is in it finds equally its means of growth
and propagation in opposites. It draws support and life from sweets
and bitters; bowed down beforeor unacknowledgedit still enslaves
the breast in which it has its throne; andworshipped or rejectedis
as hard a master as the Devil in dark fables.

Towards his first wifeMr Dombeyin his cold and lofty arrogance
had borne himself like the removed Being he almost conceived himself
to be. He had been 'Mr Dombey' with her when she first saw himand he
was 'Mr Dombey' when she died. He had asserted his greatness during
their whole married lifeand she had meekly recognised it. He had
kept his distant seat of state on the top of his throneand she her


humble station on its lowest step; and much good it had done himso
to live in solitary bondage to his one idea. He had imagined that the
proud character of his second wife would have been added to his own would
have merged into itand exalted his greatness. He had pictured
himself haughtier than everwith Edith's haughtiness subservient to
his. He had never entertained the possibility of its arraying itself
against him. And nowwhen he found it rising in his path at every
step and turn of his daily lifefixing its colddefiantand
contemptuous face upon himthis pride of hisinstead of withering
or hanging down its head beneath the shockput forth new shoots
became more concentrated and intensemore gloomysullenirksome
and unyieldingthan it had ever been before.

Who wears such armourtoobears with him ever another heavy
retribution. It is of proof against conciliationloveand
confidence; against all gentle sympathy from withoutall trustall
tendernessall soft emotion; but to deep stabs in the self-loveit
is as vulnerable as the bare breast to steel; and such tormenting
festers rankle thereas follow on no other woundsnothough dealt
with the mailed hand of Pride itselfon weaker pridedisarmed and
thrown down.

Such wounds were his. He felt them sharplyin the solitude of his
old rooms; whither he now began often to retire againand pass long
solitary hours. It seemed his fate to be ever proud and powerful; ever
humbled and powerless where he would be most strong. Who seemed fated
to work out that doom?

Who? Who was it who could win his wife as she had won his boy? Who
was it who had shown him that new victoryas he sat in the dark
corner? Who was it whose least word did what his utmost means could
not? Who was it whounaided by his loveregard or noticethrived
and grew beautiful when those so aided died? Who could it bebut the
same child at whom he had often glanced uneasily in her motherless
infancywith a kind of dreadlest he might come to hate her; and of
whom his foreboding was fulfilledfor he DID hate her in his heart?

Yesand he would have it hatredand he made it hatredthough
some sparkles of the light in which she had appeared before him on the
memorable night of his return home with his Brideoccasionally hung
about her still. He knew now that she was beautiful; he did not
dispute that she was graceful and winningand that in the bright dawn
of her womanhood she had come upon hima surprise. But he turned even
this against her. In his sullen and unwholesome broodingthe unhappy
manwith a dull perception of his alienation from all heartsand a
vague yearning for what he had all his life repelledmade a distorted
picture of his rights and wrongsand justified himself with it
against her. The worthier she promised to be of himthe greater claim
he was disposed to antedate upon her duty and submission. When had she
ever shown him duty and submission? Did she grace his life - or
Edith's? Had her attractions been manifested first to him - or Edith?
Whyhe and she had never beenfrom her birthlike father and child!
They had always been estranged. She had crossed him every way and
everywhere. She was leagued against him now. Her very beauty softened
natures that were obdurate to himand insulted him with an unnatural
triumph.

It may have been that in all this there were mutterings of an
awakened feeling in his breasthowever selfishly aroused by his
position of disadvantagein comparison with what she might have made
his life. But he silenced the distant thunder with the rolling of his
sea of pride. He would bear nothing but his pride. And in his pridea
heap of inconsistencyand miseryand self-inflicted tormenthe
hated her.


To the moodystubbornsullen demonthat possessed himhis wife
opposed her different pride in its full force. They never could have
led a happy life together; but nothing could have made it more
unhappythan the wilful and determined warfare of such elements. His
pride was set upon maintaining his magnificent supremacyand forcing
recognition of it from her. She would have been racked to deathand
turned but her haughty glance of calm inflexible disdain upon himto
the last. Such recognition from Edith! He little knew through what a
storm and struggle she had been driven onward to the crowning honour
of his hand. He little knew how much she thought she had conceded
when she suffered him to call her wife.

Mr Dombey was resolved to show her that he was supreme. There must
be no will but his. Proud he desired that she should bebut she must
be proud fornot against him. As he sat alonehardeninghe would
often hear her go out and come hometreading the round of London life
with no more heed of his liking or dislikingpleasure or displeasure
than if he had been her groom. Her cold supreme indifference - his own
unquestioned attribute usurped - stung him more than any other kind of
treatment could have done; and he determined to bend her to his
magnificent and stately will.

He had been long communing with these thoughtswhen one night he
sought her in her own apartmentafter he had heard her return home
late. She was alonein her brilliant dressand had but that moment
come from her mother's room. Her face was melancholy and pensivewhen
he came upon her; but it marked him at the door; forglancing at the
mirror before ithe saw immediatelyas in a picture-framethe
knitted browand darkened beauty that he knew so well.

'Mrs Dombey' he saidentering'I must beg leave to have a few
words with you.'

'To-morrow' she replied.

'There is no time like the presentMadam' he returned. 'You
mistake your position. I am used to choose my own times; not to have
them chosen for me. I think you scarcely understand who and what I am
Mrs Dombey.

'I think' she answered'that I understand you very well.'

She looked upon him as she said soand folding her white arms
sparkling with gold and gemsupon her swelling breastturned away
her eyes.

If she had been less handsomeand less stately in her cold
composureshe might not have had the power of impressing him with the
sense of disadvantage that penetrated through his utmost pride. But
she had the powerand he felt it keenly. He glanced round the room:
saw how the splendid means of personal adornmentand the luxuries of
dresswere scattered here and thereand disregarded; not in mere
caprice and carelessness (or so he thought)but in a steadfast
haughty disregard of costly things: and felt it more and more.
Chaplets of flowersplumes of feathersjewelslacessilks and
satins; look where he wouldhe saw richesdespisedpoured outand.
made of no account. The very diamonds - a marriage gift - that rose
and fell impatiently upon her bosomseemed to pant to break the chain
that clasped them round her neckand roll down on the floor where she
might tread upon them.

He felt his disadvantageand he showed it. Solemn and strange
among this wealth of colour and voluptuous glitterstrange and


constrained towards its haughty mistresswhose repellent beauty it
repeatedand presented all around himas in so many fragments of a
mirrorhe was conscious of embarrassment and awkwardness. Nothing
that ministered to her disdainful self-possession could fail to gall
him. Galled and irritated with himselfhe sat downand went onin
no improved humour:

'Mrs Dombeyit is very necessary that there should be some
understanding arrived at between us. Your conduct does not please me
Madam.'

She merely glanced at him againand again averted her eyes; but
she might have spoken for an hourand expressed less.

'I repeatMrs Dombeydoes not please me. I have already taken
occasion to request that it may be corrected. I now insist upon it.'

'You chose a fitting occasion for your first remonstranceSirand
you adopt a fitting mannerand a fitting word for your second. You
insist! To me!'

'Madam' said Mr Dombeywith his most offensive air of state'I
have made you my wife. You bear my name. You are associated with my
position and my reputation. I will not say that the world in general
may be disposed to think you honoured by that association; but I will
say that I am accustomed to "insist to my connexions and
dependents.'

'Which may you be pleased to consider me? she asked.

'Possibly I may think that my wife should partake - or does
partake, and cannot help herself - of both characters, Mrs Dombey.'

She bent her eyes upon him steadily, and set her trembling lips. He
saw her bosom throb, and saw her face flush and turn white. All this
he could know, and did: but he could not know that one word was
whispering in the deep recesses of her heart, to keep her quiet; and
that the word was Florence.

Blind idiot, rushing to a precipice! He thought she stood in awe of
him.

'You are too expensive, Madam,' said Mr Dombey. 'You are
extravagant. You waste a great deal of money - or what would be a
great deal in the pockets of most gentlemen - in cultivating a kind of
society that is useless to me, and, indeed, that upon the whole is
disagreeable to me. I have to insist upon a total change in all these
respects. I know that in the novelty of possessing a tithe of such
means as Fortune has placed at your disposal, ladies are apt to run
into a sudden extreme. There has been more than enough of that
extreme. I beg that Mrs Granger's very different experiences may now
come to the instruction of Mrs Dombey.'

Still the fixed look, the trembling lips, the throbbing breast, the
face now crimson and now white; and still the deep whisper Florence,
Florence, speaking to her in the beating of her heart.

His insolence of self-importance dilated as he saw this alteration
in her. Swollen no less by her past scorn of him, and his so recent
feeling of disadvantage, than by her present submission (as he took it
to be), it became too mighty for his breast, and burst all bounds.
Why, who could long resist his lofty will and pleasure! He had
resolved to conquer her, and look here!


'You will further please, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, in a tone of
sovereign command, 'to understand distinctly, that I am to be deferred
to and obeyed. That I must have a positive show and confession of
deference before the world, Madam. I am used to this. I require it as
my right. In short I will have it. I consider it no unreasonable
return for the worldly advancement that has befallen you; and I
believe nobody will be surprised, either at its being required from
you, or at your making it. - To Me - To Me!' he added, with emphasis.

No word from her. No change in her. Her eyes upon him.

'I have learnt from your mother, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, with
magisterial importance, what no doubt you know, namely, that Brighton
is recommended for her health. Mr Carker has been so good

She changed suddenly. Her face and bosom glowed as if the red light
of an angry sunset had been flung upon them. Not unobservant of the
change, and putting his own interpretation upon it, Mr Dombey resumed:

'Mr Carker has been so good as to go down and secure a house there,
for a time. On the return of the establishment to London, I shall take
such steps for its better management as I consider necessary. One of
these, will be the engagement at Brighton (if it is to be effected),
of a very respectable reduced person there, a Mrs Pipchin, formerly
employed in a situation of trust in my family, to act as housekeeper.
An establishment like this, presided over but nominally, Mrs Dombey,
requires a competent head.'

She had changed her attitude before he arrived at these words, and
now sat - still looking at him fixedly - turning a bracelet round and
round upon her arm; not winding it about with a light, womanly touch,
but pressing and dragging it over the smooth skin, until the white
limb showed a bar of red.

'I observed,' said Mr Dombey - 'and this concludes what I deem it
necessary to say to you at present, Mrs Dombey - I observed a moment
ago, Madam, that my allusion to Mr Carker was received in a peculiar
manner. On the occasion of my happening to point out to you, before
that confidential agent, the objection I had to your mode of receiving
my visitors, you were pleased to object to his presence. You will have
to get the better of that objection, Madam, and to accustom yourself
to it very probably on many similar occasions; unless you adopt the
remedy which is in your own hands, of giving me no cause of complaint.
Mr Carker,' said Mr Dombey, who, after the emotion he had just seen,
set great store by this means of reducing his proud wife, and who was
perhaps sufficiently willing to exhibit his power to that gentleman in
a new and triumphant aspect, 'Mr Carker being in my confidence, Mrs
Dombey, may very well be in yours to such an extent. I hope, Mrs
Dombey,' he continued, after a few moments, during which, in his
increasing haughtiness, he had improved on his idea, 'I may not find
it necessary ever to entrust Mr Carker with any message of objection
or remonstrance to you; but as it would be derogatory to my position
and reputation to be frequently holding trivial disputes with a lady
upon whom I have conferred the highest distinction that it is in my
power to bestow, I shall not scruple to avail myself of his services
if I see occasion.'

'And now,' he thought, rising in his moral magnificence, and rising
a stiffer and more impenetrable man than ever, 'she knows me and my
resolution.'

The hand that had so pressed the bracelet was laid heavily upon her
breast, but she looked at him still, with an unaltered face, and said
in a low voice:


'Wait! For God's sake! I must speak to you.'

Why did she not, and what was the inward struggle that rendered her
incapable of doing so, for minutes, while, in the strong constraint
she put upon her face, it was as fixed as any statue's - looking upon
him with neither yielding nor unyielding, liking nor hatred, pride not
humility: nothing but a searching gaze?

'Did I ever tempt you to seek my hand? Did I ever use any art to
win you? Was I ever more conciliating to you when you pursued me, than
I have been since our marriage? Was I ever other to you than I am?'

'It is wholly unnecessary, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'to enter upon
such discussions.'

'Did you think I loved you? Did you know I did not? Did you ever
care, Man! for my heart, or propose to yourself to win the worthless
thing? Was there any poor pretence of any in our bargain? Upon your
side, or on mine?'

'These questions,' said Mr Dombey, 'are all wide of the purpose,
Madam.'

She moved between him and the door to prevent his going away, and
drawing her majestic figure to its height, looked steadily upon him
still.

'You answer each of them. You answer me before I speak, I see. How
can you help it; you who know the miserable truth as well as I? Now,
tell me. If I loved you to devotion, could I do more than render up my
whole will and being to you, as you have just demanded? If my heart
were pure and all untried, and you its idol, could you ask more; could
you have more?'

'Possibly not, Madam,' he returned coolly.

'You know how different I am. You see me looking on you now, and
you can read the warmth of passion for you that is breathing in my
face.' Not a curl of the proud lip, not a flash of the dark eye,
nothing but the same intent and searching look, accompanied these
words. 'You know my general history. You have spoken of my mother. Do
you think you can degrade, or bend or break, me to submission and
obedience?'

Mr Dombey smiled, as he might have smiled at an inquiry whether he
thought he could raise ten thousand pounds.

'If there is anything unusual here,' she said, with a slight motion
of her hand before her brow, which did not for a moment flinch from
its immovable and otherwise expressionless gaze, 'as I know there are
unusual feelings here,' raising the hand she pressed upon her bosom,
and heavily returning it, 'consider that there is no common meaning in
the appeal I am going to make you. Yes, for I am going;' she said it
as in prompt reply to something in his face; 'to appeal to you.'

Mr Dombey, with a slightly condescending bend of his chin that
rustled and crackled his stiff cravat, sat down on a sofa that was
near him, to hear the appeal.

'If you can believe that I am of such a nature now,' - he fancied
he saw tears glistening in her eyes, and he thought, complacently,
that he had forced them from her, though none fell on her cheek, and
she regarded him as steadily as ever, - 'as would make what I now say


almost incredible to myself, said to any man who had become my
husband, but, above all, said to you, you may, perhaps, attach the
greater weight to it. In the dark end to which we are tending, and may
come, we shall not involve ourselves alone (that might not be much)
but others.'

Others! He knew at whom that word pointed, and frowned heavily.

'I speak to you for the sake of others. Also your own sake; and for
mine. Since our marriage, you have been arrogant to me; and I have
repaid you in kind. You have shown to me and everyone around us, every
day and hour, that you think I am graced and distinguished by your
alliance. I do not think so, and have shown that too. It seems you do
not understand, or (so far as your power can go) intend that each of
us shall take a separate course; and you expect from me instead, a
homage you will never have.'

Although her face was still the same, there was emphatic
confirmation of this 'Never' in the very breath she drew.

'I feel no tenderness towards you; that you know. You would care
nothing for it, if I did or could. I know as well that you feel none
towards me. But we are linked together; and in the knot that ties us,
as I have said, others are bound up. We must both die; we are both
connected with the dead already, each by a little child. Let us
forbear.'

Mr Dombey took a long respiration, as if he would have said, Oh!
was this all!

'There is no wealth,' she went on, turning paler as she watched
him, while her eyes grew yet more lustrous in their earnestness, 'that
could buy these words of me, and the meaning that belongs to them.
Once cast away as idle breath, no wealth or power can bring them back.
I mean them; I have weighed them; and I will be true to what I
undertake. If you will promise to forbear on your part, I will promise
to forbear on mine. We are a most unhappy pair, in whom, from
different causes, every sentiment that blesses marriage, or justifies
it, is rooted out; but in the course of time, some friendship, or some
fitness for each other, may arise between us. I will try to hope so,
if you will make the endeavour too; and I will look forward to a
better and a happier use of age than I have made of youth or prime.

Throughout she had spoken in a low plain voice, that neither rose
nor fell; ceasing, she dropped the hand with which she had enforced
herself to be so passionless and distinct, but not the eyes with which
she had so steadily observed him.

'Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with his utmost dignity, 'I cannot
entertain any proposal of this extraordinary nature.

She looked at him yet, without the least change.

'I cannot,' said Mr Dombey, rising as he spoke, 'consent to
temporise or treat with you, Mrs Dombey, upon a subject as to which
you are in possession of my opinions and expectations. I have stated
my ultimatum, Madam, and have only to request your very serious
attention to it.'

To see the face change to its old expression, deepened in
intensity! To see the eyes droop as from some mean and odious object!
To see the lighting of the haughty brow! To see scorn, anger,
indignation, and abhorrence starting into sight, and the pale blank
earnestness vanish like a mist! He could not choose but look, although


he looked to his dismay.

'Go, Sir!' she said, pointing with an imperious hand towards the
door. 'Our first and last confidence is at an end. Nothing can make us
stranger to each other than we are henceforth.'

'I shall take my rightful course, Madam,' said Mr Dombey,
'undeterred, you may be sure, by any general declamation.'

She turned her back upon him, and, without reply, sat down before
her glass.

'I place my reliance on your improved sense of duty, and more
correct feeling, and better reflection, Madam,' said Mr Dombey.

She answered not one word. He saw no more expression of any heed of
him, in the mirror, than if he had been an unseen spider on the wall,
or beetle on the floor, or rather, than if he had been the one or
other, seen and crushed when she last turned from him, and forgotten
among the ignominious and dead vermin of the ground.

He looked back, as he went out at the door, upon the well-lighted
and luxurious room, the beautiful and glittering objects everywhere
displayed, the shape of Edith in its rich dress seated before her
glass, and the face of Edith as the glass presented it to him; and
betook himself to his old chamber of cogitation, carrying away with
him a vivid picture in his mind of all these things, and a rambling
and unaccountable speculation (such as sometimes comes into a man's
head) how they would all look when he saw them next.

For the rest, Mr Dombey was very taciturn, and very dignified, and
very confident of carrying out his purpose; and remained so.

He did not design accompanying the family to Brighton; but he
graciously informed Cleopatra at breakfast, on the morning of
departure, which arrived a day or two afterwards, that he might be
expected down, soon. There was no time to be lost in getting Cleopatra
to any place recommended as being salutary; for, indeed, she seemed
upon the wane, and turning of the earth, earthy.

Without having undergone any decided second attack of her malady,
the old woman seemed to have crawled backward in her recovery from the
first. She was more lean and shrunken, more uncertain in her
imbecility, and made stranger confusions in her mind and memory. Among
other symptoms of this last affliction, she fell into the habit of
confounding the names of her two sons-in-law, the living and the
deceased; and in general called Mr Dombey, either 'Grangeby,' or
'Domber,' or indifferently, both.

But she was youthful, very youthful still; and in her youthfulness
appeared at breakfast, before going away, in a new bonnet made
express, and a travelling robe that was embroidered and braided like
an old baby's. It was not easy to put her into a fly-away bonnet now,
or to keep the bonnet in its place on the back of her poor nodding
head, when it was got on. In this instance, it had not only the
extraneous effect of being always on one side, but of being
perpetually tapped on the crown by Flowers the maid, who attended in
the background during breakfast to perform that duty.

'Now, my dearest Grangeby,' said Mrs Skewton, 'you must posively
prom,' she cut some of her words short, and cut out others altogether,
'come down very soon.'

'I said just now, Madam,' returned Mr Dombey, loudly and


laboriously, 'that I am coming in a day or two.'

'Bless you, Domber!'

Here the Major, who was come to take leave of the ladies, and who
was staring through his apoplectic eyes at Mrs Skewton's face with the
disinterested composure of an immortal being, said:

'Begad, Ma'am, you don't ask old Joe to come!'

'Sterious wretch, who's he?' lisped Cleopatra. But a tap on the
bonnet from Flowers seeming to jog her memory, she added, 'Oh! You
mean yourself, you naughty creature!'

'Devilish queer, Sir,' whispered the Major to Mr Dombey. 'Bad case.
Never did wrap up enough;' the Major being buttoned to the chin. 'Why
who should J. B. mean by Joe, but old Joe Bagstock - Joseph - your
slave - Joe, Ma'am? Here! Here's the man! Here are the Bagstock
bellows, Ma'am!' cried the Major, striking himself a sounding blow on
the chest.

'My dearest Edith - Grangeby - it's most trordinry thing,' said
Cleopatra, pettishly, 'that Major - '

'Bagstock! J. B.!' cried the Major, seeing that she faltered for
his name.

'Well, it don't matter,' said Cleopatra. 'Edith, my love, you know
I never could remember names - what was it? oh! - most trordinry thing
that so many people want to come down to see me. I'm not going for
long. I'm coming back. Surely they can wait, till I come back!'

Cleopatra looked all round the table as she said it, and appeared
very uneasy.

'I won't have Vistors - really don't want visitors,' she said;
'little repose - and all that sort of thing - is what I quire. No
odious brutes must proach me till I've shaken off this numbness;' and
in a grisly resumption of her coquettish ways, she made a dab at the
Major with her fan, but overset Mr Dombey's breakfast cup instead,
which was in quite a different direction.

Then she called for Withers, and charged him to see particularly
that word was left about some trivial alterations in her room, which
must be all made before she came back, and which must be set about
immediately, as there was no saying how soon she might come back; for
she had a great many engagements, and all sorts of people to call
upon. Withers received these directions with becoming deference, and
gave his guarantee for their execution; but when he withdrew a pace or
two behind her, it appeared as if he couldn't help looking strangely
at the Major, who couldn't help looking strangely at Mr Dombey, who
couldn't help looking strangely at Cleopatra, who couldn't help
nodding her bonnet over one eye, and rattling her knife and fork upon
her plate in using them, as if she were playing castanets.

Edith alone never lifted her eyes to any face at the table, and
never seemed dismayed by anything her mother said or did. She listened
to her disjointed talk, or at least, turned her head towards her when
addressed; replied in a few low words when necessary; and sometimes
stopped her when she was rambling, or brought her thoughts back with a
monosyllable, to the point from which they had strayed. The mother,
however unsteady in other things, was constant in this - that she was
always observant of her. She would look at the beautiful face, in its
marble stillness and severity, now with a kind of fearful admiration;


now in a giggling foolish effort to move it to a smile; now with
capricious tears and jealous shakings of her head, as imagining
herself neglected by it; always with an attraction towards it, that
never fluctuated like her other ideas, but had constant possession of
her. From Edith she would sometimes look at Florence, and back again
at Edith, in a manner that was wild enough; and sometimes she would
try to look elsewhere, as if to escape from her daughter's face; but
back to it she seemed forced to come, although it never sought hers
unless sought, or troubled her with one single glance.

The best concluded, Mrs Skewton, affecting to lean girlishly upon
the Major's arm, but heavily supported on the other side by Flowers
the maid, and propped up behind by Withers the page, was conducted to
the carriage, which was to take her, Florence, and Edith to Brighton.

'And is Joseph absolutely banished?' said the Major, thrusting in
his purple face over the steps. 'Damme, Ma'am, is Cleopatra so
hard-hearted as to forbid her faithful Antony Bagstock to approach the
presence?'

'Go along!' said Cleopatra, 'I can't bear you. You shall see me
when I come back, if you are very good.'

'Tell Joseph, he may live in hope, Ma'am,' said the Major; 'or
he'll die in despair.'

Cleopatra shuddered, and leaned back. 'Edith, my dear,' she said.
'Tell him - '

'What?'

'Such dreadful words,' said Cleopatra. 'He uses such dreadful
words!'

Edith signed to him to retire, gave the word to go on, and left the
objectionable Major to Mr Dombey. To whom he returned, whistling.

'I'll tell you what, Sir,' said the Major, with his hands behind
him, and his legs very wide asunder, 'a fair friend of ours has
removed to Queer Street.'

'What do you mean, Major?' inquired Mr Dombey.

'I mean to say, Dombey,' returned the Major, 'that you'll soon be
an orphan-in-law.'

Mr Dombey appeared to relish this waggish description of himself so
very little, that the Major wound up with the horse's cough, as an
expression of gravity.

'Damme, Sir,' said the Major, 'there is no use in disguising a
fact. Joe is blunt, Sir. That's his nature. If you take old Josh at
all, you take him as you find him; and a devilish rusty, old rasper,
of a close-toothed, J. B. file, you do find him. Dombey,' said the
Major, 'your wife's mother is on the move, Sir.'

'I fear,' returned Mr Dombey, with much philosophy, 'that Mrs
Skewton is shaken.'

'Shaken, Dombey!' said the Major. 'Smashed!'

'Change, however,' pursued Mr Dombey, 'and attention, may do much
yet.'


'Don't believe it, Sir,' returned the Major. 'Damme, Sir, she never
wrapped up enough. If a man don't wrap up,' said the Major, taking in
another button of his buff waistcoat, 'he has nothing to fall back
upon. But some people will die. They will do it. Damme, they will.
They're obstinate. I tell you what, Dombey, it may not be ornamental;
it may not be refined; it may be rough and tough; but a little of the
genuine old English Bagstock stamina, Sir, would do all the good in
the world to the human breed.'


After imparting this precious piece of information, the Major, who
was certainly true-blue, whatever other endowments he may have had or
wanted, coming within the 'genuine old English' classification, which
has never been exactly ascertained, took his lobster-eyes and his
apoplexy to the club, and choked there all day.


Cleopatra, at one time fretful, at another self-complacent,
sometimes awake, sometimes asleep, and at all times juvenile, reached
Brighton the same night, fell to pieces as usual, and was put away in
bed; where a gloomy fancy might have pictured a more potent skeleton
than the maid, who should have been one, watching at the rose-coloured
curtains, which were carried down to shed their bloom upon her.


It was settled in high council of medical authority that she should
take a carriage airing every day, and that it was important she should
get out every day, and walk if she could. Edith was ready to attend
her - always ready to attend her, with the same mechanical attention
and immovable beauty - and they drove out alone; for Edith had an
uneasiness in the presence of Florence, now that her mother was worse,
and told Florence, with a kiss, that she would rather they two went
alone.


Mrs Skewton, on one particular day, was in the irresolute,
exacting, jealous temper that had developed itself on her recovery
from her first attack. After sitting silent in the carriage watching
Edith for some time, she took her hand and kissed it passionately. The
hand was neither given nor withdrawn, but simply yielded to her
raising of it, and being released, dropped down again, almost as if it
were insensible. At this she began to whimper and moan, and say what a
mother she had been, and how she was forgotten! This she continued to
do at capricious intervals, even when they had alighted: when she
herself was halting along with the joint support of Withers and a
stick, and Edith was walking by her side, and the carriage slowly
following at a little distance.


It was a bleak, lowering, windy day, and they were out upon the
Downs with nothing but a bare sweep of land between them and the sky.
The mother, with a querulous satisfaction in the monotony of her
complaint, was still repeating it in a low voice from time to time,
and the proud form of her daughter moved beside her slowly, when there
came advancing over a dark ridge before them, two other figures, which
in the distance, were so like an exaggerated imitation of their own,
that Edith stopped.


Almost as she stopped, the two figures stopped; and that one which
to Edith's thinking was like a distorted shadow of her mother, spoke
to the other, earnestly, and with a pointing hand towards them. That
one seemed inclined to turn back, but the other, in which Edith
recognised enough that was like herself to strike her with an unusual
feeling, not quite free from fear, came on; and then they came on
together.


The greater part of this observation, she made while walking
towards them, for her stoppage had been momentary. Nearer observation
showed her that they were poorly dressed, as wanderers about the



country; that the younger woman carried knitted work or some such
goods for sale; and that the old one toiled on empty-handed.

And yet, however far removed she was in dress, in dignity, in
beauty, Edith could not but compare the younger woman with herself,
still. It may have been that she saw upon her face some traces which
she knew were lingering in her own soul, if not yet written on that
index; but, as the woman came on, returning her gaze, fixing her
shining eyes upon her, undoubtedly presenting something of her own air
and stature, and appearing to reciprocate her own thoughts, she felt a
chill creep over her, as if the day were darkening, and the wind were
colder.

They had now come up. The old woman, holding out her hand
importunately, stopped to beg of Mrs Skewton. The younger one stopped
too, and she and Edith looked in one another's eyes.

'What is it that you have to sell?' said Edith.

'Only this,' returned the woman, holding out her wares, without
looking at them. 'I sold myself long ago.'

'My Lady, don't believe her,' croaked the old woman to Mrs Skewton;
'don't believe what she says. She loves to talk like that. She's my
handsome and undutiful daughter. She gives me nothing but reproaches,
my Lady, for all I have done for her. Look at her now, my Lady, how
she turns upon her poor old mother with her looks.'

As Mrs Skewton drew her purse out with a trembling hand, and
eagerly fumbled for some money, which the other old woman greedily
watched for - their heads all but touching, in their hurry and
decrepitude - Edith interposed:

'I have seen you,' addressing the old woman, 'before.'

'Yes, my Lady,' with a curtsey. 'Down in Warwickshire. The morning
among the trees. When you wouldn't give me nothing. But the gentleman,
he give me something! Oh, bless him, bless him!' mumbled the old
woman, holding up her skinny hand, and grinning frightfully at her
daughter.

'It's of no use attempting to stay me, Edith!' said Mrs Skewton,
angrily anticipating an objection from her. 'You know nothing about
it. I won't be dissuaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and a
good mother.'

'Yes, my Lady, yes,' chattered the old woman, holding out her
avaricious hand. 'Thankee, my Lady. Lord bless you, my Lady. Sixpence
more, my pretty Lady, as a good mother yourself.'

'And treated undutifully enough, too, my good old creature,
sometimes, I assure you,' said Mrs Skewton, whimpering. 'There! Shake
hands with me. You're a very good old creature - full of
what's-his-name - and all that. You're all affection and et cetera,
ain't you?'

'Oh, yes, my Lady!'

'Yes, I'm sure you are; and so's that gentlemanly creature
Grangeby. I must really shake hands with you again. And now you can
go, you know; and I hope,' addressing the daughter, 'that you'll show
more gratitude, and natural what's-its-name, and all the rest of it but
I never remember names - for there never was a better mother than
the good old creature's been to you. Come, Edith!'


As the ruin of Cleopatra tottered off whimpering, and wiping its
eyes with a gingerly remembrance of rouge in their neighbourhood, the
old woman hobbled another way, mumbling and counting her money. Not
one word more, nor one other gesture, had been exchanged between Edith
and the younger woman, but neither had removed her eyes from the other
for a moment. They had remained confronted until now, when Edith, as
awakening from a dream, passed slowly on.

'You're a handsome woman,' muttered her shadow, looking after her;
'but good looks won't save us. And you're a proud woman; but pride
won't save us. We had need to know each other when we meet again!'

CHAPTER 41.

New Voices in the Waves

All is going on as it was wont. The waves are hoarse with
repetition of their mystery; the dust lies piled upon the shore; the
sea-birds soar and hover; the winds and clouds go forth upon their
trackless flight; the white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the
invisible country far away.

With a tender melancholy pleasure, Florence finds herself again on
the old ground so sadly trodden, yet so happily, and thinks of him in
the quiet place, where he and she have many and many a time conversed
together, with the water welling up about his couch. And now, as she
sits pensive there, she hears in the wild low murmur of the sea, his
little story told again, his very words repeated; and finds that all
her life and hopes, and griefs, since - in the solitary house, and in
the pageant it has changed to - have a portion in the burden of the
marvellous song.

And gentle Mr Toots, who wanders at a distance, looking wistfully
towards the figure that he dotes upon, and has followed there, but
cannot in his delicacy disturb at such a time, likewise hears the
requiem of little Dombey on the waters, rising and falling in the
lulls of their eternal madrigal in praise of Florence. Yes! and he
faintly understands, poor Mr Toots, that they are saying something of
a time when he was sensible of being brighter and not addle-brained;
and the tears rising in his eyes when he fears that he is dull and
stupid now, and good for little but to be laughed at, diminish his
satisfaction in their soothing reminder that he is relieved from
present responsibility to the Chicken, by the absence of that game
head of poultry in the country, training (at Toots's cost) for his
great mill with the Larkey Boy.

But Mr Toots takes courage, when they whisper a kind thought to
him; and by slow degrees and with many indecisive stoppages on the
way, approaches Florence. Stammering and blushing, Mr Toots affects
amazement when he comes near her, and says (having followed close on
the carriage in which she travelled, every inch of the way from
London, loving even to be choked by the dust of its wheels) that he
never was so surprised in all his life.

'And you've brought Diogenes, too, Miss Dombey!' says Mr Toots,
thrilled through and through by the touch of the small hand so
pleasantly and frankly given him.


No doubt Diogenes is there, and no doubt Mr Toots has reason to
observe him, for he comes straightway at Mr Toots's legs, and tumbles
over himself in the desperation with which he makes at him, like a
very dog of Montargis. But he is checked by his sweet mistress.

'Down, Di, down. Don't you remember who first made us friends, Di?
For shame!'

Oh! Well may Di lay his loving cheek against her hand, and run off,
and run back, and run round her, barking, and run headlong at anybody
coming by, to show his devotion. Mr Toots would run headlong at
anybody, too. A military gentleman goes past, and Mr Toots would like
nothing better than to run at him, full tilt.

'Diogenes is quite in his native air, isn't he, Miss Dombey?' says
Mr Toots.

Florence assents, with a grateful smile.

'Miss Dombey,' says Mr Toots, 'beg your pardon, but if you would
like to walk to Blimber's, I - I'm going there.'

Florence puts her arm in that of Mr Toots without a word, and they
walk away together, with Diogenes going on before. Mr Toots's legs
shake under him; and though he is splendidly dressed, he feels
misfits, and sees wrinkles, in the masterpieces of Burgess and Co.,
and wishes he had put on that brightest pair of boots.

Doctor Blimber's house, outside, has as scholastic and studious an
air as ever; and up there is the window where she used to look for the
pale face, and where the pale face brightened when it saw her, and the
wasted little hand waved kisses as she passed. The door is opened by
the same weak-eyed young man, whose imbecility of grin at sight of Mr
Toots is feebleness of character personified. They are shown into the
Doctor's study, where blind Homer and Minerva give them audience as of
yore, to the sober ticking of the great clock in the hall; and where
the globes stand still in their accustomed places, as if the world
were stationary too, and nothing in it ever perished in obedience to
the universal law, that, while it keeps it on the roll, calls
everything to earth.

And here is Doctor Blimber, with his learned legs; and here is Mrs
Blimber, with her sky-blue cap; and here Cornelia, with her sandy
little row of curls, and her bright spectacles, still working like a
sexton in the graves of languages. Here is the table upon which he sat
forlorn and strange, the 'new boy' of the school; and hither comes the
distant cooing of the old boys, at their old lives in the old room on
the old principle!

'Toots,' says Doctor Blimber, 'I am very glad to see you, Toots.'

Mr Toots chuckles in reply.

'Also to see you, Toots, in such good company,' says Doctor
Blimber.

Mr Toots, with a scarlet visage, explains that he has met Miss
Dombey by accident, and that Miss Dombey wishing, like himself, to see
the old place, they have come together.

'You will like,' says Doctor Blimber, 'to step among our young
friends, Miss Dombey, no doubt. All fellow-students of yours, Toots,
once. I think we have no new disciples in our little portico, my
dear,' says Doctor Blimber to Cornelia, 'since Mr Toots left us.'


'Except Bitherstone,' returns Cornelia.

'Ay, truly,' says the Doctor. 'Bitherstone is new to Mr Toots.'

New to Florence, too, almost; for, in the schoolroom, Bitherstone no
longer Master Bitherstone of Mrs Pipchin's - shows in collars and a
neckcloth, and wears a watch. But Bitherstone, born beneath some
Bengal star of ill-omen, is extremely inky; and his Lexicon has got so
dropsical from constant reference, that it won't shut, and yawns as if
it really could not bear to be so bothered. So does Bitherstone its
master, forced at Doctor Blimber's highest pressure; but in the yawn
of Bitherstone there is malice and snarl, and he has been heard to say
that he wishes he could catch 'old Blimber' in India. He'd precious
soon find himself carried up the country by a few of his
(Bitherstone's) Coolies, and handed over to the Thugs; he can tell him
that.

Briggs is still grinding in the mill of knowledge; and Tozer, too;
and Johnson, too; and all the rest; the older pupils being principally
engaged in forgetting, with prodigious labour, everything they knew
when they were younger. All are as polite and as pale as ever; and
among them, Mr Feeder, B.A., with his bony hand and bristly head, is
still hard at it; with his Herodotus stop on just at present, and his
other barrels on a shelf behind him.

A mighty sensation is created, even among these grave young
gentlemen, by a visit from the emancipated Toots; who is regarded with
a kind of awe, as one who has passed the Rubicon, and is pledged never
to come back, and concerning the cut of whose clothes, and fashion of
whose jewellery, whispers go about, behind hands; the bilious
Bitherstone, who is not of Mr Toots's time, affecting to despise the
latter to the smaller boys, and saying he knows better, and that he
should like to see him coming that sort of thing in Bengal, where his
mother had got an emerald belonging to him that was taken out of the
footstool of a Rajah. Come now!

Bewildering emotions are awakened also by the sight of Florence,
with whom every young gentleman immediately falls in love, again;
except, as aforesaid, the bilious Bitherstone, who declines to do so,
out of contradiction. Black jealousies of Mr Toots arise, and Briggs
is of opinion that he ain't so very old after all. But this
disparaging insinuation is speedily made nought by Mr Toots saying
aloud to Mr Feeder, B.A., 'How are you, Feeder?' and asking him to
come and dine with him to-day at the Bedford; in right of which feats
he might set up as Old Parr, if he chose, unquestioned.

There is much shaking of hands, and much bowing, and a great desire
on the part of each young gentleman to take Toots down in Miss
Dombey's good graces; and then, Mr Toots having bestowed a chuckle on
his old desk, Florence and he withdraw with Mrs Blimber and Cornelia;
and Doctor Blimber is heard to observe behind them as he comes out
last, and shuts the door, 'Gentlemen, we will now resume our studies,'
For that and little else is what the Doctor hears the sea say, or has
heard it saying all his life.

Florence then steals away and goes upstairs to the old bedroom with
Mrs Blimber and Cornelia; Mr Toots, who feels that neither he nor
anybody else is wanted there, stands talking to the Doctor at the
study-door, or rather hearing the Doctor talk to him, and wondering
how he ever thought the study a great sanctuary, and the Doctor, with
his round turned legs, like a clerical pianoforte, an awful man.
Florence soon comes down and takes leave; Mr Toots takes leave; and
Diogenes, who has been worrying the weak-eyed young man pitilessly all


the time, shoots out at the door, and barks a glad defiance down the
cliff; while Melia, and another of the Doctor's female domestics,
looks out of an upper window, laughing 'at that there Toots,' and
saying of Miss Dombey, 'But really though, now - ain't she like her
brother, only prettier?'

Mr Toots, who saw when Florence came down that there were tears
upon her face, is desperately anxious and uneasy, and at first fears
that he did wrong in proposing the visit. But he is soon relieved by
her saying she is very glad to have been there again, and by her
talking quite cheerfully about it all, as they walked on by the sea.
What with the voices there, and her sweet voice, when they come near
Mr Dombey's house, and Mr Toots must leave her, he is so enslaved that
he has not a scrap of free-will left; when she gives him her hand at
parting, he cannot let it go.

'Miss Dombey, I beg your pardon,' says Mr Toots, in a sad fluster,
'but if you would allow me to - to -

The smiling and unconscious look of Florence brings him to a dead
stop.

'If you would allow me to - if you would not consider it a liberty,
Miss Dombey, if I was to - without any encouragement at all, if I was
to hope, you know,' says Mr Toots.

Florence looks at him inquiringly.

'Miss Dombey,' says Mr Toots, who feels that he is in for it now,
'I really am in that state of adoration of you that I don't know what
to do with myself. I am the most deplorable wretch. If it wasn't at
the corner of the Square at present, I should go down on my knees, and
beg and entreat of you, without any encouragement at all, just to let
me hope that I may - may think it possible that you


'Oh, if you please, don't!' cries Florence, for the moment quite
alarmed and distressed. 'Oh, pray don't, Mr Toots. Stop, if you
please. Don't say any more. As a kindness and a favour to me, don't.'

Mr Toots is dreadfully abashed, and his mouth opens.

'You have been so good to me,' says Florence, 'I am so grateful to
you, I have such reason to like you for being a kind friend to me, and
I do like you so much;' and here the ingenuous face smiles upon him
with the pleasantest look of honesty in the world; 'that I am sure you
are only going to say good-bye!'

'Certainly, Miss Dombey,' says Mr Toots, 'I - I - that's exactly
what I mean. It's of no consequence.'

'Good-bye!' cries Florence.

'Good-bye, Miss Dombey!' stammers Mr Toots. 'I hope you won't think
anything about it. It's - it's of no consequence, thank you. It's not
of the least consequence in the world.'

Poor Mr Toots goes home to his hotel in a state of desperation,
locks himself into his bedroom, flings himself upon his bed, and lies
there for a long time; as if it were of the greatest consequence,
nevertheless. But Mr Feeder, B.A., is coming to dinner, which happens
well for Mr Toots, or there is no knowing when he might get up again.
Mr Toots is obliged to get up to receive him, and to give him
hospitable entertainment.


And the generous influence of that social virtue, hospitality (to
make no mention of wine and good cheer), opens Mr Toots's heart, and
warms him to conversation. He does not tell Mr Feeder, B.A., what
passed at the corner of the Square; but when Mr Feeder asks him 'When
it is to come off?' Mr Toots replies, 'that there are certain
subjects' - which brings Mr Feeder down a peg or two immediately. Mr
Toots adds, that he don't know what right Blimber had to notice his
being in Miss Dombey's company, and that if he thought he meant
impudence by it, he'd have him out, Doctor or no Doctor; but he
supposes its only his ignorance. Mr Feeder says he has no doubt of it.

Mr Feeder, however, as an intimate friend, is not excluded from the
subject. Mr Toots merely requires that it should be mentioned
mysteriously, and with feeling. After a few glasses of wine, he gives
Miss Dombey's health, observing, 'Feeder, you have no idea of the
sentiments with which I propose that toast.' Mr Feeder replies, 'Oh,
yes, I have, my dear Toots; and greatly they redound to your honour,
old boy.' Mr Feeder is then agitated by friendship, and shakes hands;
and says, if ever Toots wants a brother, he knows where to find him,
either by post or parcel. Mr Feeder like-wise says, that if he may
advise, he would recommend Mr Toots to learn the guitar, or, at least
the flute; for women like music, when you are paying your addresses to
'em, and he has found the advantage of it himself.

This brings Mr Feeder, B.A., to the confession that he has his eye
upon Cornelia Blimber. He informs Mr Toots that he don't object to
spectacles, and that if the Doctor were to do the handsome thing and
give up the business, why, there they are - provided for. He says it's
his opinion that when a man has made a handsome sum by his business,
he is bound to give it up; and that Cornelia would be an assistance in
it which any man might be proud of. Mr Toots replies by launching
wildly out into Miss Dombey's praises, and by insinuations that
sometimes he thinks he should like to blow his brains out. Mr Feeder
strongly urges that it would be a rash attempt, and shows him, as a
reconcilement to existence, Cornelia's portrait, spectacles and all.

Thus these quiet spirits pass the evening; and when it has yielded
place to night, Mr Toots walks home with Mr Feeder, and parts with him
at Doctor Blimber's door. But Mr Feeder only goes up the steps, and
when Mr Toots is gone, comes down again, to stroll upon the beach
alone, and think about his prospects. Mr Feeder plainly hears the
waves informing him, as he loiters along, that Doctor Blimber will
give up the business; and he feels a soft romantic pleasure in looking
at the outside of the house, and thinking that the Doctor will first
paint it, and put it into thorough repair.

Mr Toots is likewise roaming up and down, outside the casket that
contains his jewel; and in a deplorable condition of mind, and not
unsuspected by the police, gazes at a window where he sees a light,
and which he has no doubt is Florence's. But it is not, for that is
Mrs Skewton's room; and while Florence, sleeping in another chamber,
dreams lovingly, in the midst of the old scenes, and their old
associations live again, the figure which in grim reality is
substituted for the patient boy's on the same theatre, once more to
connect it - but how differently! - with decay and death, is stretched
there, wakeful and complaining. Ugly and haggard it lies upon its bed
of unrest; and by it, in the terror of her unimpassioned loveliness for
it has terror in the sufferer's failing eyes - sits Edith. What do
the waves say, in the stillness of the night, to them?

'Edith, what is that stone arm raised to strike me? Don't you see
it?'

There is nothing, mother, but your fancy.'


'But my fancy! Everything is my fancy. Look! Is it possible that
you don't see it?'

'Indeed, mother, there is nothing. Should I sit unmoved, if there
were any such thing there?'

'Unmoved?' looking wildly at her - 'it's gone now - and why are you
so unmoved? That is not my fancy, Edith. It turns me cold to see you
sitting at my side.'

'I am sorry, mother.'

'Sorry! You seem always sorry. But it is not for me!'

With that, she cries; and tossing her restless head from side to
side upon her pillow, runs on about neglect, and the mother she has
been, and the mother the good old creature was, whom they met, and the
cold return the daughters of such mothers make. In the midst of her
incoherence, she stops, looks at her daughter, cries out that her wits
are going, and hides her face upon the bed.

Edith, in compassion, bends over her and speaks to her. The sick
old woman clutches her round the neck, and says, with a look of
horror,

'Edith! we are going home soon; going back. You mean that I shall
go home again?'

'Yes, mother, yes.'

'And what he said - what's-his-name, I never could remember names -
Major - that dreadful word, when we came away - it's not true? Edith!'
with a shriek and a stare, 'it's not that that is the matter with me.'

Night after night, the lights burn in the window, and the figure
lies upon the bed, and Edith sits beside it, and the restless waves
are calling to them both the whole night long. Night after night, the
waves are hoarse with repetition of their mystery; the dust lies piled
upon the shore; the sea-birds soar and hover; the winds and clouds are
on their trackless flight; the white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to
the invisible country far away.

And still the sick old woman looks into the corner, where the stone
arm - part of a figure of some tomb, she says - is raised to strike
her. At last it falls; and then a dumb old woman lies upon the the
bed, and she is crooked and shrunk up, and half of her is dead.

Such is the figure, painted and patched for the sun to mock, that
is drawn slowly through the crowd from day to day; looking, as it
goes, for the good old creature who was such a mother, and making
mouths as it peers among the crowd in vain. Such is the figure that is
often wheeled down to the margin of the sea, and stationed there; but
on which no wind can blow freshness, and for which the murmur of the
ocean has no soothing word. She lies and listens to it by the hour;
but its speech is dark and gloomy to her, and a dread is on her face,
and when her eyes wander over the expanse, they see but a broad
stretch of desolation between earth and heaven.

Florence she seldom sees, and when she does, is angry with and mows
at. Edith is beside her always, and keeps Florence away; and Florence,
in her bed at night, trembles at the thought of death in such a shape,
and often wakes and listens, thinking it has come. No one attends on
her but Edith. It is better that few eyes should see her; and her


daughter watches alone by the bedside.

A shadow even on that shadowed face, a sharpening even of the
sharpened features, and a thickening of the veil before the eyes into
a pall that shuts out the dim world, is come. Her wandering hands upon
the coverlet join feebly palm to palm, and move towards her daughter;
and a voice not like hers, not like any voice that speaks our mortal
language - says, 'For I nursed you!'

Edith, without a tear, kneels down to bring her voice closer to the
sinking head, and answers:

'Mother, can you hear me?'

Staring wide, she tries to nod in answer.

'Can you recollect the night before I married?'

The head is motionless, but it expresses somehow that she does.

'I told you then that I forgave your part in it, and prayed God to
forgive my own. I told you that time past was at an end between us. I
say so now, again. Kiss me, mother.'

Edith touches the white lips, and for a moment all is still. A
moment afterwards, her mother, with her girlish laugh, and the
skeleton of the Cleopatra manner, rises in her bed.

Draw the rose-coloured curtains. There is something else upon its
flight besides the wind and clouds. Draw the rose-coloured curtains
close!

Intelligence of the event is sent to Mr Dombey in town, who waits
upon Cousin Feenix (not yet able to make up his mind for Baden-Baden),
who has just received it too. A good-natured creature like Cousin
Feenix is the very man for a marriage or a funeral, and his position
in the family renders it right that he should be consulted.

'Dombey,' said Cousin Feenix, 'upon my soul, I am very much shocked
to see you on such a melancholy occasion. My poor aunt! She was a
devilish lively woman.'

Mr Dombey replies, 'Very much so.'

'And made up,' says Cousin Feenix, 'really young, you know,
considering. I am sure, on the day of your marriage, I thought she was
good for another twenty years. In point of fact, I said so to a man at
Brooks's - little Billy Joper - you know him, no doubt - man with a
glass in his eye?'

Mr Dombey bows a negative. 'In reference to the obsequies,' he
hints, 'whether there is any suggestion - '

'Well, upon my life,' says Cousin Feenix, stroking his chin, which
he has just enough of hand below his wristbands to do; 'I really don't
know. There's a Mausoleum down at my place, in the park, but I'm
afraid it's in bad repair, and, in point of fact, in a devil of a
state. But for being a little out at elbows, I should have had it put
to rights; but I believe the people come and make pic-nic parties
there inside the iron railings.'

Mr Dombey is clear that this won't do.


'There's an uncommon good church in the village,' says Cousin
Feenix, thoughtfully; 'pure specimen of the Anglo-Norman style, and
admirably well sketched too by Lady Jane Finchbury - woman with tight
stays - but they've spoilt it with whitewash, I understand, and it's a
long journey.

'Perhaps Brighton itself,' Mr Dombey suggests.

'Upon my honour, Dombey, I don't think we could do better,' says
Cousin Feenix. 'It's on the spot, you see, and a very cheerful place.'

'And when,' hints Mr Dombey, 'would it be convenient?'

'I shall make a point,' says Cousin Feenix, 'of pledging myself for
any day you think best. I shall have great pleasure (melancholy
pleasure, of course) in following my poor aunt to the confines of the

-in point of fact, to the grave,' says Cousin Feenix, failing in the
other turn of speech.
'Would Monday do for leaving town?' says Mr Dombey.

'Monday would suit me to perfection,' replies Cousin Feenix.
Therefore Mr Dombey arranges to take Cousin Feenix down on that day,
and presently takes his leave, attended to the stairs by Cousin
Feenix, who says, at parting, 'I'm really excessively sorry, Dombey,
that you should have so much trouble about it;' to which Mr Dombey
answers, 'Not at all.'

At the appointed time, Cousin Feenix and Mr Dombey meet, and go
down to Brighton, and representing, in their two selves, all the other
mourners for the deceased lady's loss, attend her remains to their
place of rest. Cousin Feenix, sitting in the mourning-coach,
recognises innumerable acquaintances on the road, but takes no other
notice of them, in decorum, than checking them off aloud, as they go
by, for Mr Dombey's information, as 'Tom Johnson. Man with cork leg,
from White's. What, are you here, Tommy? Foley on a blood mare. The
Smalder girls' - and so forth. At the ceremony Cousin Feenix is
depressed, observing, that these are the occasions to make a man
think, in point of fact, that he is getting shaky; and his eyes are
really moistened, when it is over. But he soon recovers; and so do the
rest of Mrs Skewton's relatives and friends, of whom the Major
continually tells the club that she never did wrap up enough; while
the young lady with the back, who has so much trouble with her
eyelids, says, with a little scream, that she must have been
enormously old, and that she died of all kinds of horrors, and you
mustn't mention it.

So Edith's mother lies unmentioned of her dear friends, who are
deaf to the waves that are hoarse with repetition of their mystery,
and blind to the dust that is piled upon the shore, and to the white
arms that are beckoning, in the moonlight, to the invisible country
far away. But all goes on, as it was wont, upon the margin of the
unknown sea; and Edith standing there alone, and listening to its
waves, has dank weed cast up at her feet, to strew her path in life
withal.

CHAPTER 42.

Confidential and Accidental


Attired no more in Captain Cuttle's sable slops and sou'-wester
hat, but dressed in a substantial suit of brown livery, which, while
it affected to be a very sober and demure livery indeed, was really as
self-satisfied and confident a one as tailor need desire to make, Rob
the Grinder, thus transformed as to his outer man, and all regardless
within of the Captain and the Midshipman, except when he devoted a few
minutes of his leisure time to crowing over those inseparable
worthies, and recalling, with much applauding music from that brazen
instrument, his conscience, the triumphant manner in which he had
disembarrassed himself of their company, now served his patron, Mr
Carker. Inmate of Mr Carker's house, and serving about his person, Rob
kept his round eyes on the white teeth with fear and trembling, and
felt that he had need to open them wider than ever.

He could not have quaked more, through his whole being, before the
teeth, though he had come into the service of some powerful enchanter,
and they had been his strongest spells. The boy had a sense of power
and authority in this patron of his that engrossed his whole attention
and exacted his most implicit submission and obedience. He hardly
considered himself safe in thinking about him when he was absent, lest
he should feel himself immediately taken by the throat again, as on
the morning when he first became bound to him, and should see every
one of the teeth finding him out, and taxing him with every fancy of
his mind. Face to face with him, Rob had no more doubt that Mr Carker
read his secret thoughts, or that he could read them by the least
exertion of his will if he were so inclined, than he had that Mr
Carker saw him when he looked at him. The ascendancy was so complete,
and held him in such enthralment, that, hardly daring to think at all,
but with his mind filled with a constantly dilating impression of his
patron's irresistible command over him, and power of doing anything
with him, he would stand watching his pleasure, and trying to
anticipate his orders, in a state of mental suspension, as to all
other things.

Rob had not informed himself perhaps - in his then state of mind it
would have been an act of no common temerity to inquire - whether he
yielded so completely to this influence in any part, because he had
floating suspicions of his patron's being a master of certain
treacherous arts in which he had himself been a poor scholar at the
Grinders' School. But certainly Rob admired him, as well as feared
him. Mr Carker, perhaps, was better acquainted with the sources of his
power, which lost nothing by his management of it.

On the very night when he left the Captain's service, Rob, after
disposing of his pigeons, and even making a bad bargain in his hurry,
had gone straight down to Mr Carker's house, and hotly presented
himself before his new master with a glowing face that seemed to
expect commendation.

'What, scapegrace!' said Mr Carker, glancing at his bundle 'Have
you left your situation and come to me?'

'Oh if you please, Sir,' faltered Rob, 'you said, you know, when I
come here last - '

'I said,' returned Mr Carker, 'what did I say?'

'If you please, Sir, you didn't say nothing at all, Sir,' returned
Rob, warned by the manner of this inquiry, and very much disconcerted.

His patron looked at him with a wide display of gums, and shaking
his forefinger, observed:

'You'll come to an evil end, my vagabond friend, I foresee. There's


ruin in store for you.

'Oh if you please, don't, Sir!' cried Rob, with his legs trembling
under him. ' I'm sure, Sir, I only want to work for you, Sir, and to
wait upon you, Sir, and to do faithful whatever I'm bid, Sir.'

'You had better do faithfully whatever you are bid,' returned his
patron, 'if you have anything to do with me.'

'Yes, I know that, Sir,' pleaded the submissive Rob; 'I'm sure of
that, SIr. If you'll only be so good as try me, Sir! And if ever you
find me out, Sir, doing anything against your wishes, I give you leave
to kill me.'

'You dog!' said Mr Carker, leaning back in his chair, and smiling
at him serenely. 'That's nothing to what I'd do to you, if you tried
to deceive me.'

'Yes, Sir,' replied the abject Grinder, 'I'm sure you would be down
upon me dreadful, Sir. I wouldn't attempt for to go and do it, Sir,
not if I was bribed with golden guineas.'

Thoroughly checked in his expectations of commendation, the
crestfallen Grinder stood looking at his patron, and vainly
endeavouring not to look at him, with the uneasiness which a cur will
often manifest in a similar situation.

'So you have left your old service, and come here to ask me to take
you into mine, eh?' said Mr Carker.

'Yes, if you please, Sir,' returned Rob, who, in doing so, had
acted on his patron's own instructions, but dared not justify himself
by the least insinuation to that effect.

'Well!' said Mr Carker. 'You know me, boy?'

'Please, Sir, yes, Sir,' returned Rob, tumbling with his hat, and
still fixed by Mr Carker's eye, and fruitlessly endeavouring to unfix
himself.

Mr Carker nodded. 'Take care, then!'

Rob expressed in a number of short bows his lively understanding of
this caution, and was bowing himself back to the door, greatly
relieved by the prospect of getting on the outside of it, when his
patron stopped him.

'Halloa!' he cried, calling him roughly back. 'You have been - shut
that door.'

Rob obeyed as if his life had depended on his alacrity.

'You have been used to eaves-dropping. Do you know what that
means?'

'Listening, Sir?' Rob hazarded, after some embarrassed reflection.

His patron nodded. 'And watching, and so forth.'

'I wouldn't do such a thing here, Sir,' answered Rob; 'upon my word
and honour, I wouldn't, Sir, I wish I may die if I would, Sir, for
anything that could be promised to me. I should consider it is as much
as all the world was worth, to offer to do such a thing, unless I was
ordered, Sir.'


'You had better not' You have been used, too, to babbling and
tattling,' said his patron with perfect coolness. 'Beware of that
here, or you're a lost rascal,' and he smiled again, and again
cautioned him with his forefinger.

The Grinder's breath came short and thick with consternation. He
tried to protest the purity of his intentions, but could only stare at
the smiling gentleman in a stupor of submission, with which the
smiling gentleman seemed well enough satisfied, for he ordered him
downstairs, after observing him for some moments in silence, and gave
him to understand that he was retained in his employment. This was the
manner of Rob the Grinder's engagement by Mr Carker, and his
awe-stricken devotion to that gentleman had strengthened and
increased, if possible, with every minute of his service.

It was a service of some months' duration, when early one morning,
Rob opened the garden gate to Mr Dombey, who was come to breakfast
with his master, by appointment. At the same moment his master himself
came, hurrying forth to receive the distinguished guest, and give him
welcome with all his teeth.

'I never thought,' said Carker, when he had assisted him to alight
from his horse, 'to see you here, I'm sure. This is an extraordinary
day in my calendar. No occasion is very special to a man like you, who
may do anything; but to a man like me, the case is widely different.

'You have a tasteful place here, Carker,' said Mr Dombey,
condescending to stop upon the lawn, to look about him.

'You can afford to say so,' returned Carker. 'Thank you.'

'Indeed,' said Mr Dombey, in his lofty patronage, 'anyone might say
so. As far as it goes, it is a very commodious and well-arranged place

-quite elegant.'
'As far as it goes, truly,' returned Carker, with an air of
disparagement' 'It wants that qualification. Well! we have said enough
about it; and though you can afford to praise it, I thank you
nonetheless. Will you walk in?'

Mr Dombey, entering the house, noticed, as he had reason to do, the
complete arrangement of the rooms, and the numerous contrivances for
comfort and effect that abounded there. Mr Carker, in his ostentation
of humility, received this notice with a deferential smile, and said
he understood its delicate meaning, and appreciated it, but in truth
the cottage was good enough for one in his position - better, perhaps,
than such a man should occupy, poor as it was.

'But perhaps to you, who are so far removed, it really does look
better than it is,' he said, with his false mouth distended to its
fullest stretch. 'Just as monarchs imagine attractions in the lives of
beggars.'

He directed a sharp glance and a sharp smile at Mr Dombey as he
spoke, and a sharper glance, and a sharper smile yet, when Mr Dombey,
drawing himself up before the fire, in the attitude so often copied by
his second in command, looked round at the pictures on the walls.
Cursorily as his cold eye wandered over them, Carker's keen glance
accompanied his, and kept pace with his, marking exactly where it
went, and what it saw. As it rested on one picture in particular,
Carker hardly seemed to breathe, his sidelong scrutiny was so cat-like
and vigilant, but the eye of his great chief passed from that, as from
the others, and appeared no more impressed by it than by the rest.


Carker looked at it - it was the picture that resembled Edith - as
if it were a living thing; and with a wicked, silent laugh upon his
face, that seemed in part addressed to it, though it was all derisive
of the great man standing so unconscious beside him. Breakfast was
soon set upon the table; and, inviting Mr Dombey to a chair which had
its back towards this picture, he took his own seat opposite to it as
usual.

Mr Dombey was even graver than it was his custom to be, and quite
silent. The parrot, swinging in the gilded hoop within her gaudy cage,
attempted in vain to attract notice, for Carker was too observant of
his visitor to heed her; and the visitor, abstracted in meditation,
looked fixedly, not to say sullenly, over his stiff neckcloth, without
raising his eyes from the table-cloth. As to Rob, who was in
attendance, all his faculties and energies were so locked up in
observation of his master, that he scarcely ventured to give shelter
to the thought that the visitor was the great gentleman before whom he
had been carried as a certificate of the family health, in his
childhood, and to whom he had been indebted for his leather smalls.

'Allow me,' said Carker suddenly, 'to ask how Mrs Dombey is?'

He leaned forward obsequiously, as he made the inquiry, with his
chin resting on his hand; and at the same time his eyes went up to the
picture, as if he said to it, 'Now, see, how I will lead him on!'

Mr Dombey reddened as he answered:

'Mrs Dombey is quite well. You remind me, Carker, of some
conversation that I wish to have with you.'

'Robin, you can leave us,' said his master, at whose mild tones
Robin started and disappeared, with his eyes fixed on his patron to
the last. 'You don't remember that boy, of course?' he added, when the
enmeshed Grinder was gone.

'No,' said Mr Dombey, with magnificent indifference.

'Not likely that a man like you would. Hardly possible,' murmured
Carker. 'But he is one of that family from whom you took a nurse.
Perhaps you may remember having generously charged yourself with his
education?'

'Is it that boy?' said Mr Dombey, with a frown. 'He does little
credit to his education, I believe.'

'Why, he is a young rip, I am afraid,' returned Carker, with a
shrug. 'He bears that character. But the truth is, I took him into my
service because, being able to get no other employment, he conceived
(had been taught at home, I daresay) that he had some sort of claim
upon you, and was constantly trying to dog your heels with his
petition. And although my defined and recognised connexion with your
affairs is merely of a business character, still I have that
spontaneous interest in everything belonging to you, that - '

He stopped again, as if to discover whether he had led Mr Dombey
far enough yet. And again, with his chin resting on his hand, he
leered at the picture.

'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, 'I am sensible that you do not limit your

-'
'Service,' suggested his smiling entertainer.


'No; I prefer to say your regard,' observed Mr Dombey; very
sensible, as he said so, that he was paying him a handsome and
flattering compliment, 'to our mere business relations. Your
consideration for my feelings, hopes, and disappointments, in the
little instance you have just now mentioned, is an example in point. I
I am obliged to you, Carker.'

Mr Carker bent his head slowly, and very softly rubbed his hands,
as if he were afraid by any action to disturb the current of Mr
Dombey's confidence.

'Your allusion to it is opportune,' said Mr Dombey, after a little
hesitation; 'for it prepares the way to what I was beginning to say to
you, and reminds me that that involves no absolutely new relations
between us, although it may involve more personal confidence on my
part than I have hitherto - '

'Distinguished me with,' suggested Carker, bending his head again:
'I will not say to you how honoured I am; for a man like you well
knows how much honour he has in his power to bestow at pleasure.'

'Mrs Dombey and myself,' said Mr Dombey, passing this compliment
with august self-denial, 'are not quite agreed upon some points. We do
not appear to understand each other yet' Mrs Dombey has something to
learn.'

'Mrs Dombey is distinguished by many rare attractions; and has been
accustomed, no doubt, to receive much adulation,' said the smooth,
sleek watcher of his slightest look and tone. 'But where there is
affection, duty, and respect, any little mistakes engendered by such
causes are soon set right.'

Mr Dombey's thoughts instinctively flew back to the face that had
looked at him in his wife's dressing-room when an imperious hand was
stretched towards the door; and remembering the affection, duty, and
respect, expressed in it, he felt the blood rush to his own face quite
as plainly as the watchful eyes upon him saw it there.

'Mrs Dombey and myself,' he went on to say, 'had some discussion,
before Mrs Skewton's death, upon the causes of my dissatisfaction; of
which you will have formed a general understanding from having been a
witness of what passed between Mrs Dombey and myself on the evening
when you were at our - at my house.'

'When I so much regretted being present,' said the smiling Carker.
'Proud as a man in my position nay must be of your familiar notice though
I give you no credit for it; you may do anything you please
without losing caste - and honoured as I was by an early presentation
to Mrs Dombey, before she was made eminent by bearing your name, I
almost regretted that night, I assure you, that I had been the object
of such especial good fortune'

That any man could, under any possible circumstances, regret the
being distinguished by his condescension and patronage, was a moral
phenomenon which Mr Dombey could not comprehend. He therefore
responded, with a considerable accession of dignity. 'Indeed! And why,
Carker?'

'I fear,' returned the confidential agent, 'that Mrs Dombey, never
very much disposed to regard me with favourable interest - one in my
position could not expect that, from a lady naturally proud, and whose
pride becomes her so well - may not easily forgive my innocent part in
that conversation. Your displeasure is no light matter, you must


remember; and to be visited with it before a third party


'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, arrogantly; 'I presume that I am the
first consideration?'

'Oh! Can there be a doubt about it?' replied the other, with the
impatience of a man admitting a notorious and incontrovertible fact'

'Mrs Dombey becomes a secondary consideration, when we are both in
question, I imagine,' said Mr Dombey. 'Is that so?'

'Is it so?' returned Carker. 'Do you know better than anyone, that
you have no need to ask?'

'Then I hope, Carker,' said Mr Dombey, 'that your regret in the
acquisition of Mrs Dombey's displeasure, may be almost counterbalanced
by your satisfaction in retaining my confidence and good opinion.'

'I have the misfortune, I find,' returned Carker, 'to have incurred
that displeasure. Mrs Dombey has expressed it to you?'

'Mrs Dombey has expressed various opinions,' said Mr Dombey, with
majestic coldness and indifference, 'in which I do not participate,
and which I am not inclined to discuss, or to recall. I made Mr's
Dombey acquainted, some time since, as I have already told you, with
certain points of domestic deference and submission on which I felt it
necessary to insist. I failed to convince Mrs Dombey of the expediency
of her immediately altering her conduct in those respects, with a view
to her own peace and welfare, and my dignity; and I informed Mrs
Dombey that if I should find it necessary to object or remonstrate
again, I should express my opinion to her through yourself, my
confidential agent.'

Blended with the look that Carker bent upon him, was a devilish
look at the picture over his head, that struck upon it like a flash of
lightning.

'Now, Carker,' said Mr Dombey, 'I do not hesitate to say to you
that I will carry my point. I am not to be trifled with. Mrs Dombey
must understand that my will is law, and that I cannot allow of one
exception to the whole rule of my life. You will have the goodness to
undertake this charge, which, coming from me, is not unacceptable to
you, I hope, whatever regret you may politely profess - for which I am
obliged to you on behalf of Mrs Dombey; and you will have the
goodness, I am persuaded, to discharge it as exactly as any other
commission.'

'You know,' said Mr Carker, 'that you have only to command me.

'I know,' said Mr Dombey, with a majestic indication of assent,
'that I have only to command you. It is necessary that I should
proceed in this. Mrs Dombey is a lady undoubtedly highly qualified, in
many respects, to


'To do credit even to your choice,' suggested Carker, with a
yawning show of teeth.

'Yes; if you please to adopt that form of words,' said Mr Dombey,
in his tone of state; 'and at present I do not conceive that Mrs
Dombey does that credit to it, to which it is entitled. There is a
principle of opposition in Mrs Dombey that must be eradicated; that
must be overcome: Mrs Dombey does not appear to understand,' said Mr
Dombey, forcibly, 'that the idea of opposition to Me is monstrous and
absurd.'


'We, in the City, know you better,' replied Carker, with a smile
from ear to ear.

'You know me better,' said Mr Dombey. 'I hope so. Though, indeed, I
am bound to do Mrs Dombey the justice of saying, however inconsistent
it may seem with her subsequent conduct (which remains unchanged),
that on my expressing my disapprobation and determination to her, with
some severity, on the occasion to which I have referred, my admonition
appeared to produce a very powerful effect.' Mr Dombey delivered
himself of those words with most portentous stateliness. 'I wish you
to have the goodness, then, to inform Mrs Dombey, Carker, from me,
that I must recall our former conversation to her remembrance, in some
surprise that it has not yet had its effect. That I must insist upon
her regulating her conduct by the injunctions laid upon her in that
conversation. That I am not satisfied with her conduct. That I am
greatly dissatisfied with it. And that I shall be under the very
disagreeable necessity of making you the bearer of yet more unwelcome
and explicit communications, if she has not the good sense and the
proper feeling to adapt herself to my wishes, as the first Mrs Dombey
did, and, I believe I may add, as any other lady in her place would.'

'The first Mrs Dombey lived very happily,' said Carker.

'The first Mrs Dombey had great good sense,' said Mr Dombey, in a
gentlemanly toleration of the dead, 'and very correct feeling.'

'Is Miss Dombey like her mother, do you think?' said Carker.

Swiftly and darkly, Mr Dombey's face changed. His confidential
agent eyed it keenly.

'I have approached a painful subject,' he said, in a soft regretful
tone of voice, irreconcilable with his eager eye. 'Pray forgive me. I
forget these chains of association in the interest I have. Pray
forgive me.'

But for all he said, his eager eye scanned Mr Dombey's downcast
face none the less closely; and then it shot a strange triumphant look
at the picture, as appealing to it to bear witness how he led him on
again, and what was coming.

Carker,' said Mr Dombey, looking here and there upon the table, and
saying in a somewhat altered and more hurried voice, and with a paler
lip, 'there is no occasion for apology. You mistake. The association
is with the matter in hand, and not with any recollection, as you
suppose. I do not approve of Mrs Dombey's behaviour towards my
daughter.'

'Pardon me,' said Mr Carker, 'I don't quite understand.'

'Understand then,' returned Mr Dombey, 'that you may make that that
you will make that, if you please - matter of direct objection
from me to Mrs Dombey. You will please to tell her that her show of
devotion for my daughter is disagreeable to me. It is likely to be
noticed. It is likely to induce people to contrast Mrs Dombey in her
relation towards my daughter, with Mrs Dombey in her relation towards
myself. You will have the goodness to let Mrs Dombey know, plainly,
that I object to it; and that I expect her to defer, immediately, to
my objection. Mrs Dombey may be in earnest, or she may be pursuing a
whim, or she may be opposing me; but I object to it in any case, and
in every case. If Mrs Dombey is in earnest, so much the less reluctant
should she be to desist; for she will not serve my daughter by any
such display. If my wife has any superfluous gentleness, and duty over


and above her proper submission to me, she may bestow them where she
pleases, perhaps; but I will have submission first! - Carker,' said Mr
Dombey, checking the unusual emotion with which he had spoken, and
falling into a tone more like that in which he was accustomed to
assert his greatness, 'you will have the goodness not to omit or slur
this point, but to consider it a very important part of your
instructions.'

Mr Carker bowed his head, and rising from the table, and standing
thoughtfully before the fire, with his hand to his smooth chin, looked
down at Mr Dombey with the evil slyness of some monkish carving, half
human and half brute; or like a leering face on an old water-spout. Mr
Dombey, recovering his composure by degrees, or cooling his emotion in
his sense of having taken a high position, sat gradually stiffening
again, and looking at the parrot as she swung to and fro, in her great
wedding ring.

'I beg your pardon,' said Carker, after a silence, suddenly
resuming his chair, and drawing it opposite to Mr Dombey's, 'but let
me understand. Mrs Dombey is aware of the probability of your making
me the organ of your displeasure?'

'Yes,' replied Mr Dombey. 'I have said so.'

'Yes,' rejoined Carker, quickly; 'but why?'

'Why!' Mr Dombey repeated, not without hesitation. 'Because I told
her.'

'Ay,' replied Carker. 'But why did you tell her? You see,' he
continued with a smile, and softly laying his velvet hand, as a cat
might have laid its sheathed claws, on Mr Dombey's arm; 'if I
perfectly understand what is in your mind, I am so much more likely to
be useful, and to have the happiness of being effectually employed. I
think I do understand. I have not the honour of Mrs Dombey's good
opinion. In my position, I have no reason to expect it; but I take the
fact to be, that I have not got it?'

'Possibly not,' said Mr Dombey.

'Consequently,' pursued Carker, 'your making the communications to
Mrs Dombey through me, is sure to be particularly unpalatable to that
lady?'

'It appears to me,' said Mr Dombey, with haughty reserve, and yet
with some embarrassment, 'that Mrs Dombey's views upon the subject
form no part of it as it presents itself to you and me, Carker. But it
may be so.'

'And - pardon me - do I misconceive you,' said Carker, 'when I
think you descry in this, a likely means of humbling Mrs Dombey's
pride - I use the word as expressive of a quality which, kept within
due bounds, adorns and graces a lady so distinguished for her beauty
and accomplishments - and, not to say of punishing her, but of
reducing her to the submission you so naturally and justly require?'

'I am not accustomed, Carker, as you know,' said Mr Dombey, 'to
give such close reasons for any course of conduct I think proper to
adopt, but I will gainsay nothing of this. If you have any objection
to found upon it, that is indeed another thing, and the mere statement
that you have one will be sufficient. But I have not supposed, I
confess, that any confidence I could entrust to you, would be likely
to degrade you - '


'Oh! I degraded!' exclaimed Carker. 'In your service!'

'or to place you,' pursued Mr Dombey, 'in a false position.'

'I in a false position!' exclaimed Carker. 'I shall be proud delighted
- to execute your trust. I could have wished, I own, to have
given the lady at whose feet I would lay my humble duty and devotion for
is she not your wife! - no new cause of dislike; but a wish from
you is, of course, paramount to every other consideration on earth.
Besides, when Mrs Dombey is converted from these little errors of
judgment, incidental, I would presume to say, to the novelty of her
situation, I shall hope that she will perceive in the slight part I
take, only a grain - my removed and different sphere gives room for
little more - of the respect for you, and sacrifice of all
considerations to you, of which it will be her pleasure and privilege
to garner up a great store every day.'

Mr Dombey seemed, at the moment, again to see her with her hand
stretched out towards the door, and again to hear through the mild
speech of his confidential agent an echo of the words, 'Nothing can
make us stranger to each other than we are henceforth!' But he shook
off the fancy, and did not shake in his resolution, and said,
'Certainly, no doubt.'

'There is nothing more,' quoth Carker, drawing his chair back to
its old place - for they had taken little breakfast as yet- and
pausing for an answer before he sat down.

'Nothing,' said Mr Dombey, 'but this. You will be good enough to
observe, Carker, that no message to Mrs Dombey with which you are or
may be charged, admits of reply. You will be good enough to bring me
no reply. Mrs Dombey is informed that it does not become me to
temporise or treat upon any matter that is at issue between us, and
that what I say is final.'

Mr Carker signIfied his understanding of these credentials, and
they fell to breakfast with what appetite they might. The Grinder
also, in due time reappeared, keeping his eyes upon his master without
a moment's respite, and passing the time in a reverie of worshipful
tenor. Breakfast concluded, Mr Dombey's horse was ordered out again,
and Mr Carker mounting his own, they rode off for the City together.

Mr Carker was in capital spirits, and talked much. Mr Dombey
received his conversation with the sovereign air of a man who had a
right to be talked to, and occasionally condescended to throw in a few
words to carry on the conversation. So they rode on characteristically
enough. But Mr Dombey, in his dignity, rode with very long stirrups,
and a very loose rein, and very rarely deigned to look down to see
where his horse went. In consequence of which it happened that Mr
Dombey's horse, while going at a round trot, stumbled on some loose
stones, threw him, rolled over him, and lashing out with his iron-shod
feet, in his struggles to get up, kicked him.

Mr Carker, quick of eye, steady of hand, and a good horseman, was
afoot, and had the struggling animal upon his legs and by the bridle,
in a moment. Otherwise that morning's confidence would have been Mr
Dombey's last. Yet even with the flush and hurry of this action red
upon him, he bent over his prostrate chief with every tooth disclosed,
and muttered as he stooped down, 'I have given good cause of offence
to Mrs Dombey now, if she knew it!'

Mr Dombey being insensible, and bleeding from the head and face,
was carried by certain menders of the road, under Carker's direction,
to the nearest public-house, which was not far off, and where he was


soon attended by divers surgeons, who arrived in quick succession from
all parts, and who seemed to come by some mysterious instinct, as
vultures are said to gather about a camel who dies in the desert.
After being at some pains to restore him to consciousness, these
gentlemen examined into the nature of his injuries.

One surgeon who lived hard by was strong for a compound fracture of
the leg, which was the landlord's opinion also; but two surgeons who
lived at a distance, and were only in that neighbourhood by accident,
combated this opinion so disinterestedly, that it was decided at last
that the patient, though severely cut and bruised, had broken no bones
but a lesser rib or so, and might be carefully taken home before
night. His injuries being dressed and bandaged, which was a long
operation, and he at length left to repose, Mr Carker mounted his
horse again, and rode away to carry the intelligence home.

Crafty and cruel as his face was at the best of times, though it
was a sufficiently fair face as to form and regularity of feature, it
was at its worst when he set forth on this errand; animated by the
craft and cruelty of thoughts within him, suggestions of remote
possibility rather than of design or plot, that made him ride as if he
hunted men and women. Drawing rein at length, and slackening in his
speed, as he came into the more public roads, he checked his
white-legged horse into picking his way along as usual, and hid
himself beneath his sleek, hushed, crouched manner, and his ivory
smile, as he best could.

He rode direct to Mr Dombey's house, alighted at the door, and
begged to see Mrs Dombey on an affair of importance. The servant who
showed him to Mr Dombey's own room, soon returned to say that it was
not Mrs Dombey's hour for receiving visitors, and that he begged
pardon for not having mentioned it before.

Mr Carker, who was quite prepared for a cold reception, wrote upon
a card that he must take the liberty of pressing for an interview, and
that he would not be so bold as to do so, for the second time (this he
underlined), if he were not equally sure of the occasion being
sufficient for his justification. After a trifling delay, Mrs Dombey's
maid appeared, and conducted him to a morning room upstairs, where
Edith and Florence were together.

He had never thought Edith half so beautiful before. Much as he
admired the graces of her face and form, and freshly as they dwelt
within his sensual remembrance, he had never thought her half so
beautiful.

Her glance fell haughtily upon him in the doorway; but he looked at
Florence - though only in the act of bending his head, as he came in with
some irrepressible expression of the new power he held; and it
was his triumph to see the glance droop and falter, and to see that
Edith half rose up to receive him.

He was very sorry, he was deeply grieved; he couldn't say with what
unwillingness he came to prepare her for the intelligence of a very
slight accident. He entreated Mrs Dombey to compose herself. Upon his
sacred word of honour, there was no cause of alarm. But Mr Dombey -

Florence uttered a sudden cry. He did not look at her, but at
Edith. Edith composed and reassured her. She uttered no cry of
distress. No, no.

Mr Dombey had met with an accident in riding. His horse had
slipped, and he had been thrown.


Florence wildly exclaimed that he was badly hurt; that he was
killed!

No. Upon his honour, Mr Dombey, though stunned at first, was soon
recovered, and though certainly hurt was in no kind of danger. If this
were not the truth, he, the distressed intruder, never could have had
the courage to present himself before Mrs Dombey. It was the truth
indeed, he solemnly assured her.

All this he said as if he were answering Edith, and not Florence,
and with his eyes and his smile fastened on Edith.

He then went on to tell her where Mr Dombey was lying, and to
request that a carriage might be placed at his disposal to bring him
home.

'Mama,' faltered Florence in tears, 'if I might venture to go!'

Mr Carker, having his eyes on Edith when he heard these words, gave
her a secret look and slightly shook his head. He saw how she battled
with herself before she answered him with her handsome eyes, but he
wrested the answer from her - he showed her that he would have it, or
that he would speak and cut Florence to the heart - and she gave it to
him. As he had looked at the picture in the morning, so he looked at
her afterwards, when she turned her eyes away.

'I am directed to request,' he said, 'that the new housekeeper -
Mrs Pipchin, I think, is the name - '

Nothing escaped him. He saw in an instant, that she was another
slight of Mr Dombey's on his wife.

' - may be informed that Mr Dombey wishes to have his bed prepared
in his own apartments downstairs, as he prefers those rooms to any
other. I shall return to Mr Dombey almost immediately. That every
possible attention has been paid to his comfort, and that he is the
object of every possible solicitude, I need not assure you, Madam. Let
me again say, there is no cause for the least alarm. Even you may be
quite at ease, believe me.'

He bowed himself out, with his extremest show of deference and
conciliation; and having returned to Mr Dombey's room, and there
arranged for a carriage being sent after him to the City, mounted his
horse again, and rode slowly thither. He was very thoughtful as he
went along, and very thoughtful there, and very thoughtful in the
carriage on his way back to the place where Mr Dombey had been left.
It was only when sitting by that gentleman's couch that he was quite
himself again, and conscious of his teeth.

About the time of twilight, Mr Dombey, grievously afflicted with
aches and pains, was helped into his carriage, and propped with cloaks
and pillows on one side of it, while his confidential agent bore him
company upon the other. As he was not to be shaken, they moved at
little more than a foot pace; and hence it was quite dark when he was
brought home. Mrs Pipchin, bitter and grim, and not oblivious of the
Peruvian mines, as the establishment in general had good reason to
know, received him at the door, and freshened the domestics with
several little sprinklings of wordy vinegar, while they assisted in
conveying him to his room. Mr Carker remained in attendance until he
was safe in bed, and then, as he declined to receive any female
visitor, but the excellent Ogress who presided over his household,
waited on Mrs Dombey once more, with his report on her lord's
condition.


He again found Edith alone with Florence, and he again addressed
the whole of his soothing speech to Edith, as if she were a prey to
the liveliest and most affectionate anxieties. So earnest he was in
his respectful sympathy, that on taking leave, he ventured - with one
more glance towards Florence at the moment - to take her hand, and
bending over it, to touch it with his lips.

Edith did not withdraw the hand, nor did she strike his fair face
with it, despite the flush upon her cheek, the bright light in her
eyes, and the dilation of her whole form. But when she was alone in
her own room, she struck it on the marble chimney-shelf, so that, at
one blow, it was bruised, and bled; and held it from her, near the
shining fire, as if she could have thrust it in and burned it'

Far into the night she sat alone, by the sinking blaze, in dark and
threatening beauty, watching the murky shadows looming on the wall, as
if her thoughts were tangible, and cast them there. Whatever shapes of
outrage and affront, and black foreshadowings of things that might
happen, flickered, indistinct and giant-like, before her, one resented
figure marshalled them against her. And that figure was her husband.

CHAPTER 43.

The Watches of the Night

Florence, long since awakened from her dream, mournfully observed
the estrangement between her father and Edith, and saw it widen more
and more, and knew that there was greater bitterness between them
every day. Each day's added knowledge deepened the shade upon her love
and hope, roused up the old sorrow that had slumbered for a little
time, and made it even heavier to bear than it had been before.

It had been hard - how hard may none but Florence ever know! - to
have the natural affection of a true and earnest nature turned to
agony; and slight, or stern repulse, substituted for the tenderest
protection and the dearest care. It had been hard to feel in her deep
heart what she had felt, and never know the happiness of one touch of
response. But it was much more hard to be compelled to doubt either
her father or Edith, so affectionate and dear to her, and to think of
her love for each of them, by turns, with fear, distrust, and wonder.

Yet Florence now began to do so; and the doing of it was a task
imposed upon her by the very purity of her soul, as one she could not
fly from. She saw her father cold and obdurate to Edith, as to her;
hard, inflexible, unyielding. Could it be, she asked herself with
starting tears, that her own dear mother had been made unhappy by such
treatment, and had pined away and died? Then she would think how proud
and stately Edith was to everyone but her, with what disdain she
treated him, how distantly she kept apart from him, and what she had
said on the night when they came home; and quickly it would come on
Florence, almost as a crime, that she loved one who was set in
opposition to her father, and that her father knowing of it, must
think of her in his solitary room as the unnatural child who added
this wrong to the old fault, so much wept for, of never having won his
fatherly affection from her birth. The next kind word from Edith, the
next kind glance, would shake these thoughts again, and make them seem
like black ingratitude; for who but she had cheered the drooping heart
of Florence, so lonely and so hurt, and been its best of comforters!
Thus, with her gentle nature yearning to them both, feeling for the
misery of both, and whispering doubts of her own duty to both,


Florence in her wider and expanded love, and by the side of Edith,
endured more than when she had hoarded up her undivided secret in the
mournful house, and her beautiful Mama had never dawned upon it.

One exquisite unhappiness that would have far outweighed this,
Florence was spared. She never had the least suspicion that Edith by
her tenderness for her widened the separation from her father, or gave
him new cause of dislike. If Florence had conceived the possIbility of
such an effect being wrought by such a cause, what grief she would
have felt, what sacrifice she would have tried to make, poor loving
girl, how fast and sure her quiet passage might have been beneath it
to the presence of that higher Father who does not reject his
children's love, or spurn their tried and broken hearts, Heaven knows!
But it was otherwise, and that was well.

No word was ever spoken between Florence and Edith now, on these
subjects. Edith had said there ought to be between them, in that wise,
a division and a silence like the grave itself: and Florence felt she
was right'

In this state of affairs her father was brought home, suffering and
disabled; and gloomily retired to his own rooms, where he was tended
by servants, not approached by Edith, and had no friend or companion
but Mr Carker, who withdrew near midnight.

'And nice company he is, Miss Floy,' said Susan Nipper. 'Oh, he's a
precious piece of goods! If ever he wants a character don't let him
come to me whatever he does, that's all I tell him.'

'Dear Susan,' urged Florence, 'don't!'

'Oh, it's very well to say don't" Miss Floy' returned the Nipper
much exasperated; 'but raly begging your pardon we're coming to such
passes that it turns all the blood in a person's body into pins and
needleswith their pints all ways. Don't mistake meMiss FloyI
don't mean nothing again your ma-in-law who has always treated me as a
lady should though she is rather high I must say not that I have any
right to object to that particularbut when we come to Mrs Pipchinses
and having them put over us and keeping guard at your Pa's door like
crocodiles (only make us thankful that they lay no eggs!) we are a
growing too outrageous!'

'Papa thinks well of Mrs PipchinSusan' returned Florence'and
has a right to choose his housekeeperyou know. Pray don't!'

'Well Miss Floy' returned the Nipper'when you say don'tI never
do I hope but Mrs Pipchin acts like early gooseberries upon me Miss
and nothing less.'

Susan was unusually emphatic and destitute of punctuation in her
discourse on this nightwhich was the night of Mr Dombey's being
brought homebecausehaving been sent downstairs by Florence to
inquire after himshe had been obliged to deliver her message to her
mortal enemy Mrs Pipchin; whowithout carrying it in to Mr Dombey
had taken upon herself to return what Miss Nipper called a huffish
answeron her own responsibility. ThisSusan Nipper construed into
presumption on the part of that exemplary sufferer by the Peruvian
minesand a deed of disparagement upon her young ladythat was not
to be forgiven; and so far her emphatic state was special. But she had
been in a condition of greatly increased suspicion and distrustever
since the marriage; forlike most persons of her quality of mindwho
form a strong and sincere attachment to one in the different station
which Florence occupiedSusan was very jealousand her jealousy
naturally attached to Edithwho divided her old empireand came


between them. Proud and glad as Susan Nipper truly wasthat her young
mistress should be advanced towards her proper place in the scene of
her old neglectand that she should have her father's handsome wife
for her companion and protectressshe could not relinquish any part
of her own dominion to the handsome wifewithout a grudge and a vague
feeling of ill-willfor which she did not fail to find a
disinterested justification in her sharp perception of the pride and
passion of the lady's character. From the background to which she had
necessarily retired somewhatsince the marriageMiss Nipper looked
onthereforeat domestic affairs in generalwith a resolute
conviction that no good would come of Mrs Dombey: always being very
careful to publish on all possible occasionsthat she had nothing to
say against her.


'Susan' said Florencewho was sitting thoughtfully at her table
'it is very late. I shall want nothing more to-night.'


'AhMiss Floy!' returned the Nipper'I'm sure I often wish for
them old times when I sat up with you hours later than this and fell
asleep through being tired out when you was as broad awake as
spectaclesbut you've ma's-in-law to come and sit with you now Miss
Floy and I'm thankful for it I'm sure. I've not a word to say against
'em.'


'I shall not forget who was my old companion when I had none
Susan' returned Florencegently'never!' And looking upshe put
her arm round the neck of her humble frienddrew her face down to
hersand bidding her good-nightkissed it; which so mollified Miss
Nipperthat she fell a sobbing.


'Now my dear Miss Floysaid Susan'let me go downstairs again and
see how your Pa isI know you're wretched about himdo let me go
downstairs again and knock at his door my own self.'


'No' said Florence'go to bed. We shall hear more in the morning.
I will inquire myself in the morning. Mama has been downI daresay;'
Florence blushedfor she had no such hope; 'or is there nowperhaps.
Good-night!'


Susan was too much softened to express her private opinion on the
probability of Mrs Dombey's being in attendance on her husbandand
silently withdrew. Florence left alonesoon hid her head upon her
hands as she had often done in other daysand did not restrain the
tears from coursing down her face. The misery of this domestic discord
and unhappiness; the withered hope she cherished nowif hope it could
be calledof ever being taken to her father's heart; her doubts and
fears between the two; the yearning of her innocent breast to both;
the heavy disappointment and regret of such an end as thisto what
had been a vision of bright hope and promise to her; all crowded on
her mind and made her tears flow fast. Her mother and her brother
deadher father unmoved towards herEdith opposed to him and casting
him awaybut loving herand loved by herit seemed as if her
affection could never prosperrest where it would. That weak thought
was soon hushedbut the thoughts in which it had arisen were too true
and strong to be dismissed with it; and they made the night desolate.


Among such reflections there rose upas there had risen up all
daythe image of her fatherwounded and in painalone in his own
roomuntended by those who should be nearest to himand passing the
tardy hours in lonely suffering. A frightened thought which made her
start and clasp her hands - though it was not a new one in her mind -
that he might dieand never see her or pronounce her namethrilled
her whole frame. In her agitation she thoughtand trembled while she
thoughtof once more stealing downstairsand venturing to his door.



She listened at her own. The house was quietand all the lights
were out. It was a longlong timeshe thoughtsince she used to
make her nightly pilgrimages to his door! It was a longlong time
she tried to thinksince she had entered his room at midnightand he
had led her back to the stair-foot!

With the same child's heart within heras of old: even with the
child's sweet timid eyes and clustering hair: Florenceas strange to
her father in her early maiden bloomas in her nursery timecrept
down the staircase listening as she wentand drew near to his room.
No one was stirring in the house. The door was partly open to admit
air; and all was so still withinthat she could hear the burning of
the fireand count the ticking of the clock that stood upon the
chimney-piece.

She looked in. In that roomthe housekeeper wrapped in a blanket
was fast asleep in an easy chair before the fire. The doors between it
and the next were partly closedand a screen was drawn before them;
but there was a light thereand it shone upon the cornice of his bed.
All was so very still that she could hear from his breathing that he
was asleep. This gave her courage to pass round the screenand look
into his chamber.

It was as great a start to come upon his sleeping face as if she
had not expected to see it. Florence stood arrested on the spotand
if he had awakened thenmust have remained there.

There was a cut upon his foreheadand they had been wetting his
hairwhich lay bedabbled and entangled on the pillow. One of his
armsresting outside the bedwas bandaged upand he was very white.
But it was not thisthat after the first quick glanceand first
assurance of his sleeping quietlyheld Florence rooted to the ground.
It was something very different from thisand more than thisthat
made him look so solemn in her eye

She had never seen his face in all her lifebut there had been
upon it - or she fancied so - some disturbing consciousness of her.
She had never seen his face in all her lifebut hope had sunk within
herand her timid glance had dropped before its sternunlovingand
repelling harshness. As she looked upon it nowshe saw itfor the
first timefree from the cloud that had darkened her childhood. Calm
tranquil night was reigning in its stead. He might have gone to sleep
for anything she saw thereblessing her.

Awakeunkind father! Awakenowsullen man! The time is flitting
by; the hour is coming with an angry tread. Awake!

There was no change upon his face; and as she watched itawfully
its motionless reponse recalled the faces that were gone. So they
lookedso would he; so shehis weeping childwho should say when!
so all the world of love and hatred and indifference around them! When
that time should comeit would not be the heavier to himfor this
that she was going to do; and it might fall something lighter upon
her.

She stole close to the bedand drawing in her breathbent down
and softly kissed him on the faceand laid her own for one brief
moment by its sideand put the armwith which she dared not touch
himround about him on the pillow.

Awakedoomed manwhile she is near! The time is flitting by; the
hour is coming with an angry tread; its foot is in the house. Awake!


In her mindshe prayed to God to bless her fatherand to soften
him towards herif it might be so; and if notto forgive him if he
was wrongand pardon her the prayer which almost seemed impiety. And
doing soand looking back at him with blinded eyesand stealing
timidly awaypassed out of his roomand crossed the otherand was
gone.

He may sleep on now. He may sleep on while he may. But let him look
for that slight figure when he wakesand find it near him when the
hour is come!

Sad and grieving was the heart of Florenceas she crept upstairs.
The quiet house had grown more dismal since she came down. The sleep
she had been looking onin the dead of nighthad the solemnity to
her of death and life in one. The secrecy and silence of her own
proceeding made the night secretsilentand oppressive. She felt
unwillingalmost unableto go on to her own chamber; and turnIng
into the drawing-roomswhere the clouded moon was shining through the
blindslooked out into the empty streets.

The wind was blowing drearily. The lamps looked paleand shook as
if they were cold. There was a distant glimmer of something that was
not quite darknessrather than of lightin the sky; and foreboding
night was shivering and restlessas the dying are who make a troubled
end. Florence remembered howas a watcherby a sick-bedshe had
noted this bleak timeand felt its influenceas if in some hidden
natural antipathy to it; and now it was veryvery gloomy.

Her Mama had not come to her room that nightwhich was one cause
of her having sat late out of her bed. In her general uneasinessno
less than in her ardent longing to have somebody to speak toand to
break the spell of gloom and silenceFlorence directed her steps
towards the chamber where she slept.

The door was not fastened withinand yielded smoothly to her
hesitating hand. She was surprised to find a bright light burning;
still more surprisedon looking into see that her Mamabut
partially undressedwas sitting near the ashes of the firewhich had
crumbled and dropped away. Her eyes were intently bent upon the air;
and in their lightand in her faceand in her formand in the grasp
with which she held the elbows of her chair as if about to start up
Florence saw such fierce emotion that it terrified her.

'Mama!' she cried'what is the matter?'

Edith started; looking at her with such a strange dread in her
facethat Florence was more frightened than before.

'Mama!' said Florencehurriedly advancing. 'Dear Mama! what is the
matter?'

'I have not been well' said Edithshakingand still looking at
her in the same strange way. 'I have had had dreamsmy love.'

'And not yet been to bedMama?'

'No' she returned. 'Half-waking dreams.'

Her features gradually softened; and suffering Florence to come
closer to herwithin her embraceshe said in a tender manner'But
what does my bird do here? What does my bird do here?'

'I have been uneasyMamain not seeing you to-nightand in not
knowing how Papa was; and I - '


Florence stopped thereand said no more.

'Is it late?' asked Edithfondly putting back the curls that
mingled with her own dark hairand strayed upon her face.

'Very late. Near day.'

'Near day!' she repeated in surprise.

'Dear Mamawhat have you done to your hand?' said Florence.

Edith drew it suddenly awayandfor a momentlooked at her with
the same strange dread (there was a sort of wild avoidance in it) as
before; but she presently said'Nothingnothing. A blow.' And then
she said'My Florence!' and then her bosom heavedand she was
weeping passionately.

'Mama!' said Florence. 'Oh Mamawhat can I dowhat should I do
to make us happier? Is there anything?'

'Nothing' she replied.

'Are you sure of that? Can it never be? If I speak now of what is
in my thoughtsin spite of what we have agreed' said Florence'you
will not blame mewill you?'

'It is useless' she replied'useless. I have told youdearthat
I have had bad dreams. Nothing can change themor prevent them coming
back.'

'I do not understand' said Florencegazing on her agitated face
which seemed to darken as she looked.

'I have dreamed' said Edith in a low voice'of a pride that is
all powerless for goodall powerful for evil; of a pride that has
been galled and goadedthrough many shameful yearsand has never
recoiled except upon itself; a pride that has debased its owner with
the consciousness of deep humiliationand never helped its owner
boldly to resent it or avoid itor to sayThis shall not be!a
pride thatrightly guidedmight have led perhaps to better things
but whichmisdirected and pervertedlike all else belonging to the
same possessorhas been self-contemptmere hardihood and ruin.'

She neither looked nor spoke to Florence nowbut went on as if she
were alone.

'I have dreamed' she said'of such indifference and callousness
arising from this self-contempt; this wretchedinefficientmiserable
pride; that it has gone on with listless steps even to the altar
yielding to the oldfamiliarbeckoning finger- oh motheroh
mother! - while it spurned it; and willing to be hateful to itself for
once and for allrather than to be stung daily in some new form.
Meanpoor thing!'

And now with gathering and darkening emotionshe looked as she had
looked when Florence entered.

'And I have dreamed' she said'that in a first late effort to
achieve a purposeit has been trodden onand trodden down by a base
footbut turns and looks upon him. I have dreamed that it is wounded
huntedset upon by dogsbut that it stands at hayand will not
yield; nothat it cannot if it would; but that it is urged on to hate


Her clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had in hers
and as she looked down on the alarmed and wondering facefrown
subsided. 'Oh Florence!' she said'I think I have been nearly mad
to-night!' and humbled her proud head upon her neck and wept again.

'Don't leave me! be near me! I have no hope but in you! These words
she said a score of times.

Soon she grew calmerand was full of pity for the tears of
Florenceand for her waking at such untimely hours. And the day now
dawningwith folded her in her arms and laid her down upon her bed
andnot lying down herselfsat by herand bade her try to sleep.

'For you are wearydearestand unhappyand should rest.'

'I am indeed unhappydear Mamatonight' said Florence. 'But you
are weary and unhappytoo.'

'Not when you lie asleep so near mesweet.'

They kissed each otherand Florenceworn outgradually fell into
a gentle slumber; but as her eyes closed on the face beside herit
was so sad to think upon the face downstairsthat her hand drew
closer to Edith for some comfort; yeteven in the actit faltered
lest it should be deserting him. Soin her sleepshe tried to
reconcile the two togetherand to show them that she loved them both
but could not do itand her waking grief was part of her dreams.

Edithsitting bylooked down at the dark eyelashes lying wet on
the flushed cheeksand looked with gentleness and pityfor she knew
the truth. But no sleep hung upon her own eyes. As the day came on she
still sat watching and wakingwith the placid hand in hersand
sometimes whisperedas she looked at the hushed face'Be near me
Florence. I have no hope but in you!'

CHAPTER 44.

A Separation

With the daythough not so early as the sunuprose Miss Susan
Nipper. There was a heaviness in this young maiden's exceedingly sharp
black eyesthat abated somewhat of their sparklingand suggested which
was not their usual character - the possibility of their being
sometimes shut. There was likewise a swollen look about themas if
they had been crying over-night. But the Nipperso far from being
cast downwas singularly brisk and boldand all her energies
appeared to be braced up for some great feat. This was noticeable even
in her dresswhich was much more tight and trim than usual; and in
occasional twitches of her head as she went about the housewhich
were mightily expressive of determination.

In a wordshe had formed a determinationand an aspiring one: it
being nothing less than this - to penetrate to Mr Dombey's presence
and have speech of that gentleman alone. 'I have often said I would'
she remarkedin a threatening mannerto herselfthat morningwith
many twitches of her head'and now I will!'

Spurring herself on to the accomplishment of this desperate design
with a sharpness that was peculiar to herselfSusan Nipper haunted
the hall and staircase during the whole forenoonwithout finding a


favourable opportunity for the assault. Not at all baffled by this
discomfiturewhich indeed had a stimulating effectand put her on
her mettleshe diminished nothing of her vigilance; and at last
discoveredtowards eveningthat her sworn foe Mrs Pipchinunder
pretence of having sat up all nightwas dozing in her own roomand
that Mr Dombey was lying on his sofaunattended.

With a twitch - not of her head merelythis timebut of her whole
self - the Nipper went on tiptoe to Mr Dombey's doorand knocked.
'Come in!' said Mr Dombey. Susan encouraged herself with a final
twitchand went in.

Mr Dombeywho was eyeing the firegave an amazed look at his
visitorand raised himself a little on his arm. The Nipper dropped a
curtsey.

'What do you want?' said Mr Dombey.

'If you pleaseSirI wish to speak to you' said Susan.

Mr Dombey moved his lips as if he were repeating the wordsbut he
seemed so lost in astonishment at the presumption of the young woman
as to be incapable of giving them utterance.

'I have been in your serviceSir' said Susan Nipperwith her
usual rapidity'now twelve 'year a waiting on Miss Floy my own young
lady who couldn't speak plain when I first come here and I was old in
this house when Mrs Richards was newI may not be Meethosalembut I
am not a child in arms.'

Mr Dombeyraised upon his arm and looking at heroffered no
comment on this preparatory statement of fact.

'There never was a dearer or a blesseder young lady than is my
young ladySir' said Susan'and I ought to know a great deal better
than some for I have seen her in her grief and I have seen her in her
joy (there's not been much of it) and I have seen her with her brother
and I have seen her in her loneliness and some have never seen her
and I say to some and all - I do!' and here the black-eyed shook her
headand slightly stamped her foot; 'that she's the blessedest and
dearest angel is Miss Floy that ever drew the breath of lifethe more
that I was torn to pieces Sir the more I'd say it though I may not be
a Fox's Martyr..'

Mr Dombey turned yet paler than his fall had made himwith
indignation and astonishment; and kept his eyes upon the speaker as if
he accused themand his ears tooof playing him false.

'No one could be anything but true and faithful to Miss FloySir'
pursued Susan'and I take no merit for my service of twelve yearfor
I love her - yesI say to some and all I do!' - and here the
black-eyed shook her head againand slightly stamped her foot again
and checked a sob; 'but true and faithful service gives me right to
speak I hopeand speak I must and will nowright or wrong.

'What do you meanwoman?' said Mr Dombeyglaring at her. 'How do
you dare?'

'What I meanSiris to speak respectful and without offencebut
outand how I dare I know not but I do!'said Susan. 'Oh! you don't
know my young lady Sir you don't indeedyou'd never know so little of
herif you did.'

Mr Dombeyin a furyput his hand out for the bell-rope; but there


was no bell-rope on that side of the fireand he could not rise and
cross to the other without assistance. The quick eye of the Nipper
detected his helplessness immediatelyand nowas she afterwards
observedshe felt she had got him.

'Miss Floy' said Susan Nipper'is the most devoted and most
patient and most dutiful and beautiful of daughtersthere ain't no
gentlemanno Sirthough as great and rich as all the greatest and
richest of England put togetherbut might be proud of her and would
and ought. If he knew her value righthe'd rather lose his greatness
and his fortune piece by piece and beg his way in rags from door to
doorI say to some and allhe would!' cried Susan Nipperbursting
into tears'than bring the sorrow on her tender heart that I have
seen it suffer in this house!'

'Woman' cried Mr Dombey'leave the room.

'Begging your pardonnot even if I am to leave the situation
Sir' replied the steadfast Nipper'in which I have been so many
years and seen so much - although I hope you'd never have the heart to
send me from Miss Floy for such a cause - will I go now till I have
said the restI may not be a Indian widow Sir and I am not and I
would not so become but if I once made up my mind to burn myself
aliveI'd do it! And I've made my mind up to go on.'

Which was rendered no less clear by the expression of Susan
Nipper's countenancethan by her words.

'There ain't a person in your serviceSir' pursued the
black-eyed'that has always stood more in awe of you than me and you
may think how true it is when I make so bold as say that I have
hundreds and hundreds of times thought of speaking to you and never
been able to make my mind up to it till last nightbut last night
decided of me.'

Mr Dombeyin a paroxysm of ragemade another grasp at the
bell-rope that was not thereandin its absencepulled his hair
rather than nothing.

'I have seen' said Susan Nipper'Miss Floy strive and strive when
nothing but a child so sweet and patient that the best of women might
have copied from herI've seen her sitting nights together half the
night through to help her delicate brother with his learningI've
seen her helping him and watching him at other times - some well know
when - I've seen herwith no encouragement and no helpgrow up to be
a ladythank God! that is the grace and pride of every company she
goes inand I've always seen her cruelly neglected and keenly feeling
of it - I say to some and allI have! - and never said one wordbut
ordering one's self lowly and reverently towards one's bettersis not
to be a worshipper of graven imagesand I will and must speak!'

'Is there anybody there?' cried Mr Dombeycalling out. 'Where are
the men? where are the women? Is there no one there?'

'I left my dear young lady out of bed late last night' said Susan
nothing checked'and I knew whyfor you was ill Sir and she didn't
know how ill and that was enough to make her wretched as I saw it did.
I may not be a Peacock; but I have my eyes - and I sat up a little in
my own room thinking she might be lonesome and might want meand I
saw her steal downstairs and come to this door as if it was a guilty
thing to look at her own Paand then steal back again and go into
them lonely drawing-roomsa-crying sothat I could hardly bear to
hear it. I can not bear to hear it' said Susan Nipperwiping her
black eyesand fixing them undauntingly on Mr Dombey's infuriated


face. 'It's not the first time I have heard itnot by many and many a
time you don't know your own daughterSiryou don't know what you're
doingSirI say to some and all' cried Susan Nipperin a final
burst'that it's a sinful shame!'

'Whyhoity toity!' cried the voice of Mrs Pipchinas the black
bombazeen garments of that fair Peruvian Miner swept into the room.
'What's thisindeed?'

Susan favoured Mrs Pipchin with a look she had invented expressly
for her when they first became acquaintedand resigned the reply to
Mr Dombey.

'What's this?' repeated Mr Dombeyalmost foaming. 'What's this
Madam? You who are at the head of this householdand bound to keep it
in orderhave reason to inquire. Do you know this woman?'

'I know very little good of herSir' croaked Mrs Pipchin. 'How
dare you come hereyou hussy? Go along with you!'

But the inflexible Nippermerely honouring Mrs Pipchin with
another lookremained.

'Do you call it managing this establishmentMadam' said Mr
Dombey'to leave a person like this at liberty to come and talk to
me! A gentleman - in his own house - in his own room - assailed with
the impertinences of women-servants!'

'WellSir' returned Mrs Pipchinwith vengeance in her hard grey
eye'I exceedingly deplore it; nothing can be more irregular; nothing
can be more out of all bounds and reason; but I regret to saySir
that this young woman is quite beyond control. She has been spoiled by
Miss Dombeyand is amenable to nobody. You know you're not' said Mrs
Pipchinsharplyand shaking her head at Susan Nipper. 'For shame
you hussy! Go along with you!'

'If you find people in my service who are not to be controlledMrs
Pipchin' said Mr Dombeyturning back towards the fire'you know
what to do with themI presume. You know what you are here for? Take
her away!'

'SirI know what to do' retorted Mrs Pipchin'and of course
shall do it' Susan Nipper' snapping her up particularly short'a
month's warning from this hour.'

'Oh indeed!' cried Susanloftily.

'Yes' returned Mrs Pipchin'and don't smile at meyou minxor
I'll know the reason why! Go along with you this minute!'

'I intend to go this minuteyou may rely upon it' said the
voluble Nipper. 'I have been in this house waiting on my young lady a
dozen year and I won't stop in it one hour under notice from a person
owning to the name of Pipchin trust meMrs P.'

'A good riddance of bad rubbish!' said that wrathful old lady. 'Get
along with youor I'll have you carried out!'

'My comfort is' said Susanlooking back at Mr Dombey'that I
have told a piece of truth this day which ought to have been told long
before and can't be told too often or too plain and that no amount of
Pipchinses - I hope the number of 'em mayn't be great' (here Mrs
Pipchin uttered a very sharp 'Go along with you!' and Miss Nipper
repeated the look) 'can unsay what I have saidthough they gave a


whole year full of warnings beginning at ten o'clock in the forenoon
and never leaving off till twelve at night and died of the exhaustion
which would be a Jubilee!'

With these wordsMiss Nipper preceded her foe out of the room; and
walking upstairs to her own apartments in great stateto the choking
exasperation of the ireful Pipchinsat down among her boxes and began
to cry.

From this soft mood she was soon arousedwith a very wholesome and
refreshing effectby the voice of Mrs Pipchin outside the door.

'Does that bold-faced slut' said the fell Pipchin'intend to take
her warningor does she not?'

Miss Nipper replied from within that the person described did not
inhabit that part of the housebut that her name was Pipchinand she
was to be found in the housekeeper's room.

'You saucy baggage!' retorted Mrs Pipchinrattling at the handle
of the door. 'Go along with you this minute. Pack up your things
directly! How dare you talk in this way to a gentle-woman who has seen
better days?'

To which Miss Nipper rejoined from her castlethat she pitied the
better days that had seen Mrs Pipchin; and that for her part she
considered the worst days in the year to be about that lady's mark
except that they were much too good for her.

'But you needn't trouble yourself to make a noise at my door' said
Susan Nipper'nor to contaminate the key-hole with your eyeI'm
packing up and going you may take your affidavit.'

The Dowager expressed her lively satisfaction at this intelligence
and with some general opinions upon young hussies as a raceand
especially upon their demerits after being spoiled by Miss Dombey
withdrew to prepare the Nipper~s wages. Susan then bestirred herself
to get her trunks in orderthat she might take an immediate and
dignified departure; sobbing heartily all the timeas she thought of
Florence.

The object of her regret was not long in coming to herfor the
news soon spread over the house that Susan Nipper had had a
disturbance with Mrs Pipchinand that they had both appealed to Mr
Dombeyand that there had been an unprecedented piece of work in Mr
Dombey's roomand that Susan was going. The latter part of this
confused rumourFlorence found to be so correctthat Susan had
locked the last trunk and was sitting upon it with her bonnet onwhen
she came into her room.

'Susan!' cried Florence. 'Going to leave me! You!'

'Oh for goodness gracious sakeMiss Floy' said Susansobbing
'don't speak a word to me or I shall demean myself before them'
Pipchinsesand I wouldn't have 'em see me cry Miss Floy for worlds!'

'Susan!' said Florence. 'My dear girlmy old friend! What shall I
do without you! Can you bear to go away so?'

'No-n-o-omy darling dear Miss FloyI can't indeed' sobbed
Susan. 'But it can't be helpedI've done my duty' MissI have
indeed. It's no fault of mine. I am quite resigned. I couldn't stay my
month or I could never leave you then my darling and I must at last as
well as at firstdon't speak to me Miss Floyfor though I'm pretty


firm I'm not a marble doorpostmy own dear.'

'What is it? Why is it?' said Florence'Won't you tell me?' For
Susan was shaking her head.

'No-n-nomy darling' returned Susan. 'Don't ask mefor I
mustn'tand whatever you do don't put in a word for me to stopfor
it couldn't be and you'd only wrong yourselfand so God bless you my
own precious and forgive me any harm I have doneor any temper I have
showed in all these many years!'

With which entreatyvery heartily deliveredSusan hugged her
mistress in her arms.

'My darling there's a many that may come to serve you and be glad
to serve you and who'll serve you well and true' said Susan'but
there can't be one who'll serve you so affectionate as me or love you
half as dearlythat's my comfort' Good-byesweet Miss Floy!'

'Where will you goSusan?' asked her weeping mistress.

'I've got a brother down in the country Miss - a farmer in Essex
said the heart-broken Nipper'that keeps ever so many co-o-ows and
pigs and I shall go down there by the coach and sto-op with himand
don't mind mefor I've got money in the Savings Banks my dearand
needn't take another service just yetwhich I couldn'tcouldn't
couldn't domy heart's own mistress!' Susan finished with a burst of
sorrowwhich was opportunely broken by the voice of Mrs Pipchin
talking downstairs; on hearing whichshe dried her red and swollen
eyesand made a melancholy feint of calling jauntily to Mr Towlinson
to fetch a cab and carry down her boxes.

Florencepale and hurried and distressedbut withheld from
useless interference even hereby her dread of causing any new
division between her father and his wife (whose sternindignant face
had been a warning to her a few moments since)and by her
apprehension of being in some way unconsciously connected already with
the dismissal of her old servant and friendfollowedweeping
downstairs to Edith's dressing-roomwhither Susan betook herself to
make her parting curtsey.

'Nowhere's the caband here's the boxesget along with you
do!' said Mrs Pipchinpresenting herself at the same moment. 'I beg
your pardonMa'ambut Mr Dombey's orders are imperative.'

Edithsitting under the hands of her maid - she was going out to
dinner - preserved her haughty faceand took not the least notice.

'There's your money' said Mrs Pipchinwho in pursuance of her
systemand in recollection of the Mineswas accustomed to rout the
servants aboutas she had routed her young Brighton boarders; to the
everlasting acidulation of Master Bitherstone'and the sooner this
house sees your back the better.

Susan had no spirits even for the look that belonged to Ma Pipchin
by right; so she dropped her curtsey to Mrs Dombey (who inclined her
head without one wordand whose eye avoided everyone but Florence)
and gave one last parting hug to her young mistressand received her
parting embrace in return. Poor Susan's face at this crisisin the
intensity of her feelings and the determined suffocation of her sobs
lest one should become audible and be a triumph to Mrs Pipchin
presented a series of the most extraordinary physiognomical phenomena
ever witnessed.


'I beg your pardonMissI'm sure' said Towlinsonoutside the
door with the boxesaddressing Florence'but Mr Toots is in the
drawing-roomand sends his complimentsand begs to know how Diogenes
and Master is.'

Quick as thoughtFlorence glided out and hastened downstairs
where Mr Tootsin the most splendid vestmentswas breathing very
hard with doubt and agitation on the subject of her coming.

'Ohhow de doMiss Dombey' said Mr Toots'God bless my soul!'

This last ejaculation was occasioned by Mr Toots's deep concern at
the distress he saw in Florence's face; which caused him to stop short
in a fit of chucklesand become an image of despair.

'Dear Mr Toots' said Florence'you are so friendly to meand so
honestthat I am sure I may ask a favour of you.

'Miss Dombey' returned Mr Toots'if you'll only name oneyou'll

-you'll give me an appetite. To which' said Mr Tootswith some
sentiment'I have long been a stranger.
'Susanwho is an old friend of minethe oldest friend I have'
said Florence'is about to leave here suddenlyand quite alonepoor
girl. She is going homea little way into the country. Might I ask
you to take care of her until she is in the coach?'

'Miss Dombey' returned Mr Toots'you really do me an honour and a
kindness. This proof of your confidenceafter the manner in which I
was Beast enough to conduct myself at Brighton - '

'Yes' said Florencehurriedly - 'no - don't think of that. Then
would you have the kindness to - to go? and to be ready to meet her
when she comes out? Thank you a thousand times! You ease my mind so
much. She doesn't seem so desolate. You cannot think how grateful I
feel to youor what a good friend I am sure you are!' and Florence in
her earnestness thanked him again and again; and Mr Tootsin his
earnestnesshurried away - but backwardsthat he might lose no
glimpse of her.

Florence had not the courage to go outwhen she saw poor Susan in
the hallwith Mrs Pipchin driving her forthand Diogenes jumping
about herand terrifying Mrs Pipchin to the last degree by making
snaps at her bombazeen skirtsand howling with anguish at the sound
of her voice - for the good duenna was the dearest and most cherished
aversion of his breast. But she saw Susan shake hands with the
servants all roundand turn once to look at her old home; and she saw
Diogenes bound out after the caband want to follow itand testify
an impossibility of conviction that he had no longer any property in
the fare; and the door was shutand the hurry overand her tears
flowed fast for the loss of an old friendwhom no one could replace.
No one. No one.

Mr Tootslike the leal and trusty soul he wasstopped the
cabriolet in a twinklingand told Susan Nipper of his commissionat
which she cried more than before.

'Upon my soul and body!' said Mr Tootstaking his seat beside her.
'I feel for you. Upon my word and honour I think you can hardly know
your own feelings better than I imagine them. I can conceive nothing
more dreadful than to have to leave Miss Dombey.'

Susan abandoned herself to her grief nowand it really was
touching to see her.


'I say' said Mr Toots'nowdon't! at least I mean now doyou
know!'

'Do whatMr Toots!' cried Susan.

'Whycome home to my placeand have some dinner before you
start' said Mr Toots. 'My cook's a most respectable woman - one of
the most motherly people I ever saw - and she'll be delighted to make
you comfortable. Her son' said Mr Tootsas an additional
recommendation'was educated in the Bluecoat School' and blown up in
a powder-mill.'

Susan accepting this kind offerMr Toots conducted her to his
dwellingwhere they were received by the Matron in question who fully
justified his character of herand by the Chicken who at first
supposedon seeing a lady in the vehiclethat Mr Dombey had been
doubled upably to his old recommendationand Miss Dombey abducted.
This gentleman awakened in Miss Nipper some considerable astonishment;
forhaving been defeated by the Larkey Boyhis visage was in a state
of such great dilapidationas to be hardly presentable in society
with comfort to the beholders. The Chicken himself attributed this
punishment to his having had the misfortune to get into Chancery early
in the proceedingswhen he was severely fibbed by the Larkey oneand
heavily grassed. But it appeared from the published records of that
great contest that the Larkey Boy had had it all his own way from the
beginningand that the Chicken had been tappedand bungedand had
received pepperand had been made groggyand had come up pipingand
had endured a complication of similar strange inconveniencesuntil he
had been gone into and finished.

After a good repastand much hospitalitySusan set out for the
coach-office in another cabrioletwith Mr Toots insideas before
and the Chicken on the boxwhowhatever distinction he conferred on
the little party by the moral weight and heroism of his characterwas
scarcely ornamental to itphysically speakingon account of his
plasters; which were numerous. But the Chicken had registered a vow
in secretthat he would never leave Mr Toots (who was secretly pining
to get rid of him)for any less consideration than the good-will and
fixtures of a public-house; and being ambitious to go into that line
and drink himself to death as soon as possiblehe felt it his cue to
make his company unacceptable.

The night-coach by which Susan was to gowas on the point of
departure. Mr Toots having put her insidelingered by the window
irresolutelyuntil the driver was about to mount; whenstanding on
the stepand putting in a face that by the light of the lamp was
anxious and confusedhe said abruptly:

'I saySusan! Miss Dombeyyou know - '

'YesSir.'

'Do you think she could - you know - eh?'

'I beg your pardonMr Toots' said Susan'but I don't hear you.

'Do you think she could be broughtyou know - not exactly at once
but in time - in a long time - to - to love meyou know? There!' said
poor Mr Toots.

'Oh dear no!' returned Susanshaking her head. 'I should say
never. Never!'


'Thank'ee!' said Mr Toots. 'It's of no consequence. Good-night.
It's of no consequencethank'ee!'

CHAPTER 45.

The Trusty Agent

Edith went out alone that dayand returned home early. It was but
a few minutes after ten o'clockwhen her carriage rolled along the
street in which she lived.

There was the same enforced composure on her facethat there had
been when she was dressing; and the wreath upon her head encircled the
same cold and steady brow. But it would have been better to have seen
its leaves and flowers reft into fragments by her passionate handor
rendered shapeless by the fitful searches of a throbbing and
bewildered brain for any resting-placethan adorning such
tranquillity. So obdurateso unapproachableso unrelentingone
would have thought that nothing could soften such a woman's nature
and that everything in life had hardened it.

Arrived at her own doorshe was alightingwhen some one coming
quietly from the halland standing bareheadedoffered her his arm.
The servant being thrust asideshe had no choice but to touch it; and
she then knew whose arm it was.

'How is your patientSir?' she askedwith a curled lip.

'He is better' returned Carker. 'He is doing very well. I have
left him for the night.'

She bent her headand was passing up the staircasewhen he
followed and saidspeaking at the bottom:

'Madam! May I beg the favour of a minute's audience?'

She stopped and turned her eyes back 'It is an unseasonable time
Sirand I am fatigued. Is your business urgent?'

'It is very urgentreturned Carker. 'As I am so fortunate as to
have met youlet me press my petition.'

She looked down for a moment at his glistening mouth; and he looked
up at herstanding above him in her stately dressand thought
againhow beautiful she was.

'Where is Miss Dombey?' she asked the servantaloud.

'In the morning roomMa'am.'

'Show the way there!' Turning her eyes again on the attentive
gentleman at the bottom of the stairsand informing him with a slight
motion of her headthat he was at liberty to followshe passed on.

'I beg your pardon! Madam! Mrs Dombey!' cried the soft and nimble
Carkerat her side in a moment. 'May I be permitted to entreat that
Miss Dombey is not present?'

She confronted himwith a quick lookbut with the same
self-possession and steadiness.


'I would spare Miss Dombey' said Carkerin a low voice'the
knowledge of what I have to say. At leastMadamI would leave it to
you to decide whether she shall know of it or not. I owe that to you.
It is my bounden duty to you. After our former interviewit would be
monstrous in me if I did otherwise.'

She slowly withdrew her eyes from his faceand turning to the
servantsaid'Some other room.' He led the way to a drawing-room
which he speedily lighted up and then left them. While he remained
not a word was spoken. Edith enthroned herself upon a couch by the
fire; and Mr Carkerwith his hat in his hand and his eyes bent upon
the carpetstood before herat some little distance.

'Before I hear youSir' said Edithwhen the door was closed'I
wish you to hear me.'

'To be addressed by Mrs Dombey' he returned'even in accents of
unmerited reproachis an honour I so greatly esteemthat although I
were not her servant in all thingsI should defer to such a wish
most readily.'

'If you are charged by the man whom you have just now leftSir;'
Mr Carker raised his eyesas if he were going to counterfeit
surprisebut she met themand stopped himif such were his
intention; 'with any message to medo not attempt to deliver itfor
I will not receive it. I need scarcely ask you if you are come on such
an errand. I have expected you some time.

'It is my misfortune' he replied'to be herewholly against my
willfor such a purpose. Allow me to say that I am here for two
purposes. That is one.'

'That oneSir' she returned'is ended. Orif you return to it '


'Can Mrs Dombey believe' said Carkercoming nearer'that I would
return to it in the face of her prohibition? Is it possible that Mrs
Dombeyhaving no regard to my unfortunate positionis so determined
to consider me inseparable from my instructor as to do me great and
wilful injustice?'

'Sir' returned Edithbending her dark gaze full upon himand
speaking with a rising passion that inflated her proud nostril and her
swelling neckand stirred the delicate white down upon a robe she
worethrown loosely over shoulders that could hear its snowy
neighbourhood. 'Why do you present yourself to meas you have done
and speak to me of love and duty to my husbandand pretend to think
that I am happily marriedand that I honour him? How dare you venture
so to affront mewhen you know - I do not know betterSir: I have
seen it in your every glanceand heard it in your every word - that
in place of affection between us there is aversion and contemptand
that I despise him hardly less than I despise myself for being his!
Injustice! If I had done justice to the torment you have made me feel
and to my sense of the insult you have put upon meI should have
slain you!'

She had asked him why he did this. Had she not been blinded by her
pride and wrathand self-humiliation- which she wasfiercely as
she bent her gaze upon him- she would have seen the answer in his
face. To bring her to this declaration.

She saw it notand cared not whether it was there or no. She saw
only the indignities and struggles she had undergone and had to


undergoand was writhing under them. As she sat looking fixedly at
themrather than at himshe plucked the feathers from a pinion of
some rare and beautiful birdwhich hung from her wrist by a golden
threadto serve her as a fanand rained them on the ground.

He did not shrink beneath her gazebut stooduntil such outward
signs of her anger as had escaped her control subsidedwith the air
of a man who had his sufficient reply in reserve and would presently
deliver it. And he then spokelooking straight into her kindling
eyes.

'Madam' he said'I knowand knew before to-daythat I have
found no favour with you; and I knew why. Yes. I knew why. You have
spoken so openly to me; I am so relieved by the possession of your
confidence - '

'Confidence!' she repeatedwith disdain.

He passed it over.

' - that I will make no pretence of concealment. I did see from the
firstthat there was no affection on your part for Mr Dombey - how
could it possibly exist between such different subjects? And I have
seensincethat stronger feelings than indifference have been
engendered in your breast - how could that possibly be otherwise
eithercircumstanced as you have been? But was it for me to presume
to avow this knowledge to you in so many words?'

'Was it for youSir' she replied'to feign that other belief
and audaciously to thrust it on me day by day?'

'Madamit was' he eagerly retorted. 'If I had done lessif I had
done anything but thatI should not be speaking to you thus; and I
foresaw - who could better foreseefor who has had greater experience
of Mr Dombey than myself? - that unless your character should prove to
be as yielding and obedient as that of his first submissive lady
which I did not believe - '

A haughty smile gave him reason to observe that he might repeat
this.

'I saywhich I did not believe- the time was likely to come
when such an understanding as we have now arrived atwould be
serviceable.'

'Serviceable to whomSir?' she demanded scornfully.

'To you. I will not add to myselfas warning me to refrain even
from that limited commendation of Mr Dombeyin which I can honestly
indulgein order that I may not have the misfortune of saying
anything distasteful to one whose aversion and contempt' with great
expression'are so keen.'

'Is it honest in youSir' said Edith'to confess to your
limited commendation,and to speak in that tone of disparagement
even of him: being his chief counsellor and flatterer!'

'Counsellor- yes' said Carker. 'Flatterer- no. A little
reservation I fear I must confess to. But our interest and convenience
commonly oblige many of us to make professions that we cannot feel. We
have partnerships of interest and conveniencefriendships of interest
and conveniencedealings of interest and conveniencemarriages of
interest and convenienceevery day.'


She bit her blood-red lip; but without wavering in the darkstern
watch she kept upon him.

'Madam' said Mr Carkersitting down in a chair that was near her
with an air of the most profound and most considerate respect'why
should I hesitate nowbeing altogether devoted to your serviceto
speak plainly? It was natural that a ladyendowed as you areshould
think it feasible to change her husband's character in some respects
and mould him to a better form.'

'It was not natural to meSir' she rejoined. 'I had never any
expectation or intention of that kind.'

The proud undaunted face showed him it was resolute to wear no mask
he offeredbut was set upon a reckless disclosure of itself
indifferent to any aspect in which it might present itself to such as
he.

'At least it was natural' he resumed'that you should deem it
quite possible to live with Mr Dombey as his wifeat once without
submitting to himand without coming into such violent collision with
him. ButMadamyou did not know Mr Dombey (as you have since
ascertained)when you thought that. You did not know how exacting and
how proud he isor how he isif I may say sothe slave of his own
greatnessand goes yoked to his own triumphal car like a beast of
burdenwith no idea on earth but that it is behind him and is to be
drawn onover everything and through everything.'

His teeth gleamed through his malicious relish of this conceitas
he went on talking:

'Mr Dombey is really capable of no more true consideration for you
Madamthan for me. The comparison is an extreme one; I intend it to
be so; but quite just. Mr Dombeyin the plenitude of his powerasked
me - I had it from his own lips yesterday morning - to be his
go-between to youbecause he knows I am not agreeable to youand
because he intends that I shall be a punishment for your contumacy;
and besides thatbecause he really does considerthat Ihis paid
servantam an ambassador whom it is derogatory to the dignity - not
of the lady to whom I have the happiness of speaking; she has no
existence in his mind - but of his wifea part of himselfto
receive. You may imagine how regardless of mehow obtuse to the
possibility of my having any individual sentiment or opinion he is
when he tells meopenlythat I am so employed. You know how
perfectly indifferent to your feelings he iswhen he threatens you
with such a messenger. As youof coursehave not forgotten that he
did.'

She watched him still attentively. But he watched her too; and he
saw that this indication of a knowledge on his partof something that
had passed between herself and her husbandrankled and smarted in her
haughty breastlike a poisoned arrow.

'I do not recall all this to widen the breach between yourself and
Mr DombeyMadam - Heaven forbid! what would it profit me? - but as an
example of the hopelessness of impressing Mr Dombey with a sense that
anybody is to be considered when he is in question. We who are about
himhavein our various positionsdone our partI daresayto
confirm him in his way of thinking; but if we had not done soothers
would - or they would not have been about him; and it has always been
from the beginningthe very staple of his life. Mr Dombey has had to
dealin shortwith none but submissive and dependent personswho
have bowed the kneeand bent the neckbefore him. He has never known
what it is to have angry pride and strong resentment opposed to him.'


'But he will know it now!' she seemed to say; though her lips did
not partnor her eyes falter. He saw the soft down tremble once
againand he saw her lay the plumage of the beautiful bird against
her bosom for a moment; and he unfolded one more ring of the coil into
which he had gathered himself.

'Mr Dombeythough a most honourable gentleman' he said'is so
prone to pervert even facts to his own viewwhen he is at all
opposedin consequence of the warp in his mindthat he - can I give
a better instance than this! - he sincerely believes (you will excuse
the folly of what I am about to say; it not being mine) that his
severe expression of opinion to his present wifeon a certain special
occasion she may rememberbefore the lamented death of Mrs Skewton
produced a withering effectand for the moment quite subdued her!'

Edith laughed. How harshly and unmusically need not be described.
It is enough that he was glad to hear her.

'Madam' he resumed'I have done with this. Your own opinions are
so strongandI am persuadedso unalterable' he repeated those
words slowly and with great emphasis'that I am almost afraid to
incur your displeasure anewwhen I say that in spite of these defects
and my full knowledge of themI have become habituated to Mr Dombey
and esteem him. But when I say soit is notbelieve mefor the mere
sake of vaunting a feeling that is so utterly at variance with your
ownand for which you can have no sympathy' - oh how distinct and
plain and emphasized this was! - 'but to give you an assurance of the
zeal with whichin this unhappy matterI am yoursand the
indignation with which I regard the part I am to fill!'

She sat as if she were afraid to take her eyes from his face.

And now to unwind the last ring of the coil!

'It is growing late' said Carkerafter a pause'and you areas
you saidfatigued. But the second object of this interviewI must
not forget. I must recommend youI must entreat you in the most
earnest mannerfor sufficient reasons that I haveto be cautious in
your demonstrations of regard for Miss Dombey.'

'Cautious! What do you mean?'

'To be careful how you exhibit too much affection for that young
lady.'

'Too much affectionSir!' said Edithknitting her broad brow and
rising. 'Who judges my affectionor measures it out? You?'

'It is not I who do so.' He wasor feigned to beperplexed.

'Who then?'

'Can you not guess who then?'

'I do not choose to guess' she answered.

'Madam' he said after a little hesitation; meantime they had been
and still wereregarding each other as before; 'I am in a difficulty
here. You have told me you will receive no messageand you have
forbidden me to return to that subject; but the two subjects are so
closely entwinedI findthat unless you will accept this vague
caution from one who has now the honour to possess your confidence
though the way to it has been through your displeasureI must violate


the injunction you have laid upon me.'

'You know that you are free to do soSir' said Edith. 'Do it.'

So paleso tremblingso impassioned! He had not miscalculated the
effect then!

'His instructions were' he saidin a low voice'that I should
inform you that your demeanour towards Miss Dombey is not agreeable to
him. That it suggests comparisons to him which are not favourable to
himself. That he desires it may be wholly changed; and that if you are
in earnesthe is confident it will be; for your continued show of
affection will not benefit its object.'

'That is a threat' she said.

'That is a threat' he answeredin his voiceless manner of assent:
adding aloud'but not directed against you.'

Prouderectand dignifiedas she stood confronting him; and
looking through him as she didwith her full bright flashing eye; and
smilingas she waswith scorn and bitterness; she sunk as if the
ground had dropped beneath herand in an instant would have fallen on
the floorbut that he caught her in his arms. As instantaneously she
threw him offthe moment that he touched heranddrawing back
confronted him againimmoveablewith her hand stretched out.

'Please to leave me. Say no more to-night.'

'I feel the urgency of this' said Mr Carker'because it is
impossible to say what unforeseen consequences might ariseor how
soonfrom your being unacquainted with his state of mind. I
understand Miss Dombey is concernednowat the dismissal of her old
servantwhich is likely to have been a minor consequence in itself.
You don't blame me for requesting that Miss Dombey might not be
present. May I hope so?'

'I do not. Please to leave meSir.'

'I knew that your regard for the young ladywhich is very sincere
and strongI am well persuadedwould render it a great unhappiness
to youever to be a prey to the reflection that you had injured her
position and ruined her future hopes' said Carker hurriedlybut
eagerly.

'No more to-night. Leave meif you please.'

'I shall be here constantly in my attendance upon himand in the
transaction of business matters. You will allow me to see you again
and to consult what should be doneand learn your wishes?'

She motioned him towards the door.

'I cannot even decide whether to tell him I have spoken to you yet;
or to lead him to suppose that I have deferred doing sofor want of
opportunityor for any other reason. It will be necessary that you
should enable me to consult with you very soon.

'At any time but now' she answered.

'You will understandwhen I wish to see youthat Miss Dombey is
not to be present; and that I seek an interview as one who has the
happiness to possess your confidenceand who comes to render you
every assistance in his powerandperhapson many occasionsto


ward off evil from her?'

Looking at him still with the same apparent dread of releasing him
for a moment from the influence of her steady gazewhatever that
might beshe answered'Yes!' and once more bade him go.

He bowedas if in compliance; but turning backwhen he had nearly
reached the doorsaid:

'I am forgivenand have explained my fault. May I - for Miss
Dombey's sakeand for my own - take your hand before I go?'

She gave him the gloved hand she had maimed last night. He took it
in one of hisand kissed itand withdrew. And when he had closed the
doorhe waved the hand with which he had taken hersand thrust it in
his breast.

Edith saw no one that nightbut locked her doorand kept herself

alone.

She did not weep; she showed no greater agitationoutwardlythan
when she was riding home. She laid as proud a head upon her pillow as
she had borne in her carriage; and her prayer ran thus:

'May this man be a liar! For if he has spoken truthshe is lost to
meand I have no hope left!'

This manmeanwhilewent home musing to bedthinkingwith a
dainty pleasurehow imperious her passion washow she had sat before
him in her beautywith the dark eyes that had never turned away but
once; how the white down had fluttered; how the bird's feathers had
been strewn upon the ground.

CHAPTER 46.

Recognizant and Reflective

Among sundry minor alterations in Mr Carker's life and habits that
began to take place at this timenone was more remarkable than the
extraordinary diligence with which he applied himself to businessand
the closeness with which he investigated every detail that the affairs
of the House laid open to him. Always active and penetrating in such
mattershis lynx-eyed vigilance now increased twenty-fold. Not only
did his weary watch keep pace with every present point that every day
presented to him in some new formbut in the midst of these
engrossing occupations he found leisure - that ishe made it - to
review the past transactions of the Firmand his share in them
during a long series of years. Frequently when the clerks were all
gonethe offices dark and emptyand all similar places of business
shut upMr Carkerwith the whole anatomy of the iron room laid bare
before himwould explore the mysteries of books and paperswith the
patient progress of a man who was dissecting the minutest nerves and
fibres of his subject. Perchthe messengerwho usually remained on
these occasionsto entertain himself with the perusal of the Price
Current by the light of one candleor to doze over the fire in the
outer officeat the imminent risk every moment of diving head
foremost into the coal-boxcould not withhold the tribute of his
admiration from this zealous conductalthough it much contracted his
domestic enjoyments; and againand againexpatiated to Mrs Perch


(now nursing twins) on the industry and acuteness of their managing
gentleman in the City.

The same increased and sharp attention that Mr Carker bestowed on
the business of the Househe applied to his own personal affairs.
Though not a partner in the concern - a distinction hitherto reserved
solely to inheritors of the great name of Dombey - he was in the
receipt of some percentage on its dealings; andparticipating in all
its facilities for the employment of money to advantagewas
consideredby the minnows among the tritons of the Easta rich man.
It began to be saidamong these shrewd observersthat Jem Carkerof
Dombey'swas looking about him to see what he was worth; and that he
was calling in his money at a good timelike the long-headed fellow
he was; and bets were even offered on the Stock Exchange that Jem was
going to marry a rich widow.

Yet these cares did not in the least interfere with Mr Carker's
watching of his chiefor with his cleannessneatnesssleeknessor
any cat-like quality he possessed. It was not so much that there was a
change in himin reference to any of his habitsas that the whole
man was intensified. Everything that had been observable in him
beforewas observable nowbut with a greater amount of
concentration. He did each single thingas if he did nothing else - a
pretty certain indication in a man of that range of ability and
purposethat he is doing something which sharpens and keeps alive his
keenest powers.

The only decided alteration in him wasthat as he rode to and fro
along the streetshe would fall into deep fits of musinglike that
in which he had come away from Mr Dombey's houseon the morning of
that gentleman's disaster. At such timeshe would keep clear of the
obstacles in his waymechanically; and would appear to see and hear
nothing until arrival at his destinationor some sudden chance or
effort roused him.

Walking his white-legged horse thusto the counting-house of
Dombey and Son one dayhe was as unconscious of the observation of
two pairs of women's eyesas of the fascinated orbs of Rob the
Grinderwhoin waiting a street's length from the appointed place
as a demonstration of punctualityvainly touched and retouched his
hat to attract attentionand trotted along on footby his master's
sideprepared to hold his stirrup when he should alight.

'See where he goes!' cried one of these two womenan old creature
who stretched out her shrivelled arm to point him out to her
companiona young womanwho stood close beside herwithdrawn like
herself into a gateway.

Mrs Brown's daughter looked outat this bidding on the part of Mrs
Brown; and there were wrath and vengeance in her face.

'I never thought to look at him again' she saidin a low voice;
'but it's well I shouldperhaps. I see. I see!'

'Not changed!' said the old womanwith a look of eager malice.

'He changed!' returned the other. 'What for? What has he suffered?
There is change enough for twenty in me. Isn't that enough?'

'See where he goes!' muttered the old womanwatching her daughter
with her red eyes; 'so easy and so trim a-horsebackwhile we are in
the mud.'

'And of it' said her daughter impatiently. 'We are mudunderneath


his horse's feet. What should we be?'

In the intentness with which she looked after him againshe made a
hasty gesture with her hand when the old woman began to replyas if
her view could be obstructed by mere sound. Her mother watching her
and not himremained silent; until her kindling glance subsidedand
she drew a long breathas if in the relief of his being gone.

'Deary!' said the old woman then. 'Alice! Handsome gall Ally!' She
gently shook her sleeve to arouse her attention. 'Will you let him go
like thatwhen you can wring money from him? Whyit's a wickedness
my daughter.'

'Haven't I told youthat I will not have money from him?' she
returned. 'And don't you yet believe me? Did I take his sister's
money? Would I touch a pennyif I knew itthat had gone through his
white hands - unless it wasindeedthat I could poison itand send
it back to him? Peacemotherand come away.

'And him so rich?' murmured the old woman. 'And us so poor!'

'Poor in not being able to pay him any of the harm we owe him'
returned her daughter. 'Let him give me that sort of richesand I'll
take them from himand use them. Come away. Its no good looking at
his horse. Come awaymother!'

But the old womanfor whom the spectacle of Rob the Grinder
returning down the streetleading the riderless horseappeared to
have some extraneous interest that it did not possess in itself
surveyed that young man with the utmost earnestness; and seeming to
have whatever doubts she entertainedresolved as he drew nearer
glanced at her daughter with brightened eyes and with her finger on
her lipand emerging from the gateway at the moment of his passing
touched him on the shoulder.

'Whywhere's my sprightly Rob beenall this time!' she saidas
he turned round.

The sprightly Robwhose sprightliness was very much diminished by
the salutationlooked exceedingly dismayedand saidwith the water
rising in his eyes:

'Oh! why can't you leave a poor cove aloneMisses Brownwhen he's
getting an honest livelihood and conducting himself respectable? What
do you come and deprive a cove of his character forby talking to him
in the streetswhen he's taking his master's horse to a honest stable

-a horse you'd go and sell for cats' and dogs' meat if you had your
way! WhyI thought' said the Grinderproducing his concluding
remark as if it were the climax of all his injuries'that you was
dead long ago!'
'This is the way' cried the old womanappealing to her daughter
'that he talks to mewho knew him weeks and months togethermy
dearyand have stood his friend many and many a time among the
pigeon-fancying tramps and bird-catchers.'

'Let the birds bewill youMisses Brown?' retorted Robin a tone
of the acutest anguish. 'I think a cove had better have to do with
lions than them little creetursfor they're always flying back in
your face when you least expect it. Wellhow d'ye do and what do you
want?' These polite inquiries the Grinder utteredas it were under
protestand with great exasperation and vindictiveness.

'Hark how he speaks to an old friendmy deary!' said Mrs Brown


again appealing to her daughter. 'But there's some of his old friends
not so patient as me. If I was to tell some that he knowsand has
spotted and cheated withwhere to find him - '

'Will you hold your tongueMisses Brown?' interrupted the
miserable Grinderglancing quickly roundas though he expected to
see his master's teeth shining at his elbow. 'What do you take a
pleasure in ruining a cove for? At your time of life too! when you
ought to be thinking of a variety of things!'

'What a gallant horse!' said the old womanpatting the animal's
neck.

'Let him alonewill youMisses Brown?' cried Robpushing away
her hand. 'You're enough to drive a penitent cove mad!'

'Whywhat hurt do I do himchild?' returned the old woman.

'Hurt?' said Rob. 'He's got a master that would find it out if he
was touched with a straw.' And he blew upon the place where the old
woman's hand had rested for a momentand smoothed it gently with his
fingeras if he seriously believed what he said.

The old woman looking back to mumble and mouth at her daughterwho
followedkept close to Rob's heels as he walked on with the bridle in
his hand; and pursued the conversation.

'A good placeRobeh?' said she. 'You're in luckmy child.'

'Oh don't talk about luckMisses Brown' returned the wretched
Grinderfacing round and stopping. 'If you'd never comeor if you'd
go awaythen indeed a cove might be considered tolerable lucky. Can't
you go alongMisses Brownand not foller me!' blubbered Robwith
sudden defiance. 'If the young woman's a friend of yourswhy don't
she take you awayinstead of letting you make yourself so
disgraceful!'

'What!' croaked the old womanputting her face close to hiswith
a malevolent grin upon it that puckered up the loose skin down in her
very throat. 'Do you deny your old chum! Have you lurked to my house
fifty timesand slept sound in a corner when you had no other bed but
the paving-stonesand do you talk to me like this! Have I bought and
sold with youand helped you in my way of businessschoolboysneak
and what notand do you tell me to go along? Could I raise a crowd of
old company about you to-morrow morningthat would follow you to ruin
like copies of your own shadowand do you turn on me with your bold
looks! I'll go. ComeAlice.'

'StopMisses Brown!' cried the distracted Grinder. 'What are you
doing of? Don't put yourself in a passion! Don't let her goif you
please. I haven't meant any offence. I said "how d'ye do at first,
didn't I? But you wouldn't answer. How you do? Besides,' said Rob
piteously, 'look here! How can a cove stand talking in the street with
his master's prad a wanting to be took to be rubbed down, and his
master up to every individgle thing that happens!'

The old woman made a show of being partially appeased, but shook
her head, and mouthed and muttered still.

'Come along to the stables, and have a glass of something that's
good for you, Misses Brown, can't you?' said Rob, 'instead of going
on, like that, which is no good to you, nor anybody else. Come along
with her, will you be so kind?' said Rob. 'I'm sure I'm delighted to
see her, if it wasn't for the horse!'


With this apology, Rob turned away, a rueful picture of despair,
and walked his charge down a bye street' The old woman, mouthing at
her daughter, followed close upon him. The daughter followed.

Turning into a silent little square or court-yard that had a great
church tower rising above it, and a packer's warehouse, and a
bottle-maker's warehouse, for its places of business, Rob the Grinder
delivered the white-legged horse to the hostler of a quaint stable at
the corner; and inviting Mrs Brown and her daughter to seat themselves
upon a stone bench at the gate of that establishment, soon reappeared
from a neighbouring public-house with a pewter measure and a glass.

'Here's master - Mr Carker, child!' said the old woman, slowly, as
her sentiment before drinking. 'Lord bless him!'

'Why, I didn't tell you who he was,' observed Rob, with staring
eyes.

'We know him by sight,' said Mrs Brown, whose working mouth and
nodding head stopped for the moment, in the fixedness of her
attention. 'We saw him pass this morning, afore he got off his horse;
when you were ready to take it.'

'Ay, ay,' returned Rob, appearing to wish that his readiness had
carried him to any other place. - 'What's the matter with her? Won't
she drink?'

This inquiry had reference to Alice, who, folded in her cloak, sat
a little apart, profoundly inattentive to his offer of the replenished
glass.

The old woman shook her head. 'Don't mind her,' she said; 'she's a
strange creetur, if you know'd her, Rob. But Mr Carker

'Hush!' said Rob, glancing cautiously up at the packer's, and at
the bottle-maker's, as if, from any one of the tiers of warehouses, Mr
Carker might be looking down. 'Softly.'

'Why, he ain't here!' cried Mrs Brown.

'I don't know that,' muttered Rob, whose glance even wandered to
the church tower, as if he might be there, with a supernatural power
of hearing.

'Good master?' inquired Mrs Brown.

Rob nodded; and added, in a low voice, 'precious sharp.'

'Lives out of town, don't he, lovey?' said the old woman.

'When he's at home,' returned Rob; 'but we don't live at home just
now.'

'Where then?' asked the old woman.

'Lodgings; up near Mr Dombey's,' returned Rob.

The younger woman fixed her eyes so searchingly upon him, and so
suddenly, that Rob was quite confounded, and offered the glass again,
but with no more effect upon her than before.

'Mr Dombey - you and I used to talk about him, sometimes, you
know,' said Rob to Mrs Brown. 'You used to get me to talk about him.'


The old woman nodded.

'Well, Mr Dombey, he's had a fall from his horse,' said Rob,
unwillingly; 'and my master has to be up there, more than usual,
either with him, or Mrs Dombey, or some of 'em; and so we've come to
town.'

'Are they good friends, lovey?'asked the old woman.

'Who?' retorted Rob.

'He and she?'

'What, Mr and Mrs Dombey?' said Rob. 'How should I know!'

'Not them - Master and Mrs Dombey, chick,' replied the old woman,
coaxingly.

'I don't know,' said Rob, looking round him again. 'I suppose so.
How curious you are, Misses Brown! Least said, soonest mended.'

'Why there's no harm in it!' exclaimed the old woman, with a laugh,
and a clap of her hands. 'Sprightly Rob, has grown tame since he has
been well off! There's no harm in It.

'No, there's no harm in it, I know,' returned Rob, with the same
distrustful glance at the packer's and the bottle-maker's, and the
church; 'but blabbing, if it's only about the number of buttons on my
master's coat, won't do. I tell you it won't do with him. A cove had
better drown himself. He says so. I shouldn't have so much as told you
what his name was, if you hadn't known it. Talk about somebody else.'

As Rob took another cautious survey of the yard, the old woman made
a secret motion to her daughter. It was momentary, but the daughter,
with a slight look of intelligence, withdrew her eyes from the boy's
face, and sat folded in her cloak as before.

'Rob, lovey!' said the old woman, beckoning him to the other end of
the bench. 'You were always a pet and favourite of mine. Now, weren't
you? Don't you know you were?'

'Yes, Misses Brown,' replied the Grinder, with a very bad grace.

'And you could leave me!' said the old woman, flinging her arms
about his neck. 'You could go away, and grow almost out of knowledge,
and never come to tell your poor old friend how fortunate you were,
proud lad! Oho, Oho!'

'Oh here's a dreadful go for a cove that's got a master wide awake
in the neighbourhood!' exclaimed the wretched Grinder. 'To be howled
over like this here!'

'Won't you come and see me, Robby?' cried Mrs Brown. 'Oho, won't
you ever come and see me?'

'Yes, I tell you! Yes, I will!' returned the Grinder.

'That's my own Rob! That's my lovey!' said Mrs Brown, drying the
tears upon her shrivelled face, and giving him a tender squeeze. 'At
the old place, Rob?'

'Yes,' replied the Grinder.


'Soon, Robby dear?' cried Mrs Brown; 'and often?'

'Yes. Yes. Yes,' replied Rob. 'I will indeed, upon my soul and
body.'

'And then,' said Mrs Brown, with her arms uplifted towards the sky,
and her head thrown back and shaking, 'if he's true to his word, I'll
never come a-near him though I know where he is, and never breathe a
syllable about him! Never!'

This ejaculation seemed a drop of comfort to the miserable Grinder,
who shook Mrs Brown by the hand upon it, and implored her with tears
in his eyes, to leave a cove and not destroy his prospects. Mrs Brown,
with another fond embrace, assented; but in the act of following her
daughter, turned back, with her finger stealthily raised, and asked in
a hoarse whisper for some money.

'A shilling, dear!' she said, with her eager avaricious face, 'or
sixpence! For old acquaintance sake. I'm so poor. And my handsome gal'

-looking over her shoulder - 'she's my gal, Rob - half starves me.
But as the reluctant Grinder put it in her hand, her daughter,
coming quietly back, caught the hand in hen, and twisted out the coin.

'What,' she said, 'mother! always money! money from the first, and
to the last' Do you mind so little what I said but now? Here. Take
it!'

The old woman uttered a moan as the money was restored, but without
in any other way opposing its restoration, hobbled at her daughter's
side out of the yard, and along the bye street upon which it opened.
The astonished and dismayed Rob staring after them, saw that they
stopped, and fell to earnest conversation very soon; and more than
once observed a darkly threatening action of the younger woman's hand
(obviously having reference to someone of whom they spoke), and a
crooning feeble imitation of it on the part of Mrs Brown, that made
him earnestly hope he might not be the subject of their discourse.

With the present consolation that they were gone, and with the
prospective comfort that Mrs Brown could not live for ever, and was
not likely to live long to trouble him, the Grinder, not otherwise
regretting his misdeeds than as they were attended with such
disagreeable incidental consequences, composed his ruffled features to
a more serene expression by thinking of the admirable manner in which
he had disposed of Captain Cuttle (a reflection that seldom failed to
put him in a flow of spirits), and went to the Dombey Counting House
to receive his master's orders.

There his master, so subtle and vigilant of eye, that Rob quaked
before him, more than half expecting to be taxed with Mrs Brown, gave
him the usual morning's box of papers for Mr Dombey, and a note for
Mrs Dombey: merely nodding his head as an enjoinder to be careful, and
to use dispatch - a mysterious admonition, fraught in the Grinder's
imagination with dismal warnings and threats; and more powerful with
him than any words.

Alone again, in his own room, Mr Carker applied himself to work,
and worked all day. He saw many visitors; overlooked a number of
documents; went in and out, to and from, sundry places of mercantile
resort; and indulged in no more abstraction until the day's business
was done. But, when the usual clearance of papers from his table was
made at last, he fell into his thoughtful mood once more.

He was standing in his accustomed place and attitude, with his eyes


intently fixed upon the ground, when his brother entered to bring back
some letters that had been taken out in the course of the day. He put
them quietly on the table, and was going immediately, when Mr Carker
the Manager, whose eyes had rested on him, on his entrance, as if they
had all this time had him for the subject of their contemplation,
instead of the office-floor, said:

'Well, John Carker, and what brings you here?'

His brother pointed to the letters, and was again withdrawing.

'I wonder,' said the Manager, 'that you can come and go, without
inquiring how our master is'.

'We had word this morning in the Counting House, that Mr Dombey was
doing well,' replied his brother.

'You are such a meek fellow,' said the Manager, with a smile, '
but you have grown so, in the course of years - that if any harm came
to him, you'd be miserable, I dare swear now.'

'I should be truly sorry, James,' returned the other.

'He would be sorry!' said the Manager, pointing at him, as if there
were some other person present to whom he was appealing. 'He would be
truly sorry! This brother of mine! This junior of the place, this
slighted piece of lumber, pushed aside with his face to the wall, like
a rotten picture, and left so, for Heaven knows how many years he's
all gratitude and respect, and devotion too, he would have me
believe!'

'I would have you believe nothing, James,' returned the other. 'Be
as just to me as you would to any other man below you. You ask a
question, and I answer it.'

'And have you nothing, Spaniel,' said the Manager, with unusual
irascibility, 'to complain of in him? No proud treatment to resent, no
insolence, no foolery of state, no exaction of any sort! What the
devil! are you man or mouse?'

'It would be strange if any two persons could be together for so
many years, especially as superior and inferior, without each having
something to complain of in the other - as he thought, at all events,
replied John Carker. 'But apart from my history here - '

'His history here!' exclaimed the Manager. 'Why, there it is. The
very fact that makes him an extreme case, puts him out of the whole
chapter! Well?'

'Apart from that, which, as you hint, gives me a reason to be
thankful that I alone (happily for all the rest) possess, surely there
is no one in the House who would not say and feel at least as much.
You do not think that anybody here would be indifferent to a mischance
or misfortune happening to the head of the House, or anything than
truly sorry for it?'

'You have good reason to be bound to him too!' said the Manager,
contemptuously. 'Why, don't you believe that you are kept here, as a
cheap example, and a famous instance of the clemency of Dombey and
Son, redounding to the credit of the illustrious House?'

'No,' replied his brother, mildly, 'I have long believed that I am
kept here for more kind and disinterested reasons.


'But you were going,' said the Manager, with the snarl of a
tiger-cat, 'to recite some Christian precept, I observed.'

'Nay, James,' returned the other, 'though the tie of brotherhood
between us has been long broken and thrown away - '

'Who broke it, good Sir?' said the Manager.

'I, by my misconduct. I do not charge it upon you.'

The Manager replied, with that mute action of his bristling mouth,
'Oh, you don't charge it upon me!' and bade him go on.

'I say, though there is not that tie between us, do not, I entreat,
assail me with unnecessary taunts, or misinterpret what I say, or
would say. I was only going to suggest to you that it would be a
mistake to suppose that it is only you, who have been selected here,
above all others, for advancement, confidence and distinction
(selected, in the beginning, I know, for your great ability and
trustfulness), and who communicate more freely with Mr Dombey than
anyone, and stand, it may be said, on equal terms with him, and have
been favoured and enriched by him - that it would be a mistake to
suppose that it is only you who are tender of his welfare and
reputation. There is no one in the House, from yourself down to the
lowest, I sincerely believe, who does not participate in that
feeling.'

'You lie!' said the Manager, red with sudden anger. 'You're a
hypocrite, John Carker, and you lie.'

'James!' cried the other, flushing in his turn. 'What do you mean
by these insulting words? Why do you so basely use them to me,
unprovoked?'

'I tell you,' said the Manager, 'that your hypocrisy and meekness that
all the hypocrisy and meekness of this place - is not worth that
to me,' snapping his thumb and finger, 'and that I see through it as
if it were air! There is not a man employed here, standing between
myself and the lowest in place (of whom you are very considerate, and
with reason, for he is not far off), who wouldn't be glad at heart to
see his master humbled: who does not hate him, secretly: who does not
wish him evil rather than good: and who would not turn upon him, if he
had the power and boldness. The nearer to his favour, the nearer to
his insolence; the closer to him, the farther from him. That's the
creed here!'

'I don't know,' said his brother, whose roused feelings had soon
yielded to surprise, 'who may have abused your ear with such
representations; or why you have chosen to try me, rather than
another. But that you have been trying me, and tampering with me, I am
now sure. You have a different manner and a different aspect from any
that I ever saw m you. I will only say to you, once more, you are
deceived.'

'I know I am,' said the Manager. 'I have told you so.'

'Not by me,' returned his brother. 'By your informant, if you have
one. If not, by your own thoughts and suspicions.'

'I have no suspicions,' said the Manager. 'Mine are certainties.
You pusillanimous, abject, cringing dogs! All making the same show,
all canting the same story, all whining the same professions, all
harbouring the same transparent secret.'


His brother withdrew, without saying more, and shut the door as he
concluded. Mr Carker the Manager drew a chair close before the fire,
and fell to beating the coals softly with the poker.

'The faint-hearted, fawning knaves,' he muttered, with his two
shining rows of teeth laid bare. 'There's not one among them, who
wouldn't feign to be so shocked and outraged - ! Bah! There's not one
among them, but if he had at once the power, and the wit and daring to
use it, would scatter Dombey's pride and lay it low, as ruthlessly as
I rake out these ashes.'

As he broke them up and strewed them in the grate, he looked on
with a thoughtful smile at what he was doing. 'Without the same queen
beckoner too!' he added presently; 'and there is pride there, not to
be forgotten - witness our own acquaintance!' With that he fell into a
deeper reverie, and sat pondering over the blackening grate, until he
rose up like a man who had been absorbed in a book, and looking round
him took his hat and gloves, went to where his horse was waiting,
mounted, and rode away through the lighted streets, for it was
evening.

He rode near Mr Dombey's house; and falling into a walk as he
approached it, looked up at the windows The window where he had once
seen Florence sitting with her dog attracted his attention first,
though there was no light in it; but he smiled as he carried his eyes
up the tall front of the house, and seemed to leave that object
superciliously behind.

'Time was,' he said, 'when it was well to watch even your rising
little star, and know in what quarter there were clouds, to shadow you
if needful. But a planet has arisen, and you are lost in its light.'

He turned the white-legged horse round the street corner, and
sought one shining window from among those at the back of the house.
Associated with it was a certain stately presence, a gloved hand, the
remembrance how the feathers of a beautiful bird's wing had been
showered down upon the floor, and how the light white down upon a robe
had stirred and rustled, as in the rising of a distant storm. These
were the things he carried with him as he turned away again, and rode
through the darkening and deserted Parks at a quick rate.

In fatal truth, these were associated with a woman, a proud woman,
who hated him, but who by slow and sure degrees had been led on by his
craft, and her pride and resentment, to endure his company, and little
by little to receive him as one who had the privilege to talk to her
of her own defiant disregard of her own husband, and her abandonment
of high consideration for herself. They were associated with a woman
who hated him deeply, and who knew him, and who mistrusted him because
she knew him, and because he knew her; but who fed her fierce
resentment by suffering him to draw nearer and yet nearer to her every
day, in spite of the hate she cherished for him. In spite of it! For
that very reason; since in its depths, too far down for her
threatening eye to pierce, though she could see into them dimly, lay
the dark retaliation, whose faintest shadow seen once and shuddered
at, and never seen again, would have been sufficient stain upon her
soul.

Did the phantom of such a woman flit about him on his ride; true to
the reality, and obvious to him?

Yes. He saw her in his mind, exactly as she was. She bore him
company with her pride, resentment, hatred, all as plain to him as her
beauty; with nothing plainer to him than her hatred of him. He saw her
sometimes haughty and repellent at his side, and some times down among


his horse's feet, fallen and in the dust. But he always saw her as she
was, without disguise, and watched her on the dangerous way that she
was going.

And when his ride was over, and he was newly dressed, and came into
the light of her bright room with his bent head, soft voice, and
soothing smile, he saw her yet as plainly. He even suspected the
mystery of the gloved hand, and held it all the longer in his own for
that suspicion. Upon the dangerous way that she was going, he was,
still; and not a footprint did she mark upon it, but he set his own
there, straight'

CHAPTER 47.

The Thunderbolt

The barrier between Mr Dombey and his wife was not weakened by
time. Ill-assorted couple, unhappy in themselves and in each other,
bound together by no tie but the manacle that joined their fettered
hands, and straining that so harshly, in their shrinking asunder, that
it wore and chafed to the bone, Time, consoler of affliction and
softener of anger, could do nothing to help them. Their pride, however
different in kind and object, was equal in degree; and, in their
flinty opposition, struck out fire between them which might smoulder
or might blaze, as circumstances were, but burned up everything within
their mutual reach, and made their marriage way a road of ashes.

Let us be just to him. In the monstrous delusion of his life,
swelling with every grain of sand that shifted in its glass, he urged
her on, he little thought to what, or considered how; but still his
feeling towards her, such as it was, remained as at first. She had the
grand demerit of unaccountably putting herself in opposition to the
recognition of his vast importance, and to the acknowledgment of her
complete submission to it, and so far it was necessary to correct and
reduce her; but otherwise he still considered her, in his cold way, a
lady capable of doing honour, if she would, to his choice and name,
and of reflecting credit on his proprietorship.

Now, she, with all her might of passionate and proud resentment,
bent her dark glance from day to day, and hour to hour - from that
night in her own chamber, when she had sat gazing at the shadows on
the wall, to the deeper night fast coming - upon one figure directing
a crowd of humiliations and exasperations against her; and that
figure, still her husband's.

Was Mr Dombey's master-vice, that ruled him so inexorably, an
unnatural characteristic? It might be worthwhile, sometimes, to
inquire what Nature is, and how men work to change her, and whether,
in the enforced distortions so produced, it is not natural to be
unnatural. Coop any son or daughter of our mighty mother within narrow
range, and bind the prisoner to one idea, and foster it by servile
worship of it on the part of the few timid or designing people
standing round, and what is Nature to the willing captive who has
never risen up upon the wings of a free mind - drooping and useless
soon - to see her in her comprehensive truth!

Alas! are there so few things in the world, about us, most
unnatural, and yet most natural in being so? Hear the magistrate or
judge admonish the unnatural outcasts of society; unnatural in brutal
habits, unnatural in want of decency, unnatural in losing and


confounding all distinctions between good and evil; unnatural in
ignorance, in vice, in recklessness, in contumacy, in mind, in looks,
in everything. But follow the good clergyman or doctor, who, with his
life imperilled at every breath he draws, goes down into their dens,
lying within the echoes of our carriage wheels and daily tread upon
the pavement stones. Look round upon the world of odious sights millions
of immortal creatures have no other world on earth - at the
lightest mention of which humanity revolts, and dainty delicacy living
in the next street, stops her ears, and lisps 'I don't believe it!'
Breathe the polluted air, foul with every impurity that is poisonous
to health and life; and have every sense, conferred upon our race for
its delight and happiness, offended, sickened and disgusted, and made
a channel by which misery and death alone can enter. Vainly attempt to
think of any simple plant, or flower, or wholesome weed, that, set in
this foetid bed, could have its natural growth, or put its little
leaves off to the sun as GOD designed it. And then, calling up some
ghastly child, with stunted form and wicked face, hold forth on its
unnatural sinfulness, and lament its being, so early, far away from
Heaven - but think a little of its having been conceived, and born and
bred, in Hell!

Those who study the physical sciences, and bring them to bear upon
the health of Man, tell us that if the noxious particles that rise
from vitiated air were palpable to the sight, we should see them
lowering in a dense black cloud above such haunts, and rolling slowly
on to corrupt the better portions of a town. But if the moral
pestilence that rises with them, and in the eternal laws of our
Nature, is inseparable from them, could be made discernible too, how
terrible the revelation! Then should we see depravity, impiety,
drunkenness, theft, murder, and a long train of nameless sins against
the natural affections and repulsions of mankind, overhanging the
devoted spots, and creeping on, to blight the innocent and spread
contagion among the pure. Then should we see how the same poisoned
fountains that flow into our hospitals and lazar-houses, inundate the
jails, and make the convict-ships swim deep, and roll across the seas,
and over-run vast continents with crime. Then should we stand appalled
to know, that where we generate disease to strike our children down
and entail itself on unborn generations, there also we breed, by the
same certain process, infancy that knows no innocence, youth without
modesty or shame, maturity that is mature in nothing but in suffering
and guilt, blasted old age that is a scandal on the form we bear.
unnatural humanity! When we shall gather grapes from thorns, and figs
from thistles; when fields of grain shall spring up from the offal in
the bye-ways of our wicked cities, and roses bloom in the fat
churchyards that they cherish; then we may look for natural humanity,
and find it growing from such seed.

Oh for a good spirit who would take the house-tops off, with a mole
potent and benignant hand than the lame demon in the tale, and show a
Christian people what dark shapes issue from amidst their homes, to
swell the retinue of the Destroying Angel as he moves forth among
them! For only one night's view of the pale phantoms rising from the
scenes of our too-long neglect; and from the thick and sullen air
where Vice and Fever propagate together, raining the tremendous social
retributions which are ever pouring down, and ever coming thicker!
Bright and blest the morning that should rise on such a night: for
men, delayed no more by stumbling-blocks of their own making, which
are but specks of dust upon the path between them and eternity, would
then apply themselves, like creatures of one common origin, owing one
duty to the Father of one family, and tending to one common end, to
make the world a better place!

Not the less bright and blest would that day be for rousing some
who never have looked out upon the world of human life around them, to


a knowledge of their own relation to it, and for making them
acquainted with a perversion of nature in their own contracted
sympathies and estimates; as great, and yet as natural in its
development when once begun, as the lowest degradation known.'

But no such day had ever dawned on Mr Dombey, or his wife; and the
course of each was taken.

Through six months that ensued upon his accident, they held the
same relations one towards the other. A marble rock could not have
stood more obdurately in his way than she; and no chilled spring,
lying uncheered by any ray of light in the depths of a deep cave,
could be more sullen or more cold than he.

The hope that had fluttered within her when the promise of her new
home dawned, was quite gone from the heart of Florence now. That home
was nearly two years old; and even the patient trust that was in her,
could not survive the daily blight of such experience. If she had any
lingering fancy in the nature of hope left, that Edith and her father
might be happier together, in some distant time, she had none, now,
that her father would ever love her. The little interval in which she
had imagined that she saw some small relenting in him, was forgotten
in the long remembrance of his coldness since and before, or only
remembered as a sorrowful delusion.

Florence loved him still, but, by degrees, had come to love him
rather as some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as
the hard reality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness
with which she loved the memory of little Paul, or of her mother,
seemed to enter now into her thoughts of him, and to make them, as it
were, a dear remembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and
that partly for this reason, partly for his share in those old objects
of her affection, and partly for the long association of him with
hopes that were withered and tendernesses he had frozen, she could not
have told; but the father whom she loved began to be a vague and
dreamy idea to her: hardly more substantially connected with her real
life, than the image she would sometimes conjure up, of her dear
brother yet alive, and growing to be a man, who would protect and
cherish her.

The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the
change from childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence was
almost seventeen, when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of
these thoughts.'

She was often alone now, for the old association between her and
her Mama was greatly changed. At the time of her father's accident,
and when he was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first
observed that Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable
to reconcile this with her affection when they did meet, she sought
her in her own room at night, once more.

'Mama,' said Florence, stealing softly to her side, 'have I
offended you?'

Edith answered 'No.'

'I must have done something,' said Florence. 'Tell me what it is.
You have changed your manner to me, dear Mama. I cannot say how
instantly I feel the least change; for I love you with my whole
heart.'

'As I do you,' said Edith. 'Ah, Florence, believe me never more
than now!'


'Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?' asked
Florence. 'And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear
Mama? You do so, do you not?'

Edith signified assent with her dark eyes.

'Why?' returned Florence imploringly. 'Tell me why, that I may know
how to please you better; and tell me this shall not be so any more.

'My Florence,' answered Edith, taking the hand that embraced her
neck, and looking into the eyes that looked into hers so lovingly, as
Florence knelt upon the ground before her; 'why it is, I cannot tell
you. It is neither for me to say, nor you to hear; but that it is, and
that it must be, I know. Should I do it if I did not?'

'Are we to be estranged, Mama?' asked Florence, gazing at her like
one frightened.

Edith's silent lips formed 'Yes.'

Florence looked at her with increasing fear and wonder, until she
could see her no more through the blinding tears that ran down her
face.

'Florence! my life!' said Edith, hurriedly, 'listen to me. I cannot
bear to see this grief. Be calmer. You see that I am composed, and is
it nothing to me?'

She resumed her steady voice and manner as she said the latter
words, and added presently:

'Not wholly estranged. Partially: and only that, in appearance,
Florence, for in my own breast I am still the same to you, and ever
will be. But what I do is not done for myself.'

'Is it for me, Mama?' asked Florence.

'It is enough,' said Edith, after a pause, 'to know what it is;
why, matters little. Dear Florence, it is better - it is necessary it
must be - that our association should be less frequent. The
confidence there has been between us must be broken off.'

'When?' cried Florence. 'Oh, Mama, when?'

'Now,' said Edith.

'For all time to come?' asked Florence.

'I do not say that,' answered Edith. 'I do not know that. Nor will
I say that companionship between us is, at the best, an ill-assorted
and unholy union, of which I might have known no good could come. My
way here has been through paths that you will never tread, and my way
henceforth may lie - God knows - I do not see it - '

Her voice died away into silence; and she sat, looking at Florence,
and almost shrinking from her, with the same strange dread and wild
avoidance that Florence had noticed once before. The same dark pride
and rage succeeded, sweeping over her form and features like an angry
chord across the strings of a wild harp. But no softness or humility
ensued on that. She did not lay her head down now, and weep, and say
that she had no hope but in Florence. She held it up as if she were a
beautiful Medusa, looking on him, face to face, to strike him dead.
Yes, and she would have done it, if she had had the charm.


'Mama,' said Florence, anxiously, 'there is a change in you, in
more than what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you a
little.'

'No,' said Edith, 'no, dearest. I am best left alone now, and I do
best to keep apart from you, of all else. Ask me no questions, but
believe that what I am when I seem fickle or capricious to you, I am
not of my own will, or for myself. Believe, though we are stranger to
each other than we have been, that I am unchanged to you within.
Forgive me for having ever darkened your dark home - I am a shadow on
it, I know well - and let us never speak of this again.'

'Mama,' sobbed Florence, 'we are not to part?'

'We do this that we may not part,' said Edith. 'Ask no more. Go,
Florence! My love and my remorse go with you!'

She embraced her, and dismissed her; and as Florence passed out of
her room, Edith looked on the retiring figure, as if her good angel
went out in that form, and left her to the haughty and indignant
passions that now claimed her for their own, and set their seal upon
her brow.

From that hour, Florence and she were, as they had been, no more.
For days together, they would seldom meet, except at table, and when
Mr Dombey was present. Then Edith, imperious, inflexible, and silent,
never looked at her. Whenever Mr Carker was of the party, as he often
was, during the progress of Mr Dombey's recovery, and afterwards,
Edith held herself more removed from her, and was more distant towards
her, than at other times. Yet she and Florence never encountered, when
there was no one by, but she would embrace her as affectionately as of
old, though not with the same relenting of her proud aspect; and
often, when she had been out late, she would steal up to Florence's
room, as she had been used to do, in the dark, and whisper
'Good-night,' on her pillow. When unconscious, in her slumber, of such
visits, Florence would sometimes awake, as from a dream of those
words, softly spoken, and would seem to feel the touch of lips upon
her face. But less and less often as the months went on.

And now the void in Florence's own heart began again, indeed, to
make a solitude around her. As the image of the father whom she loved
had insensibly become a mere abstraction, so Edith, following the fate
of all the rest about whom her affections had entwined themselves, was
fleeting, fading, growing paler in the distance, every day. Little by
little, she receded from Florence, like the retiring ghost of what she
had been; little by little, the chasm between them widened and seemed
deeper; little by little, all the power of earnestness and tenderness
she had shown, was frozen up in the bold, angry hardihood with which
she stood, upon the brink of a deep precipice unseen by Florence,
daring to look down.

There was but one consideration to set against the heavy loss of
Edith, and though it was slight comfort to her burdened heart, she
tried to think it some relief. No longer divided between her affection
and duty to the two, Florence could love both and do no injustice to
either. As shadows of her fond imagination, she could give them equal
place in her own bosom, and wrong them with no doubts

So she tried to do. At times, and often too, wondering speculations
on the cause of this change in Edith, would obtrude themselves upon
her mind and frighten her; but in the calm of its abandonment once
more to silent grief and loneliness, it was not a curious mind.
Florence had only to remember that her star of promise was clouded in


the general gloom that hung upon the house, and to weep and be
resigned.

Thus living, in a dream wherein the overflowing love of her young
heart expended itself on airy forms, and in a real world where she had
experienced little but the rolling back of that strong tide upon
itself, Florence grew to be seventeen. Timid and retiring as her
solitary life had made her, it had not embittered her sweet temper, or
her earnest nature. A child in innocent simplicity; a woman m her
modest self-reliance, and her deep intensity of feeling; both child
and woman seemed at once expressed in her face and fragile delicacy of
shape, and gracefully to mingle there; - as if the spring should be
unwilling to depart when summer came, and sought to blend the earlier
beauties of the flowers with their bloom. But in her thrilling voice,
in her calm eyes, sometimes in a sage ethereal light that seemed to
rest upon her head, and always in a certain pensive air upon her
beauty, there was an expression, such as had been seen in the dead
boy; and the council in the Servants' Hall whispered so among
themselves, and shook their heads, and ate and drank the more, in a
closer bond of good-fellowship.

This observant body had plenty to say of Mr and Mrs Dombey, and of
Mr Carker, who appeared to be a mediator between them, and who came
and went as if he were trying to make peace, but never could. They all
deplored the uncomfortable state of affairs, and all agreed that Mrs
Pipchin (whose unpopularity was not to be surpassed) had some hand in
it; but, upon the whole, it was agreeable to have so good a subject
for a rallying point, and they made a great deal of it, and enjoyed
themselves very much.

The general visitors who came to the house, and those among whom Mr
and Mrs Dombey visited, thought it a pretty equal match, as to
haughtiness, at all events, and thought nothing more about it. The
young lady with the back did not appear for some time after Mrs
Skewton's death; observing to some particular friends, with her usual
engaging little scream, that she couldn't separate the family from a
notion of tombstones, and horrors of that sort; but when she did come,
she saw nothing wrong, except Mr Dombey's wearing a bunch of gold
seals to his watch, which shocked her very much, as an exploded
superstition. This youthful fascinator considered a daughter-in-law
objectionable in principle; otherwise, she had nothing to say against
Florence, but that she sadly wanted 'style' - which might mean back,
perhaps. Many, who only came to the house on state occasions, hardly
knew who Florence was, and said, going home, 'Indeed, was that Miss
Dombey, in the corner? Very pretty, but a little delicate and
thoughtful in appearance!'

None the less so, certainly, for her life of the last six months.
Florence took her seat at the dinner-table, on the day before the
second anniversary of her father's marriage to Edith (Mrs Skewton had
been lying stricken with paralysis when the first came round), with an
uneasiness, amounting to dread. She had no other warrant for it, than
the occasion, the expression of her father's face, in the hasty glance
she caught of it, and the presence of Mr Carker, which, always
unpleasant to her, was more so on this day, than she had ever felt it
before.

Edith was richly dressed, for she and Mr Dombey were engaged in the
evening to some large assembly, and the dinner-hour that day was late.
She did not appear until they were seated at table, when Mr Carker
rose and led her to her chair. Beautiful and lustrous as she was,
there was that in her face and air which seemed to separate her
hopelessly from Florence, and from everyone, for ever more. And yet,
for an instant, Florence saw a beam of kindness in her eyes, when they


were turned on her, that made the distance to which she had withdrawn
herself, a greater cause of sorrow and regret than ever.

There was very little said at dinner. Florence heard her father
speak to Mr Carker sometimes on business matters, and heard him softly
reply, but she paid little attention to what they said, and only
wished the dinner at an end. When the dessert was placed upon the
table, and they were left alone, with no servant in attendance, Mr
Dombey, who had been several times clearing his throat in a manner
that augured no good, said:

'Mrs Dombey, you know, I suppose, that I have instructed the
housekeeper that there will be some company to dinner here to-morrow.

'I do not dine at home,' she answered.

'Not a large party,' pursued Mr Dombey, with an indifferent
assumption of not having heard her; 'merely some twelve or fourteen.
My sister, Major Bagstock, and some others whom you know but
slightly.'

I do not dine at home,' she repeated.

'However doubtful reason I may have, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey,
still going majestically on, as if she had not spoken, 'to hold the
occasion in very pleasant remembrance just now, there are appearances
in these things which must be maintained before the world. If you have
no respect for yourself, Mrs Dombey - '

'I have none,' she said.

'Madam,' cried Mr Dombey, striking his hand upon the table, 'hear
me if you please. I say, if you have no respect for yourself - '

'And I say I have none,' she answered.

He looked at her; but the face she showed him in return would not
have changed, if death itself had looked.

'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, turning more quietly to that gentleman,
'as you have been my medium of communication with Mrs Dombey on former
occasions, and as I choose to preserve the decencies of life, so far
as I am individually concerned, I will trouble you to have the
goodness to inform Mrs Dombey that if she has no respect for herself,
I have some respect for myself, and therefore insist on my
arrangements for to-morrow.

'Tell your sovereign master, Sir,' said Edith, 'that I will take
leave to speak to him on this subject by-and-bye, and that I will
speak to him alone.'

'Mr Carker, Madam,' said her husband, 'being in possession of the
reason which obliges me to refuse you that privilege, shall be
absolved from the delivery of any such message.' He saw her eyes move,
while he spoke, and followed them with his own.

'Your daughter is present, Sir,' said Edith.

'My daughter will remain present,' said Mr Dombey.

Florence, who had risen, sat down again, hiding her face in her
hands, and trembling.

'My daughter, Madam' - began Mr Dombey.


But Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not raised in the
least, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct, that it might have been
heard in a whirlwind.

'I tell you I will speak to you alone,' she said. 'If you are not
mad, heed what I say.'

'I have authority to speak to you, Madam,' returned her husband,
'when and where I please; and it is my pleasure to speak here and
now.'

She rose up as if to leave the room; but sat down again, and
looking at him with all outward composure, said, in the same voice:

'You shall!'

'I must tell you first, that there is a threatening appearance in
your manner, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'which does not become you.

She laughed. The shaken diamonds in her hair started and trembled.
There are fables of precious stones that would turn pale, their wearer
being in danger. Had these been such, their imprisoned rays of light
would have taken flight that moment, and they would have been as dull
as lead.

Carker listened, with his eyes cast down.

'As to my daughter, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, resuming the thread of
his discourse, 'it is by no means inconsistent with her duty to me,
that she should know what conduct to avoid. At present you are a very
strong example to her of this kind, and I hope she may profit by it.'

'I would not stop you now,' returned his wife, immoveable in eye,
and voice, and attitude; 'I would not rise and go away, and save you
the utterance of one word, if the room were burning.'

Mr Dombey moved his head, as if in a sarcastic acknowledgment of
the attention, and resumed. But not with so much self-possession as
before; for Edith's quick uneasiness in reference to Florence, and
Edith's indifference to him and his censure, chafed and galled him
like a stiffening wound.

'Mrs Dombey,' said he, 'it may not be inconsistent with my
daughter's improvement to know how very much to be lamented, and how
necessary to be corrected, a stubborn disposition is, especially when
it is indulged in - unthankfully indulged in, I will add - after the
gratification of ambition and interest. Both of which, I believe, had
some share in inducing you to occupy your present station at this
board.'

'No! I would not rise, and go away, and save you the utterance of
one word,' she repeated, exactly as before, 'if the room were
burning.'

'It may be natural enough, Mrs Dombey,' he pursued, 'that you
should be uneasy in the presence of any auditors of these disagreeable
truths; though why' - he could not hide his real feeling here, or keep
his eyes from glancing gloomily at Florence - 'why anyone can give
them greater force and point than myself, whom they so nearly concern,
I do not pretend to understand. It may be natural enough that you
should object to hear, in anybody's presence, that there is a
rebellious principle within you which you cannot curb too soon; which
you must curb, Mrs Dombey; and which, I regret to say, I remember to


have seen manifested - with some doubt and displeasure, on more than
one occasion before our marriage - towards your deceased mother. But
you have the remedy in your own hands. I by no means forgot, when I
began, that my daughter was present, Mrs Dombey. I beg you will not
forget, to-morrow, that there are several persons present; and that,
with some regard to appearances, you will receive your company in a
becoming manner.

'So it is not enough,' said Edith, 'that you know what has passed
between yourself and me; it is not enough that you can look here,'
pointing at Carker, who still listened, with his eyes cast down, 'and
be reminded of the affronts you have put upon me; it is not enough
that you can look here,' pointing to Florence with a hand that
slightly trembled for the first and only time, 'and think of what you
have done, and of the ingenious agony, daily, hourly, constant, you
have made me feel in doing it; it is not enough that this day, of all
others in the year, is memorable to me for a struggle (well-deserved,
but not conceivable by such as you) in which I wish I had died! You
add to all this, do you, the last crowning meanness of making her a
witness of the depth to which I have fallen; when you know that you
have made me sacrifice to her peace, the only gentle feeling and
interest of my life, when you know that for her sake, I would now if I
could - but I can not, my soul recoils from you too much - submit
myself wholly to your will, and be the meekest vassal that you have!'

This was not the way to minister to Mr Dombey's greatness. The old
feeling was roused by what she said, into a stronger and fiercer
existence than it had ever had. Again, his neglected child, at this
rough passage of his life, put forth by even this rebellious woman, as
powerful where he was powerless, and everything where he was nothing!

He turned on Florence, as if it were she who had spoken, and bade
her leave the room. Florence with her covered face obeyed, trembling
and weeping as she went.

'I understand, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with an angry flush of
triumph, 'the spirit of opposition that turned your affections in that
channel, but they have been met, Mrs Dombey; they have been met, and
turned back!'

'The worse for you!' she answered, with her voice and manner still
unchanged. 'Ay!' for he turned sharply when she said so, 'what is the
worse for me, is twenty million times the worse for you. Heed that, if
you heed nothing else.'

The arch of diamonds spanning her dark hair, flashed and glittered
like a starry bridge. There was no warning in them, or they would have
turned as dull and dim as tarnished honour. Carker still sat and
listened, with his eyes cast down.

'Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, resuming as much as he could of his
arrogant composure, 'you will not conciliate me, or turn me from any
purpose, by this course of conduct.'

'It is the only true although it is a faint expression of what is
within me,' she replied. 'But if I thought it would conciliate you, I
would repress it, if it were repressible by any human effort. I will
do nothing that you ask.'

'I am not accustomed to ask, Mrs Dombey,' he observed; 'I direct.'

'I will hold no place in your house to-morrow, or on any recurrence
of to-morrow. I will be exhibited to no one, as the refractory slave
you purchased, such a time. If I kept my marriage day, I would keep it


as a day of shame. Self-respect! appearances before the world! what
are these to me? You have done all you can to make them nothing to me,
and they are nothing.'

'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, speaking with knitted brows, and after a
moment's consideration, 'Mrs Dombey is so forgetful of herself and me
in all this, and places me in a position so unsuited to my character,
that I must bring this state of matters to a close.'

'Release me, then,' said Edith, immoveable in voice, in look, and
bearing, as she had been throughout, 'from the chain by which I am
bound. Let me go.'

'Madam?' exclaimed Mr Dombey.

'Loose me. Set me free!'

'Madam?' he repeated, 'Mrs Dombey?'

'Tell him,' said Edith, addressing her proud face to Carker, 'that
I wish for a separation between us, That there had better be one. That
I recommend it to him, Tell him it may take place on his own terms his
wealth is nothing to me - but that it cannot be too soon.'

'Good Heaven, Mrs Dombey!' said her husband, with supreme
amazement, 'do you imagine it possible that I could ever listen to
such a proposition? Do you know who I am, Madam? Do you know what I
represent? Did you ever hear of Dombey and Son? People to say that Mr
Dombey - Mr Dombey! - was separated from his wife! Common people to
talk of Mr Dombey and his domestic affairs! Do you seriously think,
Mrs Dombey, that I would permit my name to be banded about in such
connexion? Pooh, pooh, Madam! Fie for shame! You're absurd.' Mr Dombey
absolutely laughed.

But not as she did. She had better have been dead than laugh as she
did, in reply, with her intent look fixed upon him. He had better have
been dead, than sitting there, in his magnificence, to hear her.

'No, Mrs Dombey,' he resumed. 'No, Madam. There is no possibility
of separation between you and me, and therefore I the more advise you
to be awakened to a sense of duty. And, Carker, as I was about to say
to you -

Mr Carker, who had sat and listened all this time, now raised his
eyes, in which there was a bright unusual light'

As I was about to say to you, resumed Mr Dombey, 'I must beg you,
now that matters have come to this, to inform Mrs Dombey, that it is
not the rule of my life to allow myself to be thwarted by anybody anybody,
Carker - or to suffer anybody to be paraded as a stronger
motive for obedience in those who owe obedience to me than I am my
self. The mention that has been made of my daughter, and the use that
is made of my daughter, in opposition to me, are unnatural. Whether my
daughter is in actual concert with Mrs Dombey, I do not know, and do
not care; but after what Mrs Dombey has said today, and my daughter
has heard to-day, I beg you to make known to Mrs Dombey, that if she
continues to make this house the scene of contention it has become, I
shall consider my daughter responsible in some degree, on that lady's
own avowal, and shall visit her with my severe displeasure. Mrs Dombey
has asked whether it is not enough that she had done this and that.
You will please to answer no, it is not enough.'

'A moment!' cried Carker, interposing, 'permit me! painful as my
position is, at the best, and unusually painful in seeming to


entertain a different opinion from you,' addressing Mr Dombey, 'I must
ask, had you not better reconsider the question of a separation. I
know how incompatible it appears with your high public position, and I
know how determined you are when you give Mrs Dombey to understand' the
light in his eyes fell upon her as he separated his words each
from each, with the distinctness of so many bells - 'that nothing but
death can ever part you. Nothing else. But when you consider that Mrs
Dombey, by living in this house, and making it as you have said, a
scene of contention, not only has her part in that contention, but
compromises Miss Dombey every day (for I know how determined you are),
will you not relieve her from a continual irritation of spirit, and a
continual sense of being unjust to another, almost intolerable? Does
this not seem like - I do not say it is - sacrificing Mrs Dombey to
the preservation of your preeminent and unassailable position?'

Again the light in his eyes fell upon her, as she stood looking at
her husband: now with an extraordinary and awful smile upon her face.

'Carker,' returned Mr Dombey, with a supercilious frown, and in a
tone that was intended to be final, 'you mistake your position in
offering advice to me on such a point, and you mistake me (I am
surprised to find) in the character of your advice. I have no more to
say.

'Perhaps,' said Carker, with an unusual and indefinable taunt in
his air, 'you mistook my position, when you honoured me with the
negotiations in which I have been engaged here' - with a motion of his
hand towards Mrs Dombey.

'Not at all, Sir, not at all,' returned the other haughtily. 'You
were employed - '

'Being an inferior person, for the humiliation of Mrs Dombey. I
forgot' Oh, yes, it was expressly understood!' said Carker. 'I beg
your pardon!'

As he bent his head to Mr Dombey, with an air of deference that
accorded ill with his words, though they were humbly spoken, he moved
it round towards her, and kept his watching eyes that way.

She had better have turned hideous and dropped dead, than have
stood up with such a smile upon her face, in such a fallen spirit's
majesty of scorn and beauty. She lifted her hand to the tiara of
bright jewels radiant on her head, and, plucking it off with a force
that dragged and strained her rich black hair with heedless cruelty,
and brought it tumbling wildly on her shoulders, cast the gems upon
the ground. From each arm, she unclasped a diamond bracelet, flung it
down, and trod upon the glittering heap. Without a word, without a
shadow on the fire of her bright eye, without abatement of her awful
smile, she looked on Mr Dombey to the last, in moving to the door; and
left him.

Florence had heard enough before quitting the room, to know that
Edith loved her yet; that she had suffered for her sake; and that she
had kept her sacrifices quiet, lest they should trouble her peace. She
did not want to speak to her of this - she could not, remembering to
whom she was opposed - but she wished, in one silent and affectionate
embrace, to assure her that she felt it all, and thanked her.

Her father went out alone, that evening, and Florence issuing from
her own chamber soon afterwards, went about the house in search of.
Edith, but unavailingly. She was in her own rooms, where Florence had
long ceased to go, and did not dare to venture now, lest she should
unconsciously engender new trouble. Still Florence hoping to meet her


before going to bed, changed from room to room, and wandered through
the house so splendid and so dreary, without remaining anywhere.

She was crossing a gallery of communication that opened at some
little distance on the staircase, and was only lighted on great
occasions, when she saw, through the opening, which was an arch, the
figure of a man coming down some few stairs opposite. Instinctively
apprehensive of her father, whom she supposed it was, she stopped, in
the dark, gazing through the arch into the light. But it was Mr Carker
coming down alone, and looking over the railing into the hall. No bell
was rung to announce his departure, and no servant was in attendance.
He went down quietly, opened the door for himself, glided out, and
shut it softly after him.

Her invincible repugnance to this man, and perhaps the stealthy act
of watching anyone, which, even under such innocent circumstances, is
in a manner guilty and oppressive, made Florence shake from head to
foot. Her blood seemed to run cold. As soon as she could - for at
first she felt an insurmountable dread of moving - she went quickly to
her own room and locked her door; but even then, shut in with her dog
beside her, felt a chill sensation of horror, as if there were danger
brooding somewhere near her.

It invaded her dreams and disturbed the whole night. Rising in the
morning, unrefreshed, and with a heavy recollection of the domestic
unhappiness of the preceding day, she sought Edith again in all the
rooms, and did so, from time to time, all the morning. But she
remained in her own chamber, and Florence saw nothing of her.
Learning, however, that the projected dinner at home was put off,
Florence thought it likely that she would go out in the evening to
fulfil the engagement she had spoken of; and resolved to try and meet
her, then, upon the staircase.

When the evening had set in, she heard, from the room in which she
sat on purpose, a footstep on the stairs that she thought to be
Edith's. Hurrying out, and up towards her room, Florence met her
immediately, coming down alone.

What was Florence's affright and wonder when, at sight of her, with
her tearful face, and outstretched arms, Edith recoiled and shrieked!

'Don't come near me!' she cried. 'Keep away! Let me go by!'

'Mama!' said Florence.

'Don't call me by that name! Don't speak to me! Don't look at me! -
Florence!' shrinking back, as Florence moved a step towards her,
'don't touch me!'

As Florence stood transfixed before the haggard face and staring
eyes, she noted, as in a dream, that Edith spread her hands over them,
and shuddering through all her form, and crouching down against the
wall, crawled by her like some lower animal, sprang up, and fled away.

Florence dropped upon the stairs in a swoon; and was found there by
Mrs Pipchin, she supposed. She knew nothing more, until she found
herself lying on her own bed, with Mrs Pipchin and some servants
standing round her.

'Where is Mama?' was her first question.

'Gone out to dinner,' said Mrs Pipchin.

'And Papa?'


'Mr Dombey is in his own room, Miss Dombey,' said Mrs Pipchin, 'and
the best thing you can do, is to take off your things and go to bed
this minute.' This was the sagacious woman's remedy for all
complaints, particularly lowness of spirits, and inability to sleep;
for which offences, many young victims in the days of the Brighton
Castle had been committed to bed at ten o'clock in the morning.

Without promising obedience, but on the plea of desiring to be very
quiet, Florence disengaged herself, as soon as she could, from the
ministration of Mrs Pipchin and her attendants. Left alone, she
thought of what had happened on the staircase, at first in doubt of
its reality; then with tears; then with an indescribable and terrible
alarm, like that she had felt the night before.

She determined not to go to bed until Edith returned, and if she
could not speak to her, at least to be sure that she was safe at home.
What indistinct and shadowy dread moved Florence to this resolution,
she did not know, and did not dare to think. She only knew that until
Edith came back, there was no repose for her aching head or throbbing
heart.

The evening deepened into night; midnight came; no Edith.

Florence could not read, or rest a moment. She paced her own room,
opened the door and paced the staircase-gallery outside, looked out of
window on the night, listened to the wind blowing and the rain
falling, sat down and watched the faces in the fire, got up and
watched the moon flying like a storm-driven ship through the sea of
clouds.

All the house was gone to bed, except two servants who were waiting
the return of their mistress, downstairs.

One o'clock. The carriages that rumbled in the distance, turned
away, or stopped short, or went past; the silence gradually deepened,
and was more and more rarely broken, save by a rush of wind or sweep
of rain. Two o'clock. No Edith!

Florence, more agitated, paced her room; and paced the gallery
outside; and looked out at the night, blurred and wavy with the
raindrops on the glass, and the tears in her own eyes; and looked up
at the hurry in the sky, so different from the repose below, and yet
so tranquil and solitary. Three o'clock! There was a terror in every
ash that dropped out of the fire. No Edith yet.

More and more agitated, Florence paced her room, and paced the
gallery, and looked out at the moon with a new fancy of her likeness
to a pale fugitive hurrying away and hiding her guilty face. Four
struck! Five! No Edith yet.

But now there was some cautious stir in the house; and Florence
found that Mrs Pipchin had been awakened by one of those who sat up,
had risen and had gone down to her father's door. Stealing lower down
the stairs, and observing what passed, she saw her father come out in
his morning gown, and start when he was told his wife had not come
home. He dispatched a messenger to the stables to inquire whether the
coachman was there; and while the man was gone, dressed himself very
hurriedly.

The man came back, in great haste, bringing the coachman with him,
who said he had been at home and in bed, since ten o'clock. He had
driven his mistress to her old house in Brook Street, where she had
been met by Mr Carker



Florence stood upon the very spot where she had seen him coming
down. Again she shivered with the nameless terror of that sight, and
had hardly steadiness enough to hear and understand what followed.

-Who had told him, the man went on to say, that his mistress would
not want the carriage to go home in; and had dismissed him.
She saw her father turn white in the face, and heard him ask in a
quick, trembling voice, for Mrs Dombey's maid. The whole house was
roused; for she was there, in a moment, very pale too, and speaking
incoherently.

She said she had dressed her mistress early - full two hours before
she went out - and had been told, as she often was, that she would not
be wanted at night. She had just come from her mistress's rooms, but


'But what! what was it?' Florence heard her father demand like a
madman.

'But the inner dressing-room was locked and the key gone.'

Her father seized a candle that was flaming on the ground - someone
had put it down there, and forgotten it - and came running upstairs
with such fury, that Florence, in her fear, had hardly time to fly
before him. She heard him striking in the door, as she ran on, with
her hands widely spread, and her hair streaming, and her face like a
distracted person's, back to her own room.

When the door yielded, and he rushed in, what did he see there? No
one knew. But thrown down in a costly mass upon the ground, was every
ornament she had had, since she had been his wife; every dress she had
worn; and everything she had possessed. This was the room in which he
had seen, in yonder mirror, the proud face discard him. This was the
room in which he had wondered, idly, how these things would look when
he should see them next!

Heaping them back into the drawers, and locking them up in a rage
of haste, he saw some papers on the table. The deed of settlement he
had executed on their marriage, and a letter. He read that she was
gone. He read that he was dishonoured. He read that she had fled, upon
her shameful wedding-day, with the man whom he had chosen for her
humiliation; and he tore out of the room, and out of the house, with a
frantic idea of finding her yet, at the place to which she had been
taken, and beating all trace of beauty out of the triumphant face with
his bare hand.

Florence, not knowing what she did, put on a shawl and bonnet, in a
dream of running through the streets until she found Edith, and then
clasping her in her arms, to save and bring her back. But when she
hurried out upon the staircase, and saw the frightened servants going
up and down with lights, and whispering together, and falling away
from her father as he passed down, she awoke to a sense of her own
powerlessness; and hiding in one of the great rooms that had been made
gorgeous for this, felt as if her heart would burst with grief.

Compassion for her father was the first distinct emotion that made
head against the flood of sorrow which overwhelmed her. Her constant
nature turned to him in his distress, as fervently and faithfully, as
if, in his prosperity, he had been the embodiment of that idea which
had gradually become so faint and dim. Although she did not know,
otherwise than through the suggestions of a shapeless fear, the full
extent of his calamity, he stood before her, wronged and deserted; and
again her yearning love impelled her to his side.


He was not long away; for Florence was yet weeping in the great
room and nourishing these thoughts, when she heard him come back. He
ordered the servants to set about their ordinary occupations, and went
into his own apartment, where he trod so heavily that she could hear
him walking up and down from end to end.

Yielding at once to the impulse of her affection, timid at all
other times, but bold in its truth to him in his adversity, and
undaunted by past repulse, Florence, dressed as she was, hurried
downstairs. As she set her light foot in the hall, he came out of his
room. She hastened towards him unchecked, with her arms stretched out,
and crying 'Oh dear, dear Papa!' as if she would have clasped him
round the neck.

And so she would have done. But in his frenzy, he lifted up his
cruel arm, and struck her, crosswise, with that heaviness, that she
tottered on the marble floor; and as he dealt the blow, he told her
what Edith was, and bade her follow her, since they had always been in
league.

She did not sink down at his feet; she did not shut out the sight
of him with her trembling hands; she did not weep; she did not utter
one word of reproach. But she looked at him, and a cry of desolation
issued from her heart. For as she looked, she saw him murdering that
fond idea to which she had held in spite of him. She saw his cruelty,
neglect, and hatred dominant above it, and stamping it down. She saw
she had no father upon earth, and ran out, orphaned, from his house.

Ran out of his house. A moment, and her hand was on the lock, the
cry was on her lips, his face was there, made paler by the yellow
candles hastily put down and guttering away, and by the daylight
coming in above the door. Another moment, and the close darkness of
the shut-up house (forgotten to be opened, though it was long since
day) yielded to the unexpected glare and freedom of the morning; and
Florence, with her head bent down to hide her agony of tears, was in
the streets.

CHAPTER 48.

The Flight of Florence

In the wildness of her sorrow, shame, and terror, the forlorn girl
hurried through the sunshine of a bright morning, as if it were the
darkness of a winter night. Wringing her hands and weeping bitterly,
insensible to everything but the deep wound in her breast, stunned by
the loss of all she loved, left like the sole survivor on a lonely
shore from the wreck of a great vessel, she fled without a thought,
without a hope, without a purpose, but to fly somewhere anywhere.

The cheerful vista of the long street, burnished by the morning
light, the sight of the blue sky and airy clouds, the vigorous
freshness of the day, so flushed and rosy in its conquest of the
night, awakened no responsive feelings in her so hurt bosom.
Somewhere, anywhere, to hide her head! somewhere, anywhere, for
refuge, never more to look upon the place from which she fled!

But there were people going to and fro; there were opening shops,
and servants at the doors of houses; there was the rising clash and
roar of the day's struggle. Florence saw surprise and curiosity in the


faces flitting past her; saw long shadows coming back upon the
pavement; and heard voices that were strange to her asking her where
she went, and what the matter was; and though these frightened her the
more at first, and made her hurry on the faster, they did her the good
service of recalling her in some degree to herself, and reminding her
of the necessity of greater composure.


Where to go? Still somewhere, anywhere! still going on; but where!
She thought of the only other time she had been lost in the wild
wilderness of London - though not lost as now - and went that way. To
the home of Walter's Uncle.


Checking her sobs, and drying her swollen eyes, and endeavouring to
calm the agitation of her manner, so as to avoid attracting notice,
Florence, resolving to keep to the more quiet streets as long as she
could, was going on more quietly herself, when a familiar little
shadow darted past upon the sunny pavement, stopped short, wheeled
about, came close to her, made off again, bounded round and round her,
and Diogenes, panting for breath, and yet making the street ring with
his glad bark, was at her feet.


'Oh, Di! oh, dear, true, faithful Di, how did you come here? How
could I ever leave you, Di, who would never leave me?'


Florence bent down on the pavement, and laid his rough, old,
loving, foolish head against her breast, and they got up together, and
went on together; Di more off the ground than on it, endeavouring to
kiss his mistress flying, tumbling over and getting up again without
the least concern, dashing at big dogs in a jocose defiance of his
species, terrifying with touches of his nose young housemaids who were
cleaning doorsteps, and continually stopping, in the midst of a
thousand extravagances, to look back at Florence, and bark until all
the dogs within hearing answered, and all the dogs who could come out,
came out to stare at him.


With this last adherent, Florence hurried away in the advancing
morning, and the strengthening sunshine, to the City. The roar soon
grew more loud, the passengers more numerous, the shops more busy,
until she was carried onward in a stream of life setting that way, and
flowing, indifferently, past marts and mansions, prisons, churches,
market-places, wealth, poverty, good, and evil, like the broad river
side by side with it, awakened from its dreams of rushes, willows, and
green moss, and rolling on, turbid and troubled, among the works and
cares of men, to the deep sea.


At length the quarters of the little Midshipman arose in view.
Nearer yet, and the little Midshipman himself was seen upon his post,
intent as ever on his observations. Nearer yet, and the door stood
open, inviting her to enter. Florence, who had again quickened her
pace, as she approached the end of her journey, ran across the road
(closely followed by Diogenes, whom the bustle had somewhat confused),
ran in, and sank upon the threshold of the well-remembered little
parlour.


The Captain, in his glazed hat, was standing over the fire, making
his morning's cocoa, with that elegant trifle, his watch, upon the
chimney-piece, for easy reference during the progress of the cookery.
Hearing a footstep and the rustle of a dress, the Captain turned with
a palpitating remembrance of the dreadful Mrs MacStinger, at the
instant when Florence made a motion with her hand towards him, reeled,
and fell upon the floor.


The Captain, pale as Florence, pale in the very knobs upon his face
raised her like a baby, and laid her on the same old sofa upon which



she had slumbered long ago.

'It's Heart's Delight!' said the Captain, looking intently in her
face. 'It's the sweet creetur grow'd a woman!'

Captain Cuttle was so respectful of her, and had such a reverence
for her, in this new character, that he would not have held her in his
arms, while she was unconscious, for a thousand pounds.

'My Heart's Delight!' said the Captain, withdrawing to a little
distance, with the greatest alarm and sympathy depicted on his
countenance. 'If you can hail Ned Cuttle with a finger, do it!'

But Florence did not stir.

'My Heart's Delight!' said the trembling Captain. 'For the sake of
Wal'r drownded in the briny deep, turn to, and histe up something or
another, if able!'

Finding her insensible to this impressive adjuration also, Captain
Cuttle snatched from his breakfast-table a basin of cold water, and
sprinkled some upon her face. Yielding to the urgency of the case, the
Captain then, using his immense hand with extraordinary gentleness,
relieved her of her bonnet, moistened her lips and forehead, put back
her hair, covered her feet with his own coat which he pulled off for
the purpose, patted her hand - so small in his, that he was struck
with wonder when he touched it - and seeing that her eyelids quivered,
and that her lips began to move, continued these restorative
applications with a better heart.

'Cheerily,' said the Captain. 'Cheerily! Stand by, my pretty one,
stand by! There! You're better now. Steady's the word, and steady it
is. Keep her so! Drink a little drop o' this here,' said the Captain.
'There you are! What cheer now, my pretty, what cheer now?'

At this stage of her recovery, Captain Cuttle, with an imperfect
association of a Watch with a Physician's treatment of a patient, took
his own down from the mantel-shelf, and holding it out on his hook,
and taking Florence's hand in his, looked steadily from one to the
other, as expecting the dial to do something.

'What cheer, my pretty?' said the Captain. 'What cheer now? You've
done her some good, my lad, I believe,' said the Captain, under his
breath, and throwing an approving glance upon his watch. 'Put you back
half-an-hour every morning, and about another quarter towards the
arternoon, and you're a watch as can be ekalled by few and excelled by
none. What cheer, my lady lass!'

'Captain Cuttle! Is it you?' exclaimed Florence, raising herself a
little.

'Yes, yes, my lady lass,' said the Captain, hastily deciding in his
own mind upon the superior elegance of that form of address, as the
most courtly he could think of.

'Is Walter's Uncle here?' asked Florence.

'Here, pretty?' returned the Captain. 'He ain't been here this many
a long day. He ain't been heerd on, since he sheered off arter poor
Wal'r. But,' said the Captain, as a quotation, 'Though lost to sight,
to memory dear, and England, Home, and Beauty!'

'Do you live here?' asked Florence.


'Yes, my lady lass,' returned the Captain.

'Oh, Captain Cuttle!' cried Florence, putting her hands together,
and speaking wildly. 'Save me! keep me here! Let no one know where I
am! I'll tell you what has happened by-and-by, when I can. I have no
one in the world to go to. Do not send me away!'

'Send you away, my lady lass!' exclaimed the Captain. 'You, my
Heart's Delight! Stay a bit! We'll put up this here deadlight, and
take a double turn on the key!'

With these words, the Captain, using his one hand and his hook with
the greatest dexterity, got out the shutter of the door, put it up,
made it all fast, and locked the door itself.

When he came back to the side of Florence, she took his hand, and
kissed it. The helplessness of the action, the appeal it made to him,
the confidence it expressed, the unspeakable sorrow in her face, the
pain of mind she had too plainly suffered, and was suffering then, his
knowledge of her past history, her present lonely, worn, and
unprotected appearance, all so rushed upon the good Captain together,
that he fairly overflowed with compassion and gentleness.

'My lady lass,' said the Captain, polishing the bridge of his nose
with his arm until it shone like burnished copper, 'don't you say a
word to Ed'ard Cuttle, until such times as you finds yourself a riding
smooth and easy; which won't be to-day, nor yet to-morrow. And as to
giving of you up, or reporting where you are, yes verily, and by God's
help, so I won't, Church catechism, make a note on!'

This the Captain said, reference and all, in one breath, and with
much solemnity; taking off his hat at 'yes verily,' and putting it on
again, when he had quite concluded.

Florence could do but one thing more to thank him, and to show him
how she trusted in him; and she did it' Clinging to this rough
creature as the last asylum of her bleeding heart, she laid her head
upon his honest shoulder, and clasped him round his neck, and would
have kneeled down to bless him, but that he divined her purpose, and
held her up like a true man.

'Steady!' said the Captain. 'Steady! You're too weak to stand, you
see, my pretty, and must lie down here again. There, there!' To see
the Captain lift her on the sofa, and cover her with his coat, would
have been worth a hundred state sights. 'And now,' said the Captain,
'you must take some breakfast, lady lass, and the dog shall have some
too. And arter that you shall go aloft to old Sol Gills's room, and
fall asleep there, like a angel.'

Captain Cuttle patted Diogenes when he made allusion to him, and
Diogenes met that overture graciously, half-way. During the
administration of the restoratives he had clearly been in two minds
whether to fly at the Captain or to offer him his friendship; and he
had expressed that conflict of feeling by alternate waggings of his
tail, and displays of his teeth, with now and then a growl or so. But
by this time, his doubts were all removed. It was plain that he
considered the Captain one of the most amiable of men, and a man whom
it was an honour to a dog to know.

In evidence of these convictions, Diogenes attended on the Captain
while he made some tea and toast, and showed a lively interest in his
housekeeping. But it was in vain for the kind Captain to make such
preparations for Florence, who sorely tried to do some honour to them,
but could touch nothing, and could only weep and weep again.


'Well, well!' said the compassionate Captain, 'arter turning in, my
Heart's Delight, you'll get more way upon you. Now, I'll serve out
your allowance, my lad.' To Diogenes. 'And you shall keep guard on
your mistress aloft.'

Diogenes, however, although he had been eyeing his intended
breakfast with a watering mouth and glistening eyes, instead of
falling to, ravenously, when it was put before him, pricked up his
ears, darted to the shop-door, and barked there furiously: burrowing
with his head at the bottom, as if he were bent on mining his way out.

'Can there be anybody there!' asked Florence, in alarm.

'No, my lady lass,' returned the Captain. 'Who'd stay there,
without making any noise! Keep up a good heart, pretty. It's only
people going by.'

But for all that, Diogenes barked and barked, and burrowed and
burrowed, with pertinacious fury; and whenever he stopped to listen,
appeared to receive some new conviction into his mind, for he set to,
barking and burrowing again, a dozen times. Even when he was persuaded
to return to his breakfast, he came jogging back to it, with a very
doubtful air; and was off again, in another paroxysm, before touching
a morsel.

'If there should be someone listening and watching,' whispered
Florence. 'Someone who saw me come - who followed me, perhaps.'

'It ain't the young woman, lady lass, is it?' said the Captain,
taken with a bright idea

'Susan?' said Florence, shaking her head. 'Ah no! Susan has been
gone from me a long time.'

'Not deserted, I hope?' said the Captain. 'Don't say that that
there young woman's run, my pretty!'

'Oh, no, no!' cried Florence. 'She is one of the truest hearts in
the world!'

The Captain was greatly relieved by this reply, and expressed his
satisfaction by taking off his hard glazed hat, and dabbing his head
all over with his handkerchief, rolled up like a ball, observing
several times, with infinite complacency, and with a beaming
countenance, that he know'd it.

'So you're quiet now, are you, brother?' said the Captain to
Diogenes. 'There warn't nobody there, my lady lass, bless you!'

Diogenes was not so sure of that. The door still had an attraction
for him at intervals; and he went snuffing about it, and growling to
himself, unable to forget the subject. This incident, coupled with the
Captain's observation of Florence's fatigue and faintness, decided him
to prepare Sol Gills's chamber as a place of retirement for her
immediately. He therefore hastily betook himself to the top of the
house, and made the best arrangement of it that his imagination and
his means suggested.

It was very clean already; and the Captain being an orderly man,
and accustomed to make things ship-shape, converted the bed into a
couch, by covering it all over with a clean white drapery. By a
similar contrivance, the Captain converted the little dressing-table
into a species of altar, on which he set forth two silver teaspoons, a


flower-pot, a telescope, his celebrated watch, a pocket-comb, and a
song-book, as a small collection of rarities, that made a choice
appearance. Having darkened the window, and straightened the pieces of
carpet on the floor, the Captain surveyed these preparations with
great delight, and descended to the little parlour again, to bring
Florence to her bower.


Nothing would induce the Captain to believe that it was possible
for Florence to walk upstairs. If he could have got the idea into his
head, he would have considered it an outrageous breach of hospitality
to allow her to do so. Florence was too weak to dispute the point, and
the Captain carried her up out of hand, laid her down, and covered her
with a great watch-coat.


'My lady lass!' said the Captain, 'you're as safe here as if you
was at the top of St Paul's Cathedral, with the ladder cast off. Sleep
is what you want, afore all other things, and may you be able to show
yourself smart with that there balsam for the still small woice of a
wounded mind! When there's anything you want, my Heart's Delight, as
this here humble house or town can offer, pass the word to Ed'ard
Cuttle, as'll stand off and on outside that door, and that there man
will wibrate with joy.' The Captain concluded by kissing the hand that
Florence stretched out to him, with the chivalry of any old
knight-errant, and walking on tiptoe out of the room.


Descending to the little parlour, Captain Cuttle, after holding a
hasty council with himself, decided to open the shop-door for a few
minutes, and satisfy himself that now, at all events, there was no one
loitering about it. Accordingly he set it open, and stood upon the
threshold, keeping a bright look-out, and sweeping the whole street
with his spectacles.


'How de do, Captain Gills?' said a voice beside him. The Captain,
looking down, found that he had been boarded by Mr Toots while
sweeping the horizon.


'How are, you, my lad?' replied the Captain.


'Well, I m pretty well, thank'ee, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots.
'You know I'm never quite what I could wish to be, now. I don't expect
that I ever shall be any more.'


Mr Toots never approached any nearer than this to the great theme
of his life, when in conversation with Captain Cuttle, on account of
the agreement between them.


'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'if I could have the pleasure of a
word with you, it's - it's rather particular.'


'Why, you see, my lad,' replied the Captain, leading the way into
the parlour, 'I ain't what you may call exactly free this morning; and
therefore if you can clap on a bit, I should take it kindly.'


'Certainly, Captain Gills,' replied Mr Toots, who seldom had any
notion of the Captain's meaning. 'To clap on, is exactly what I could
wish to do. Naturally.'


'If so be, my lad,' returned the Captain. 'Do it!'


The Captain was so impressed by the possession of his tremendous
secret - by the fact of Miss Dombey being at that moment under his
roof, while the innocent and unconscious Toots sat opposite to him -
that a perspiration broke out on his forehead, and he found it
impossible, while slowly drying the same, glazed hat in hand, to keep



his eyes off Mr Toots's face. Mr Toots, who himself appeared to have
some secret reasons for being in a nervous state, was so unspeakably
disconcerted by the Captain's stare, that after looking at him
vacantly for some time in silence, and shifting uneasily on his chair,
he said:

'I beg your pardon, Captain Gills, but you don't happen to see
anything particular in me, do you?'

'No, my lad,' returned the Captain. 'No.'

'Because you know,' said Mr Toots with a chuckle, 'I kNOW I'm
wasting away. You needn't at all mind alluding to that. I - I should
like it. Burgess and Co. have altered my measure, I'm in that state of
thinness. It's a gratification to me. I - I'm glad of it. I - I'd a
great deal rather go into a decline, if I could. I'm a mere brute you
know, grazing upon the surface of the earth, Captain Gills.'

The more Mr Toots went on in this way, the more the Captain was
weighed down by his secret, and stared at him. What with this cause of
uneasiness, and his desire to get rid of Mr Toots, the Captain was in
such a scared and strange condition, indeed, that if he had been in
conversation with a ghost, he could hardly have evinced greater
discomposure.

'But I was going to say, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots. 'Happening
to be this way early this morning - to tell you the truth, I was
coming to breakfast with you. As to sleep, you know, I never sleep
now. I might be a Watchman, except that I don't get any pay, and he's
got nothing on his mind.'

'Carry on, my lad!' said the Captain, in an admonitory voice.

'Certainly, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots. 'Perfectly true!
Happening to be this way early this morning (an hour or so ago), and
finding the door shut - '

'What! were you waiting there, brother?' demanded the Captain.

'Not at all, Captain Gills,' returned Mr Toots. 'I didn't stop a
moment. I thought you were out. But the person said - by the bye, you
don't keep a dog, you, Captain Gills?'

The Captain shook his head.

'To be sure,' said Mr Toots, 'that's exactly what I said. I knew
you didn't. There is a dog, Captain Gills, connected with - but excuse
me. That's forbidden ground.'

The Captain stared at Mr Toots until he seemed to swell to twice
his natural size; and again the perspiration broke out on the
Captain's forehead, when he thought of Diogenes taking it into his
head to come down and make a third in the parlour.

'The person said,' continued Mr Toots, 'that he had heard a dog
barking in the shop: which I knew couldn't be, and I told him so. But
he was as positive as if he had seen the dog.'

'What person, my lad?' inquired the Captain.

'Why, you see there it is, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, with a
perceptible increase in the nervousness of his manner. 'It's not for
me to say what may have taken place, or what may not have taken place.
Indeed, I don't know. I get mixed up with all sorts of things that I


don't quite understand, and I think there's something rather weak in
my - in my head, in short.'

The Captain nodded his own, as a mark of assent.

'But the person said, as we were walking away,' continued Mr Toots,
'that you knew what, under existing circumstances, might occur - he
said might very strongly - and that if you were requested to
prepare yourself, you would, no doubt, come prepared.'

'Person, my lad' the Captain repeated.

'I don't know what person, I'm sure, Captain Gills,' replied Mr
Toots, 'I haven't the least idea. But coming to the door, I found him
waiting there; and he said was I coming back again, and I said yes;
and he said did I know you, and I said, yes, I had the pleasure of
your acquaintance - you had given me the pleasure of your
acquaintance, after some persuasion; and he said, if that was the
case, would I say to you what I have said, about existing
circumstances and coming prepared, and as soon as ever I saw you,
would I ask you to step round the corner, if it was only for one
minute, on most important business, to Mr Brogley's the Broker's. Now,
I tell you what, Captain Gills - whatever it is, I am convinced it's
very important; and if you like to step round, now, I'll wait here
till you come back.'

The Captain, divided between his fear of compromising Florence in
some way by not going, and his horror of leaving Mr Toots in
possession of the house with a chance of finding out the secret, was a
spectacle of mental disturbance that even Mr Toots could not be blind
to. But that young gentleman, considering his nautical friend as
merely in a state of preparation for the interview he was going to
have, was quite satisfied, and did not review his own discreet conduct
without chuckle

At length the Captain decided, as the lesser of two evils, to run
round to Brogley's the Broker's: previously locking the door that
communicated with the upper part of the house, and putting the key in
his pocket. 'If so be,' said the Captain to Mr Toots, with not a
little shame and hesitation, 'as you'll excuse my doing of it,
brother.'

'Captain Gills,' returned Mr Toots, 'whatever you do, is
satisfactory to me.

The Captain thanked him heartily, and promising to come back in
less than five minutes, went out in quest of the person who had
entrusted Mr Toots with this mysterious message. Poor Mr Toots, left
to himself, lay down upon the sofa, little thinking who had reclined
there last, and, gazing up at the skylight and resigning himself to
visions of Miss Dombey, lost all heed of time and place.

It was as well that he did so; for although the Captain was not
gone long, he was gone much longer than he had proposed. When he came
back, he was very pale indeed, and greatly agitated, and even looked
as if he had been shedding tears. He seemed to have lost the faculty
of speech, until he had been to the cupboard and taken a dram of rum
from the case-bottle, when he fetched a deep breath, and sat down in a
chair with his hand before his face.

'Captain Gills,' said Toots, kindly, 'I hope and trust there's
nothing wrong?'

'Thank'ee, my lad, not a bit,' said the Captain. 'Quite contrairy.'


'You have the appearance of being overcome, Captain Gills,'
observed Mr Toots.

'Why, my lad, I am took aback,' the Captain admitted. 'I am.'

'Is there anything I can do, Captain Gills?' inquired Mr Toots. 'If
there is, make use of me.'

The Captain removed his hand from his face, looked at him with a
remarkable expression of pity and tenderness, and took him by the
hand, and shook it hard.

'No, thank'ee,' said the Captain. 'Nothing. Only I'll take it as a
favour if you'll part company for the present. I believe, brother,'
wringing his hand again, 'that, after Wal'r, and on a different model,
you're as good a lad as ever stepped.'

'Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills,' returned Mr Toots, giving
the Captain's hand a preliminary slap before shaking it again, 'it's
delightful to me to possess your good opinion. Thank'ee.

'And bear a hand and cheer up,' said the Captain, patting him on
the back. 'What! There's more than one sweet creetur in the world!'

'Not to me, Captain Gills,' replied Mr Toots gravely. 'Not to me, I
assure you. The state of my feelings towards Miss Dombey is of that
unspeakable description, that my heart is a desert island, and she
lives in it alone. I'm getting more used up every day, and I'm proud
to be so. If you could see my legs when I take my boots off, you'd
form some idea of what unrequited affection is. I have been prescribed
bark, but I don't take it, for I don't wish to have any tone whatever
given to my constitution. I'd rather not. This, however, is forbidden
ground. Captain Gills, goodbye!'

Captain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth of Mr Toots's
farewell, locked the door behind him, and shaking his head with the
same remarkable expression of pity and tenderness as he had regarded
him with before, went up to see if Florence wanted him.

There was an entire change in the Captain's face as he went
upstairs. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and he polished the
bridge of his nose with his sleeve as he had done already that
morning, but his face was absolutely changed. Now, he might have been
thought supremely happy; now, he might have been thought sad; but the
kind of gravity that sat upon his features was quite new to them, and
was as great an improvement to them as if they had undergone some
sublimating process.

He knocked softly, with his hook, at Florence's door, twice or
thrice; but, receiving no answer, ventured first to peep in, and then
to enter: emboldened to take the latter step, perhaps, by the familiar
recognition of Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side of
her couch, wagged his tail, and winked his eyes at the Captain,
without being at the trouble of getting up.

She was sleeping heavily, and moaning in her sleep; and Captain
Cuttle, with a perfect awe of her youth, and beauty, and her sorrow,
raised her head, and adjusted the coat that covered her, where it had
fallen off, and darkened the window a little more that she might sleep
on, and crept out again, and took his post of watch upon the stairs.
All this, with a touch and tread as light as Florence's own.

Long may it remain in this mixed world a point not easy of


decision, which is the more beautiful evidence of the Almighty's
goodness - the delicate fingers that are formed for sensitiveness and
sympathy of touch, and made to minister to pain and grief, or the
rough hard Captain Cuttle hand, that the heart teaches, guides, and
softens in a moment!

Florence slept upon her couch, forgetful of her homelessness and
orphanage, and Captain Cuttle watched upon the stairs. A louder sob or
moan than usual, brought him sometimes to her door; but by degrees she
slept more peacefully, and the Captain's watch was undisturbed.

CHAPTER 49.

The Midshipman makes a Discovery

It was long before Florence awoke. The day was in its prime, the
day was in its wane, and still, uneasy in mind and body, she slept on;
unconscious of her strange bed, of the noise and turmoil in the
street, and of the light that shone outside the shaded window. Perfect
unconsciousness of what had happened in the home that existed no more,
even the deep slumber of exhaustion could not produce. Some undefined
and mournful recollection of it, dozing uneasily but never sleeping,
pervaded all her rest. A dull sorrow, like a half-lulled sense of
pain, was always present to her; and her pale cheek was oftener wet
with tears than the honest Captain, softly putting in his head from
time to time at the half-closed door, could have desired to see it.

The sun was getting low in the west, and, glancing out of a red
mist, pierced with its rays opposite loopholes and pieces of fretwork
in the spires of city churches, as if with golden arrows that struck
through and through them - and far away athwart the river and its flat
banks, it was gleaming like a path of fire - and out at sea it was
irradiating sails of ships - and, looked towards, from quiet
churchyards, upon hill-tops in the country, it was steeping distant
prospects in a flush and glow that seemed to mingle earth and sky
together in one glorious suffusion - when Florence, opening her heavy
eyes, lay at first, looking without interest or recognition at the
unfamiliar walls around her, and listening in the same regardless
manner to the noises in the street. But presently she started up upon
her couch, gazed round with a surprised and vacant look, and
recollected all.

'My pretty,' said the Captain, knocking at the door, 'what cheer?'

'Dear friend,' cried Florence, hurrying to him, 'is it you?'

The Captain felt so much pride in the name, and was so pleased by
the gleam of pleasure in her face, when she saw him, that he kissed
his hook, by way of reply, in speechless gratification.

'What cheer, bright di'mond?' said the Captain.

'I have surely slept very long,' returned Florence. 'When did I
come here? Yesterday?'

'This here blessed day, my lady lass,' replied the Captain.

'Has there been no night? Is it still day?' asked Florence.

'Getting on for evening now, my pretty,' said the Captain, drawing


back the curtain of the window. 'See!'

Florence, with her hand upon the Captain's arm, so sorrowful and
timid, and the Captain with his rough face and burly figure, so
quietly protective of her, stood in the rosy light of the bright
evening sky, without saying a word. However strange the form of speech
into which he might have fashioned the feeling, if he had had to give
it utterance, the Captain felt, as sensibly as the most eloquent of
men could have done, that there was something in the tranquil time and
in its softened beauty that would make the wounded heart of Florence
overflow; and that it was better that such tears should have their
way. So not a word spake Captain Cuttle. But when he felt his arm
clasped closer, and when he felt the lonely head come nearer to it,
and lay itself against his homely coarse blue sleeve, he pressed it
gently with his rugged hand, and understood it, and was understood.

'Better now, my pretty!' said the Captain. 'Cheerily, cheerily,
I'll go down below, and get some dinner ready. Will you come down of
your own self, arterwards, pretty, or shall Ed'ard Cuttle come and
fetch you?'

As Florence assured him that she was quite able to walk downstairs,
the Captain, though evidently doubtful of his own hospitality in
permitting it, left her to do so, and immediately set about roasting a
fowl at the fire in the little parlour. To achieve his cookery with
the greater skill, he pulled off his coat, tucked up his wristbands,
and put on his glazed hat, without which assistant he never applied
himself to any nice or difficult undertaking.

After cooling her aching head and burning face in the fresh water
which the Captain's care had provided for her while she slept,
Florence went to the little mirror to bind up her disordered hair.
Then she knew - in a moment, for she shunned it instantly, that on her
breast there was the darkening mark of an angry hand.

Her tears burst forth afresh at the sight; she was ashamed and
afraid of it; but it moved her to no anger against him. Homeless and
fatherless, she forgave him everything; hardly thought that she had
need to forgive him, or that she did; but she fled from the idea of
him as she had fled from the reality, and he was utterly gone and
lost. There was no such Being in the world.

What to do, or where to live, Florence - poor, inexperienced girl!

-could not yet consider. She had indistinct dreams of finding, a long
way off, some little sisters to instruct, who would be gentle with
her, and to whom, under some feigned name, she might attach herself,
and who would grow up in their happy home, and marry, and be good to
their old governess, and perhaps entrust her, in time, with the
education of their own daughters. And she thought how strange and
sorrowful it would be, thus to become a grey-haired woman, carrying
her secret to the grave, when Florence Dombey was forgotten. But it
was all dim and clouded to her now. She only knew that she had no
Father upon earth, and she said so, many times, with her suppliant
head hidden from all, but her Father who was in Heaven.
Her little stock of money amounted to but a few guineas. With a
part of this, it would be necessary to buy some clothes, for she had
none but those she wore. She was too desolate to think how soon her
money would be gone - too much a child in worldly matters to be
greatly troubled on that score yet, even if her other trouble had been
less. She tried to calm her thoughts and stay her tears; to quiet the
hurry in her throbbing head, and bring herself to believe that what
had happened were but the events of a few hours ago, instead of weeks
or months, as they appeared; and went down to her kind protector.


The Captain had spread the cloth with great care, and was making
some egg-sauce in a little saucepan: basting the fowl from time to
time during the process with a strong interest, as it turned and
browned on a string before the fire. Having propped Florence up with
cushions on the sofa, which was already wheeled into a warm corner for
her greater comfort, the Captain pursued his cooking with
extraordinary skill, making hot gravy in a second little saucepan,
boiling a handful of potatoes in a third, never forgetting the
egg-sauce in the first, and making an impartial round of basting and
stirring with the most useful of spoons every minute. Besides these
cares, the Captain had to keep his eye on a diminutive frying-pan, in
which some sausages were hissing and bubbling in a most musical
manner; and there was never such a radiant cook as the Captain looked,
in the height and heat of these functions: it being impossible to say
whether his face or his glazed hat shone the brighter.

The dinner being at length quite ready, Captain Cuttle dished and
served it up, with no less dexterity than he had cooked it. He then
dressed for dinner, by taking off his glazed hat and putting on his
coat. That done, he wheeled the table close against Florence on the
sofa, said grace, unscrewed his hook, screwed his fork into its place,
and did the honours of the table

'My lady lass,' said the Captain, 'cheer up, and try to eat a deal.
Stand by, my deary! Liver wing it is. Sarse it is. Sassage it is. And
potato!' all which the Captain ranged symmetrically on a plate, and
pouring hot gravy on the whole with the useful spoon, set before his
cherished guest.

'The whole row o' dead lights is up, for'ard, lady lass,' observed
the Captain, encouragingly, 'and everythink is made snug. Try and pick
a bit, my pretty. If Wal'r was here - '

'Ah! If I had him for my brother now!' cried Florence.

'Don't! don't take on, my pretty!' said the Captain, 'awast, to
obleege me! He was your nat'ral born friend like, warn't he, Pet?'

Florence had no words to answer with. She only said, 'Oh, dear,
dear Paul! oh, Walter!'

'The wery planks she walked on,' murmured the Captain, looking at
her drooping face, 'was as high esteemed by Wal'r, as the water brooks
is by the hart which never rejices! I see him now, the wery day as he
was rated on them Dombey books, a speaking of her with his face a
glistening with doo - leastways with his modest sentiments - like a
new blowed rose, at dinner. Well, well! If our poor Wal'r was here, my
lady lass - or if he could be - for he's drownded, ain't he?'

Florence shook her head.

'Yes, yes; drownded,' said the Captain, soothingly; 'as I was
saying, if he could be here he'd beg and pray of you, my precious, to
pick a leetle bit, with a look-out for your own sweet health. Whereby,
hold your own, my lady lass, as if it was for Wal'r's sake, and lay
your pretty head to the wind.'

Florence essayed to eat a morsel, for the Captain's pleasure. The
Captain, meanwhile, who seemed to have quite forgotten his own dinner,
laid down his knife and fork, and drew his chair to the sofa.

'Wal'r was a trim lad, warn't he, precious?' said the Captain,
after sitting for some time silently rubbing his chin, with his eyes


fixed upon her, 'and a brave lad, and a good lad?'

Florence tearfully assented.

'And he's drownded, Beauty, ain't he?' said the Captain, in a
soothing voice.

Florence could not but assent again.

'He was older than you, my lady lass,' pursued the Captain, 'but
you was like two children together, at first; wam't you?'

Florence answered 'Yes.'

'And Wal'r's drownded,' said the Captain. 'Ain't he?'

The repetition of this inquiry was a curious source of consolation,
but it seemed to be one to Captain Cuttle, for he came back to it
again and again. Florence, fain to push from her her untasted dinner,
and to lie back on her sofa, gave him her hand, feeling that she had
disappointed him, though truly wishing to have pleased him after all
his trouble, but he held it in his own (which shook as he held it),
and appearing to have quite forgotten all about the dinner and her
want of appetite, went on growling at intervals, in a ruminating tone
of sympathy, 'Poor Wal'r. Ay, ay! Drownded. Ain't he?' And always
waited for her answer, in which the great point of these singular
reflections appeared to consist.

The fowl and sausages were cold, and the gravy and the egg-sauce
stagnant, before the Captain remembered that they were on the board,
and fell to with the assistance of Diogenes, whose united efforts
quickly dispatched the banquet. The Captain's delight and wonder at
the quiet housewifery of Florence in assisting to clear the table,
arrange the parlour, and sweep up the hearth - only to be equalled by
the fervency of his protest when she began to assist him - were
gradually raised to that degree, that at last he could not choose but
do nothing himself, and stand looking at her as if she were some
Fairy, daintily performing these offices for him; the red rim on his
forehead glowing again, in his unspeakable admiration.

But when Florence, taking down his pipe from the mantel-shelf gave
it into his hand, and entreated him to smoke it, the good Captain was
so bewildered by her attention that he held it as if he had never held
a pipe, in all his life. Likewise, when Florence, looking into the
little cupboard, took out the case-bottle and mixed a perfect glass of
grog for him, unasked, and set it at his elbow, his ruddy nose turned
pale, he felt himself so graced and honoured. When he had filled his
pipe in an absolute reverie of satisfaction, Florence lighted it for
him - the Captain having no power to object, or to prevent her - and
resuming her place on the old sofa, looked at him with a smile so
loving and so grateful, a smile that showed him so plainly how her
forlorn heart turned to him, as her face did, through grief, that the
smoke of the pipe got into the Captain's throat and made him cough,
and got into the Captain's eyes, and made them blink and water.

The manner in which the Captain tried to make believe that the
cause of these effects lay hidden in the pipe itself, and the way in
which he looked into the bowl for it, and not finding it there,
pretended to blow it out of the stem, was wonderfully pleasant. The
pipe soon getting into better condition, he fell into that state of
repose becoming a good smoker; but sat with his eyes fixed on
Florence, and, with a beaming placidity not to be described, and
stopping every now and then to discharge a little cloud from his lips,
slowly puffed it forth, as if it were a scroll coming out of his


mouth, bearing the legend 'Poor Wal'r, ay, ay. Drownded, ain't he?'
after which he would resume his smoking with infinite gentleness.

Unlike as they were externally - and there could scarcely be a more
decided contrast than between Florence in her delicate youth and
beauty, and Captain Cuttle with his knobby face, his great broad
weather-beaten person, and his gruff voice - in simple innocence of
the world's ways and the world's perplexities and dangers, they were
nearly on a level. No child could have surpassed Captain Cuttle in
inexperience of everything but wind and weather; in simplicity,
credulity, and generous trustfulness. Faith, hope, and charity, shared
his whole nature among them. An odd sort of romance, perfectly
unimaginative, yet perfectly unreal, and subject to no considerations
of worldly prudence or practicability, was the only partner they had
in his character. As the Captain sat, and smoked, and looked at
Florence, God knows what impossible pictures, in which she was the
principal figure, presented themselves to his mind. Equally vague and
uncertain, though not so sanguine, were her own thoughts of the life
before her; and even as her tears made prismatic colours in the light
she gazed at, so, through her new and heavy grief, she already saw a
rainbow faintly shining in the far-off sky. A wandering princess and a
good monster in a storybook might have sat by the fireside, and talked
as Captain Cuttle and poor Florence talked - and not have looked very
much unlike them.

The Captain was not troubled with the faintest idea of any
difficulty in retaining Florence, or of any responsibility thereby
incurred. Having put up the shutters and locked the door, he was quite
satisfied on this head. If she had been a Ward in Chancery, it would
have made no difference at all to Captain Cuttle. He was the last man
in the world to be troubled by any such considerations.

So the Captain smoked his pipe very comfortably, and Florence and
he meditated after their own manner. When the pipe was out, they had
some tea; and then Florence entreated him to take her to some
neighbouring shop, where she could buy the few necessaries she
immediately wanted. It being quite dark, the Captain consented:
peeping carefully out first, as he had been wont to do in his time of
hiding from Mrs MacStinger; and arming himself with his large stick,
in case of an appeal to arms being rendered necessary by any
unforeseen circumstance.

The pride Captain Cuttle had, in giving his arm to Florence, and
escorting her some two or three hundred yards, keeping a bright
look-out all the time, and attracting the attention of everyone who
passed them, by his great vigilance and numerous precautions, was
extreme. Arrived at the shop, the Captain felt it a point of delicacy
to retire during the making of the purchases, as they were to consist
of wearing apparel; but he previously deposited his tin canister on
the counter, and informing the young lady of the establishment that it
contained fourteen pound two, requested her, in case that amount of
property should not be sufficient to defray the expenses of his
niece's little outfit - at the word 'niece,' he bestowed a most
significant look on Florence, accompanied with pantomime, expressive
of sagacity and mystery - to have the goodness to 'sing out,' and he
would make up the difference from his pocket. Casually consulting his
big watch, as a deep means of dazzling the establishment, and
impressing it with a sense of property, the Captain then kissed his
hook to his niece, and retired outside the window, where it was a
choice sight to see his great face looking in from time to time, among
the silks and ribbons, with an obvious misgiving that Florence had
been spirited away by a back door.

'Dear Captain Cuttle,' said Florence, when she came out with a


parcel, the size of which greatly disappointed the Captain, who had
expected to see a porter following with a bale of goods, 'I don't want
this money, indeed. I have not spent any of it. I have money of my
own.'

'My lady lass,' returned the baffled Captain, looking straight down
the street before them, 'take care on it for me, will you be so good,
till such time as I ask ye for it?'

'May I put it back in its usual place,' said Florence, 'and keep it
there?'

The Captain was not at all gratified by this proposal, but he
answered, 'Ay, ay, put it anywheres, my lady lass, so long as you know
where to find it again. It ain't o' no use to me,' said the Captain.
'I wonder I haven't chucked it away afore now.

The Captain was quite disheartened for the moment, but he revived
at the first touch of Florence's arm, and they returned with the same
precautions as they had come; the Captain opening the door of the
little Midshipman's berth, and diving in, with a suddenness which his
great practice only could have taught him. During Florence's slumber
in the morning, he had engaged the daughter of an elderly lady who
usually sat under a blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, selling
poultry, to come and put her room in order, and render her any little
services she required; and this damsel now appearing, Florence found
everything about her as convenient and orderly, if not as handsome, as
in the terrible dream she had once called Home.

When they were alone again, the Captain insisted on her eating a
slice of dry toast' and drinking a glass of spiced negus (which he
made to perfection); and, encouraging her with every kind word and
inconsequential quotation be could possibly think of, led her upstairs
to her bedroom. But he too had something on his mind, and was not easy
in his manner.

'Good-night, dear heart,' said Captain Cuttle to her at her
chamber-door.

Florence raised her lips to his face, and kissed him.

At any other time the Captain would have been overbalanced by such
a token of her affection and gratitude; but now, although he was very
sensible of it, he looked in her face with even more uneasiness than
he had testified before, and seemed unwilling to leave her.

'Poor Wal'r!' said the Captain.

'Poor, poor Walter!' sighed Florence.

'Drownded, ain't he?' said the Captain.

Florence shook her head, and sighed.

'Good-night, my lady lass!' said Captain Cuttle, putting out his
hand.

'God bless you, dear, kind friend!'

But the Captain lingered still.

'Is anything the matter, dear Captain Cuttle?' said Florence,
easily alarmed in her then state of mind. 'Have you anything to tell
me?'


'To tell you, lady lass!' replied the Captain, meeting her eyes in
confusion. 'No, no; what should I have to tell you, pretty! You don't
expect as I've got anything good to tell you, sure?'

'No!' said Florence, shaking her head.

The Captain looked at her wistfully, and repeated 'No,' - ' still
lingering, and still showing embarrassment.

'Poor Wal'r!' said the Captain. 'My Wal'r, as I used to call you!
Old Sol Gills's nevy! Welcome to all as knowed you, as the flowers in
May! Where are you got to, brave boy? Drownded, ain't he?'

Concluding his apostrophe with this abrupt appeal to Florence, the
Captain bade her good-night, and descended the stairs, while Florence
remained at the top, holding the candle out to light him down. He was
lost in the obscurity, and, judging from the sound of his receding
footsteps, was in the act of turning into the little parlour, when his
head and shoulders unexpectedly emerged again, as from the deep,
apparently for no other purpose than to repeat, 'Drownded, ain't he,
pretty?' For when he had said that in a tone of tender condolence, he
disappeared.

Florence was very sorry that she should unwittingly, though
naturally, have awakened these associations in the mind of her
protector, by taking refuge there; and sitting down before the little
table where the Captain had arranged the telescope and song-book, and
those other rarities, thought of Walter, and of all that was connected
with him in the past, until she could have almost wished to lie down
on her bed and fade away. But in her lonely yearning to the dead whom
she had loved, no thought of home - no possibility of going back - no
presentation of it as yet existing, or as sheltering her father - once
entered her thoughts. She had seen the murder done. In the last
lingering natural aspect in which she had cherished him through so
much, he had been torn out of her heart, defaced, and slain. The
thought of it was so appalling to her, that she covered her eyes, and
shrunk trembling from the least remembrance of the deed, or of the
cruel hand that did it. If her fond heart could have held his image
after that, it must have broken; but it could not; and the void was
filled with a wild dread that fled from all confronting with its
shattered fragments - with such a dread as could have risen out of
nothing but the depths of such a love, so wronged.

She dared not look into the glass; for the sight of the darkening
mark upon her bosom made her afraid of herself, as if she bore about
her something wicked. She covered it up, with a hasty, faltering hand,
and in the dark; and laid her weary head down, weeping.

The Captain did not go to bed for a long time. He walked to and fro
in the shop and in the little parlour, for a full hour, and, appearing
to have composed himself by that exercise, sat down with a grave and
thoughtful face, and read out of a Prayer-book the forms of prayer
appointed to be used at sea. These were not easily disposed of; the
good Captain being a mighty slow, gruff reader, and frequently
stopping at a hard word to give himself such encouragement as Now, my
lad! With a will!' or, 'Steady, Ed'ard Cuttle, steady!' which had a
great effect in helping him out of any difficulty. Moreover, his
spectacles greatly interfered with his powers of vision. But
notwithstanding these drawbacks, the Captain, being heartily in
earnest, read the service to the very last line, and with genuine
feeling too; and approving of it very much when he had done, turned
in, under the counter (but not before he had been upstairs, and
listened at Florence's door), with a serene breast, and a most


benevolent visage.

The Captain turned out several times in the course of the night, to
assure himself that his charge was resting quietly; and once, at
daybreak, found that she was awake: for she called to know if it were
he, on hearing footsteps near her door.

'Yes' my lady lass,' replied the Captain, in a growling whisper.
'Are you all right, di'mond?'

Florence thanked him, and said 'Yes.'

The Captain could not lose so favourable an opportunity of applying
his mouth to the keyhole, and calling through it, like a hoarse
breeze, 'Poor Wal'r! Drownded, ain't he?' after which he withdrew, and
turning in again, slept till seven o'clock.

Nor was he free from his uneasy and embarrassed manner all that
day; though Florence, being busy with her needle in the little
parlour, was more calm and tranquil than she had been on the day
preceding. Almost always when she raised her eyes from her work, she
observed the captain looking at her, and thoughtfully stroking his
chin; and he so often hitched his arm-chair close to her, as if he
were going to say something very confidential, and hitched it away
again, as not being able to make up his mind how to begin, that in the
course of the day he cruised completely round the parlour in that
frail bark, and more than once went ashore against the wainscot or the
closet door, in a very distressed condition.

It was not until the twilight that Captain Cuttle, fairly dropping
anchor, at last, by the side of Florence, began to talk at all
connectedly. But when the light of the fire was shining on the walls
and ceiling of the little room, and on the tea-board and the cups and
saucers that were ranged upon the table, and on her calm face turned
towards the flame, and reflecting it in the tears that filled her
eyes, the Captain broke a long silence thus:

'You never was at sea, my own?'

'No,' replied Florence.

'Ay,' said the Captain, reverentially; 'it's a almighty element.
There's wonders in the deep, my pretty. Think on it when the winds is
roaring and the waves is rowling. Think on it when the stormy nights
is so pitch dark,' said the Captain, solemnly holding up his hook, 'as
you can't see your hand afore you, excepting when the wiwid lightning
reweals the same; and when you drive, drive, drive through the storm
and dark, as if you was a driving, head on, to the world without end,
evermore, amen, and when found making a note of. Them's the times, my
beauty, when a man may say to his messmate (previously a overhauling
of the wollume), A stiff nor'wester's blowingBill; harkdon't you
hear it roar now! Lord help 'emhow I pitys all unhappy folks ashore
now!"' Which quotationas particularly applicable to the terrors of
the oceanthe Captain delivered in a most impressive manner
concluding with a sonorous 'Stand by!'

'Were you ever in a dreadful storm?' asked Florence.

'Why aymy lady lassI've seen my share of bad weather' said the
Captaintremulously wiping his head'and I've had my share of
knocking about; but - but it ain't of myself as I was a meaning to
speak. Our dear boy' drawing closer to her'Wal'rdarlingas was
drownded.'


The Captain spoke in such a trembling voiceand looked at Florence
with a face so pale and agitatedthat she clung to his hand in
affright.

'Your face is changed' cried Florence. 'You are altered in a
moment. What is it? Dear Captain Cuttleit turns me cold to see you!'

'What! Lady lass' returned the Captainsupporting her with his
hand'don't be took aback. Nono! All's wellall's wellmy dear.
As I was a saying - Wal'r - he's - he's drownded. Ain't he?'

Florence looked at him intently; her colour came and went; and she
laid her hand upon her breast.

'There's perils and dangers on the deepmy beauty' said the
Captain; 'and over many a brave shipand many and many a bould heart
the secret waters has closed upand never told no tales. But there's
escapes upon the deeptooand sometimes one man out of a scoreah!
maybe out of a hundredpretty- has been saved by the mercy of
Godand come home after being given over for deadand told of all
hands lost. I - I know a storyHeart's Delight' stammered the
Captain'o' this naturas was told to me once; and being on this
here tackand you and me sitting alone by the firemaybe you'd like
to hear me tell it. Would youdeary?'

Florencetrembling with an agitation which she could not control
or understandinvoluntarily followed his glancewhich went behind
her into the shopwhere a lamp was burning. The instant that she
turned her headthe Captain sprung out of his chairand interposed
his hand.

'There's nothing theremy beauty' said the Captain. 'Don't look
there.'

'Why not?' asked Florence.

The Captain murmured something about its being dull that wayand
about the fire being cheerful. He drew the door ajarwhich had been
standing open until nowand resumed his seat. Florence followed him
with her eyesand looked intently in his face.

'The story was about a shipmy lady lass' began the Captain'as
sailed out of the Port of Londonwith a fair wind and in fair
weatherbound for - don't be took abackmy lady lassshe was only
out'ard boundprettyonly out'ard bound!'

The expression on Florence's face alarmed the Captainwho was
himself very hot and flurriedand showed scarcely less agitation than
she did.

'Shall I go onBeauty?' said the Captain.

'Yesyespray!' cried Florence.

The Captain made a gulp as if to get down something that was
sticking in his throatand nervously proceeded:

'That there unfort'nate ship met with such foul weatherout at
seaas don't blow once in twenty yearmy darling. There was
hurricanes ashore as tore up forests and blowed down townsand there
was gales at sea in them latitudesas not the stoutest wessel ever
launched could live in. Day arter day that there unfort'nate ship
behaved nobleI'm toldand did her duty bravemy prettybut at one
blow a'most her bulwarks was stove inher masts and rudder carved


awayher best man swept overboardand she left to the mercy of the
storm as had no mercy but blowed harder and harder yetwhile the
waves dashed over herand beat her inand every time they come a
thundering at herbroke her like a shell. Every black spot in every
mountain of water that rolled away was a bit o' the ship's life or a
living manand so she went to piecesBeautyand no grass will never
grow upon the graves of them as manned that ship.'

'They were not all lost!' cried Florence. 'Some were saved! - Was
one?'

'Aboard o' that there unfort'nate wessel' said the Captainrising
from his chairand clenching his hand with prodigious energy and
exultation'was a lada gallant lad - as I've heerd tell - that had
lovedwhen he was a boyto read and talk about brave actions in
shipwrecks - I've heerd him! I've heerd him! - and he remembered of
'em in his hour of need; for when the stoutest and oldest hands was
hove downhe was firm and cheery. It warn't the want of objects to
like and love ashore that gave him courageit was his nat'ral mind.
I've seen it in his facewhen he was no more than a child - aymany
a time! - and when I thought it nothing but his good looksbless
him!'

'And was he saved!' cried Florence. 'Was he saved!'

'That brave lad' said the Captain- 'look at mepretty! Don't
look round - '

Florence had hardly power to repeat'Why not?'

'Because there's nothing theremy deary' said the Captain. 'Don't
be took abackpretty creetur! Don'tfor the sake of Wal'ras was
dear to all on us! That there lad' said the Captain'arter working
with the bestand standing by the faint-heartedand never making no
complaint nor sign of fearand keeping up a spirit in all hands that
made 'em honour him as if he'd been a admiral - that ladalong with
the second-mate and one seamanwas leftof all the beatin' hearts
that went aboard that shipthe only living creeturs - lashed to a
fragment of the wreckand driftin' on the stormy sea.

Were they saved?' cried Florence.

'Days and nights they drifted on them endless waters' said the
Captain'until at last - No! Don't look that waypretty! - a sail
bore down upon 'emand they wasby the Lord's mercytook aboard:
two living and one dead.'

'Which of them was dead?' cried Florence.

'Not the lad I speak on' said the Captain.

'Thank God! oh thank God!'

'Amen!' returned the Captain hurriedly. 'Don't be took aback! A
minute moremy lady lass! with a good heart! - aboard that shipthey
went a long voyageright away across the chart (for there warn't no
touching nowhere)and on that voyage the seaman as was picked up with
him died. But he was sparedand - '

The Captainwithout knowing what he didhad cut a slice of bread
from the loafand put it on his hook (which was his usual
toasting-fork)on which he now held it to the fire; looking behind
Florence with great emotion in his faceand suffering the bread to
blaze and burn like fuel.


'Was spared' repeated Florence'and-?'

'And come home in that ship' said the Captainstill looking in
the same direction'and - don't be frightenedpretty - and landed;
and one morning come cautiously to his own door to take a obserwation
knowing that his friends would think him drowndedwhen he sheered off
at the unexpected - '

'At the unexpected barking of a dog?' cried Florencequickly.

'Yes' roared the Captain. 'Steadydarling! courage! Don't look
round yet. See there! upon the wall!'

There was the shadow of a man upon the wall close to her. She
started uplooked roundand with a piercing crysaw Walter Gay
behind her!

She had no thought of him but as a brothera brother rescued from
the grave; a shipwrecked brother saved and at her side; and rushed
into his arms. In all the worldhe seemed to be her hopeher
comfortrefugenatural protector. 'Take care of WalterI was fond
of Walter!' The dear remembrance of the plaintive voice that said so
rushed upon her soullike music in the night. 'Oh welcome homedear
Walter! Welcome to this stricken breast!' She felt the wordsalthough
she could not utter themand held him in her pure embrace.

Captain Cuttlein a fit of deliriumattempted to wipe his head
with the blackened toast upon his hook: and finding it an uncongenial
substance for the purposeput it into the crown of his glazed hat
put the glazed hat on with some difficultyessayed to sing a verse of
Lovely Pegbroke down at the first wordand retired into the shop
whence he presently came back expresswith a face all flushed and
besmearedand the starch completely taken out of his shirt-collarto
say these words:

'Wal'rmy ladhere is a little bit of property as I should wish
to make overjintly!'

The Captain hastily produced the big watchthe teaspoonsthe
sugar-tongsand the canisterand laying them on the tableswept
them with his great hand into Walter's hat; but in handing that
singular strong box to Walterhe was so overcome againthat he was
fain to make another retreat into the shopand absent himself for a
longer space of time than on his first retirement.

But Walter sought him outand brought him back; and then the
Captain's great apprehension wasthat Florence would suffer from this
new shock. He felt it so earnestlythat he turned quite rationaland
positively interdicted any further allusion to Walter's adventures for
some days to come. Captain Cuttle then became sufficiently composed to
relieve himself of the toast in his hatand to take his place at the
tea-board; but finding Walter's grasp upon his shoulderon one side
and Florence whispering her tearful congratulations on the otherthe
Captain suddenly bolted againand was missing for a good ten minutes.

But never in all his life had the Captain's face so shone and
glistenedas whenat lasthe sat stationary at the tea-board
looking from Florence to Walterand from Walter to Florence. Nor was
this effect produced or at all heightened by the immense quantity of
polishing he had administered to his face with his coat-sleeve during
the last half-hour. It was solely the effect of his internal emotions.
There was a glory and delight within the Captain that spread itself
over his whole visageand made a perfect illumination there.


The pride with which the Captain looked upon the bronzed cheek and
the courageous eyes of his recovered boy; with which he saw the
generous fervour of his youthand all its frank and hopeful
qualitiesshining once morein the freshwholesome mannerand the
ardent facewould have kindled something of this light in his
countenance. The admiration and sympathy with which he turned his eyes
on Florencewhose beautygraceand innocence could have won no
truer or more zealous champion than himselfwould have had an equal
influence upon him. But the fulness of the glow he shed around him
could only have been engendered in his contemplation of the two
togetherand in all the fancies springing out of that association
that came sparkling and beaming into his headand danced about it.


How they talked of poor old Uncle Soland dwelt on every little
circumstance relating to his disappearance; how their joy was
moderated by the old man's absence and by the misfortunes of Florence;
how they released Diogeneswhom the Captain had decoyed upstairs some
time beforelest he should bark again; the Captainthough he was in
one continual flutterand made many more short plunges into the shop
fully comprehended. But he no more dreamed that Walter looked on
Florenceas it werefrom a new and far-off place; that while his
eyes often sought the lovely facethey seldom met its open glance of
sisterly affectionbut withdrew themselves when hers were raised
towards him; than he believed that it was Walter's ghost who sat
beside him. He saw them together in their youth and beautyand he
knew the story of their younger daysand he had no inch of room
beneath his great blue waistcoat for anything save admiration of such
a pairand gratitude for their being reunited.


They sat thusuntil it grew late. The Captain would have been
content to sit so for a week. But Walter roseto take leave for the
night.


'GoingWalter!' said Florence. 'Where?'


'He slings his hammock for the presentlady lass' said Captain
Cuttle'round at Brogley's. Within hailHeart's Delight.'


'I am the cause of your going awayWalter' said Florence. 'There
is a houseless sister in your place.'


'Dear Miss Dombey' replied Walterhesitating - 'if it is not too
bold to call you so!


Walter!' she exclaimedsurprised.


'If anything could make me happier in being allowed to see and
speak to youwould it not be the discovery that I had any means on
earth of doing you a moment's service! Where would I not gowhat
would I not dofor your sake?'


She smiledand called him brother.


'You are so changed' said Walter -


'I changed!' she interrupted.


'To me' said Waltersoftlyas if he were thinking aloud
'changed to me. I left you such a childand find you - oh! something
so different - '


'But your sisterWalter. You have not forgotten what we promised
to each otherwhen we parted?'



'Forgotten!' But he said no more.

'And if you had - if suffering and danger had driven it from your
thoughts - which it has not - you would remember it nowWalterwhen
you find me poor and abandonedwith no home but thisand no friends
but the two who hear me speak!'

'I would! Heaven knows I would!' said Walter.

'OhWalter' exclaimed Florencethrough her sobs and tears. 'Dear
brother! Show me some way through the world - some humble path that I
may take aloneand labour inand sometimes think of you as one who
will protect and care for me as for a sister! Ohhelp meWalterfor
I need help so much!'

'Miss Dombey! Florence! I would die to help you. But your friends
are proud and rich. Your father - '

'Nono! Walter!' She shriekedand put her hands up to her head
in an attitude of terror that transfixed him where he stood. 'Don't
say that word!'

He neverfrom that hourforgot the voice and look with which she
stopped him at the name. He felt that if he were to live a hundred
yearshe never could forget it.

Somewhere - anywhere - but never home! All pastall goneall
lostand broken up! The whole history of her untold slight and
suffering was in the cry and look; and he felt he never could forget
itand he never did.

She laid her gentle face upon the Captain's shoulderand related
how and why she had fled. If every sorrowing tear she shed in doing
sohad been a curse upon the head of him she never named or blamed
it would have been better for himWalter thoughtwith awethan to
be renounced out of such a strength and might of love.

'Thereprecious!' said the Captainwhen she ceased; and deep
attention the Captain had paid to her while she spoke; listeningwith
his glazed hat all awry and his mouth wide open. 'Awastawastmy
eyes! Wal'rdear ladsheer off for to-nightand leave the pretty
one to me!'

Walter took her hand in both of hisand put it to his lipsand
kissed it. He knew now that she wasindeeda homeless wandering
fugitive; butricher to him sothan in all the wealth and pride of
her right stationshe seemed farther off than even on the height that
had made him giddy in his boyish dreams.

Captain Cuttleperplexed by no such meditationsguarded Florence
to her roomand watched at intervals upon the charmed ground outside
her door - for such it truly was to him - until he felt sufficiently
easy in his mind about herto turn in under the counter. On
abandoning his watch for that purposehe could not help calling once
rapturouslythrough the keyhole'Drownded. Ain't hepretty?' - or
when he got downstairsmaking another trial at that verse of Lovely
Peg. But it stuck in his throat somehowand he could make nothing of
it; so he went to bedand dreamed that old Sol Gills was married to
Mrs MacStingerand kept prisoner by that lady in a secret chamber on
a short allowance of victuals.


CHAPTER 50.

Mr Toots's Complaint

There was an empty room above-stairs at the wooden Midshipman's
whichin days of yorehad been Walter's bedroom. Walterrousing up
the Captain betimes in the morningproposed that they should carry
thither such furniture out of the little parlour as would grace it
bestso that Florence might take possession of it when she rose. As
nothing could be more agreeable to Captain Cuttle than making himself
very red and short of breath in such a causehe turned to (as he
himself said) with a will; andin a couple of hoursthis garret was
transformed into a species of land-cabinadorned with all the
choicest moveables out of the parlourinclusive even of the Tartar
frigatewhich the Captain hung up over the chimney-piece with such
extreme delightthat he could do nothing for half-an-hour afterwards
but walk backward from itlost in admiration.

The Captain could be indueed by no persuasion of Walter's to wind
up the big watchor to take back the canisteror to touch the
sugar-tongs and teaspoons. 'Nonomy lad;' was the Captain's
invariable reply to any solicitation of the kind'I've made that
there little property overjintly.' These words he repeated with
great unction and gravityevidently believing that they had the
virtue of an Act of Parliamentand that unless he committed himself
by some new admission of ownershipno flaw could be found in such a
form of conveyance.

It was an advantage of the new arrangementthat besides the
greater seclusion it afforded Florenceit admitted of the Midshipman
being restored to his usual post of observationand also of the shop
shutters being taken down. The latter ceremonyhowever little
importance the unconscious Captain attached to itwas not wholly
superfluous; foron the previous dayso much excitement had been
occasioned in the neighbourhoodby the shutters remaining unopened
that the Instrument-maker's house had been honoured with an unusual
share of public observationand had been intently stared at from the
opposite side of the wayby groups of hungry gazersat any time
between sunrise and sunset. The idlers and vagabonds had been
particularly interested in the Captain's fate; constantly grovelling
in the mud to apply their eyes to the cellar-gratingunder the
shop-windowand delighting their imaginations with the fancy that
they could see a piece of his coat as he hung in a corner; though this
settlement of him was stoutly disputed by an opposite factionwho
were of opinion that he lay murdered with a hammeron the stairs. It
was not without exciting some discontentthereforethat the subject
of these rumours was seen early in the morning standing at his
shop-door as hale and hearty as if nothing had happened; and the
beadle of that quartera man of an ambitious characterwho had
expected to have the distinction of being present at the breaking open
of the doorand of giving evidence in full uniform before the
coronerwent so far as to say to an opposite neighbourthat the chap
in the glazed hat had better not try it on there - without more
particularly mentioning what - and furtherthat hethe beadlewould
keep his eye upon him.

'Captain Cuttle' said Waltermusingwhen they stood resting from
their labours at the shop-doorlooking down the old familiar street;
it being still early in the morning; 'nothing at all of Uncle Solin
all that time!'

'Nothing at allmy lad' replied the Captainshaking his head.


'Gone in search of medearkind old man' said Walter: 'yet never
write to you! But why not? He saysin effectin this packet that you
gave me' taking the paper from his pocketwhich had been opened in
the presence of the enlightened Bunsby'that if you never hear from
him before opening ityou may believe him dead. Heaven forbid! But
you would have heard of himeven if he were dead! Someone would have
writtensurelyby his desireif he could not; and have saidon
such a day, there died in my house,or "under my care or so forth,
Mr Solomon Gills of Londonwho left this last remembrance and this
last request to you".'

The Captainwho had never climbed to such a clear height of
probability beforewas greatly impressed by the wide prospect it
openedand answeredwith a thoughtful shake of his head'Well said
my lad; wery well said.'

'I have been thinking of thisorat least' said Walter
colouring'I have been thinking of one thing and anotherall through
a sleepless nightand I cannot believeCaptain Cuttlebut that my
Uncle Sol (Lord bless him!) is aliveand will return. I don't so much
wonder at his going awaybecauseleaving out of consideration that
spice of the marvellous which was always in his characterand his
great affection for mebefore which every other consideration of his
life became nothingas no one ought to know so well as I who had the
best of fathers in him' - Walter's voice was indistinct and husky
hereand he looked awayalong the street- 'leaving that out of
considerationI sayI have often read and heard of people who
having some near and dear relativewho was supposed to be shipwrecked
at seahave gone down to live on that part of the sea-shore where any
tidings of the missing ship might be expected to arrivethough only
an hour or two sooner than elsewhereor have even gone upon her track
to the place whither she was boundas if their going would create
intelligence. I think I should do such a thing myselfas soon as
anotheror sooner than manyperhaps. But why my Uncle shouldn't
write to youwhen he so clearly intended to do soor how he should
die abroadand you not know it through some other handI cannot make
out.'

Captain Cuttle observedwith a shake of his headthat Jack Bunsby
himself hadn't made it outand that he was a man as could give a
pretty taut opinion too.

'If my Uncle had been a heedless young manlikely to be entrapped
by jovial company to some drinking-placewhere he was to be got rid
of for the sake of what money he might have about him' said Walter;
'or if he had been a reckless sailorgoing ashore with two or three
months' pay in his pocketI could understand his disappearingand
leaving no trace behind. Butbeing what he was - and isI hope - I
can't believe it.'

'Wal'rmy lad' inquired the Captainwistfully eyeing him as he
pondered and pondered'what do you make of itthen?'

'Captain Cuttle' returned Walter'I don't know what to make of
it. I suppose he never has written! There is no doubt about that?'

'If so be as Sol Gills wrotemy lad' replied the Captain
argumentatively'where's his dispatch?'

'Say that he entrusted it to some private hand' suggested Walter
'and that it has been forgottenor carelessly thrown asideor lost.
Even that is more probable to methan the other event. In shortI
not only cannot bear to contemplate that other eventCaptain Cuttle


but I can'tand won't.'

'Hopeyou seeWal'r' said the Captainsagely'Hope. It's that
as animates you. Hope is a buoyfor which you overhaul your Little
Warblersentimental diwisionbut Lordmy ladlike any other buoy
it only floats; it can't be steered nowhere. Along with the
figure-head of Hope' said the Captain'there's a anchor; but what's
the good of my having a anchorif I can't find no bottom to let it go
in?'

Captain Cuttle said this rather in his character of a sagacious
citizen and householderbound to impart a morsel from his stores of
wisdom to an inexperienced youththan in his own proper person.
Indeedhis face was quite luminous as he spokewith new hopecaught
from Walter; and he appropriately concluded by slapping him on the
back; and sayingwith enthusiasm'Hooroarmy lad! IndiwiduallyI'm
o' your opinion.' Walterwith his cheerful laughreturned the
salutationand said:

'Only one word more about my Uncle at present' Captain Cuttle. I
suppose it is impossible that he can have written in the ordinary
course - by mail packetor ship letteryou understand - '

'Ayaymy lad' said the Captain approvingly.

And that you have missed the letteranyhow?'

'WhyWal'r' said the Captainturning his eyes upon him with a
faint approach to a severe expression'ain't I been on the look-out
for any tidings of that man o' scienceold Sol Gillsyour Uncleday
and nightever since I lost him? Ain't my heart been heavy and
watchful alwaysalong of him and you? Sleeping and wakingain't I
been upon my postand wouldn't I scorn to quit it while this here
Midshipman held together!'

'YesCaptain Cuttle' replied Waltergrasping his hand'I know
you wouldand I know how faithful and earnest all you say and feel
is. I am sure of it. You don't doubt that I am as sure of it as I am
that my foot is again upon this door-stepor that I again have hold
of this true hand. Do you?'

'NonoWal'r' returned the Captainwith his beaming

'I'll hazard no more conjectures' said Walterfervently shaking
the hard hand of the Captainwho shook his with no less goodwill.
'All I will add isHeaven forbid that I should touch my Uncle's
possessionsCaptain Cuttle! Everything that he left hereshall
remain in the care of the truest of stewards and kindest of men - and
if his name is not Cuttlehe has no name! Nowbest of friendsabout

-Miss Dombey.'
There was a change in Walter's manneras he came to these two
words; and when he uttered themall his confidence and cheerfulness
appeared to have deserted him.

'I thoughtbefore Miss Dombey stopped me when I spoke of her
father last night' said Walter' - you remember how?'

The Captain well rememberedand shook his head.

'I thought' said Walter'before thatthat we had but one hard
duty to performand that it wasto prevail upon her to communicate
with her friendsand to return home.'


The Captain muttered a feeble 'Awast!' or a 'Stand by!' or
something or otherequally pertinent to the occasion; but it was
rendered so extremely feeble by the total discomfiture with which he
received this announcementthat what it wasis mere matter of
conjecture.


'But' said Walter'that is over. I think sono longer. I would
sooner be put back again upon that piece of wreckon which I have so
often floatedsince my preservationin my dreamsand there left to
driftand driveand die!'


'Hooroarmy lad!' exclaimed the Captainin a burst of
uncontrollable satisfaction. 'Hooroar! hooroar! hooroar!'


'To think that sheso youngso goodand beautiful' said Walter
'so delicately brought upand born to such a different fortune
should strive with the rough world! But we have seen the gulf that
cuts off all behind herthough no one but herself can know how deep
it is; and there is no return.


Captain Cuttlewithout quite understanding thisgreatly approved
of itand observed in a tone of strong corroborationthat the wind
was quite abaft.


'She ought not to be alone here; ought sheCaptain Cuttle?' said
Walteranxiously.


'Wellmy lad' replied the Captainafter a little sagacious
consideration. 'I don't know. You being here to keep her companyyou
seeand you two being jintly - '


'Dear Captain Cuttle!' remonstrated Walter. 'I being here! Miss
Dombeyin her guileless innocent heartregards me as her adopted
brother; but what would the guile and guilt of my heart beif I
pretended to believe that I had any right to approach herfamiliarly
in that character - if I pretended to forget that I am boundin
honournot to do it?'


'Wal'rmy lad' hinted the Captainwith some revival of his
discomfiture'ain't there no other character as - '


'Oh!' returned Walter'would you have me die in her esteem - in
such esteem as hers - and put a veil between myself and her angel's
face for everby taking advantage of her being here for refugeso
trusting and so unprotectedto endeavour to exalt myself into her
lover? What do I say? There is no one in the world who would be more
opposed to me if I could do sothan you.'


'Wal'rmy lad' said the Captaindrooping more and more
'prowiding as there is any just cause or impediment why two persons
should not be jined together in the house of bondagefor which you'll
overhaul the place and make a noteI hope I should declare it as
promised and wowed in the banns. So there ain't no other character;
ain't theremy lad?'


Walter briskly waved his hand in the negative.


'Wellmy lad' growled the Captain slowly'I won't deny but what
I find myself wery much down by the headalong o' this hereor but
what I've gone clean about. But as to Lady lassWal'rmind you
wot's respect and duty to heris respect and duty in my articles
howsumever disapinting; and therefore I follows in your wakemy lad
and feel as you areno doubtacting up to yourself. And there ain't
no other characterain't there?' said the Captainmusing over the



ruins of his fallen castlewith a very despondent face.

'NowCaptain Cuttle' said Walterstarting a fresh point with a
gayer airto cheer the Captain up - but nothing could do that; he was
too much concerned - 'I think we should exert ourselves to find
someone who would be a proper attendant for Miss Dombey while she
remains hereand who may be trusted. None of her relations may. It's
clear Miss Dombey feels that they are all subservient to her father.
What has become of Susan?'

'The young woman?' returned the Captain. 'It's my belief as she was
sent away again the will of Heart's Delight. I made a signal for her
when Lady lass first comeand she rated of her wery highand said
she had been gone a long time.'

'Then' said Walter'do you ask Miss Dombey where she's goneand
we'll try to find her. The morning's getting onand Miss Dombey will
soon be rising. You are her best friend. Wait for her upstairsand
leave me to take care of all down here.'

The Captainvery crest-fallen indeedechoed the sigh with which
Walter said thisand complied. Florence was delighted with her new
roomanxious to see Walterand overjoyed at the prospect of greeting
her old friend Susan. But Florence could not say where Susan was gone
except that it was in Essexand no one could sayshe remembered
unless it were Mr Toots.

With this information the melancholy Captain returned to Walter
and gave him to understand that Mr Toots was the young gentleman whom
he had encountered on the door-stepand that he was a friend of his
and that he was a young gentleman of propertyand that he hopelessly
adored Miss Dombey. The Captain also related how the intelligence of
Walter's supposed fate had first made him acquainted with Mr Toots
and how there was solemn treaty and compact between themthat Mr
Toots should be mute upon the subject of his love.

The question then waswhether Florence could trust Mr Toots; and
Florence sayingwith a smile'Ohyeswith her whole heart!' it
became important to find out where Mr Toots lived. ThisFlorence
didn't knowand the Captain had forgotten; and the Captain was
telling Walterin the little parlourthat Mr Toots was sure to be
there soonwhen in came Mr Toots himself.

'Captain Gills' said Mr Tootsrushing into the parlour without
any ceremony'I'm in a state of mind bordering on distraction!'

Mr Toots had discharged those wordsas from a mortarbefore he
observed Walterwhom he recognised with what may be described as a
chuckle of misery.

'You'll excuse meSir' said Mr Tootsholding his forehead'but
I'm at present in that state that my brain is goingif not goneand
anything approaching to politeness in an individual so situated would
be a hollow mockery. Captain GillsI beg to request the favour of a
private interview.'

'WhyBrother' returned the Captaintaking him by the hand'you
are the man as we was on the look-out for.'

'OhCaptain Gills' said Mr Toots'what a look-out that must be
of which I am the object! I haven't dared to shaveI'm in that rash
state. I haven't had my clothes brushed. My hair is matted together. I
told the Chicken that if he offered to clean my bootsI'd stretch him
a Corpse before me!'


All these indications of a disordered mind were verified in Mr
Toots's appearancewhich was wild and savage.


'See hereBrother' said the Captain. 'This here's old Sol Gills's
nevy Wal'r. Him as was supposed to have perished at sea'


Mr Toots took his hand from his foreheadand stared at Walter.


'Good gracious me!' stammered Mr Toots. 'What a complication of
misery! How-de-do? I - I - I'm afraid you must have got very wet.
Captain Gillswill you allow me a word in the shop?'


He took the Captain by the coatand going out with him whispered:


'That thenCaptain Gillsis the party you spoke ofwhen you said
that he and Miss Dombey were made for one another?'


'Whyaymy lad' replied the disconsolate Captain; 'I was of that
mind once.'


'And at this time!' exclaimed Mr Tootswith his hand to his
forehead again. 'Of all others! - a hated rival! At leasthe ain't a
hated rival' said Mr Tootsstopping shorton second thoughtsand
taking away his hand; 'what should I hate him for? No. If my affection
has been truly disinterestedCaptain Gillslet me prove it now!'


Mr Toots shot back abruptly into the parlourand saidwringing
Walter by the hand:


'How-de-do? I hope you didn't take any cold. I - I shall be very
glad if you'll give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. I wish you
many happy returns of the day. Upon my word and honour' said Mr
Tootswarming as he became better acquainted with Walter's face and
figure'I'm very glad to see you!'


'Thank youheartily' said Walter. 'I couldn't desire a more
genuine and genial welcome.'


'Couldn't youthough?' said Mr Tootsstill shaking his hand.
'It's very kind of you. I'm much obliged to you. How-de-do? I hope you
left everybody quite well over the - that isupon the - I mean
wherever you came from lastyou know.'


All these good wishesand better intentionsWalter responded to
manfully.


'Captain Gills' said Mr Toots'I should wish to be strictly
honourable; but I trust I may be allowed nowto allude to a certain
subject that - '


'Ayaymy lad' returned the Captain. 'Freelyfreely.'


'ThenCaptain Gills' said Mr Toots'and Lieutenant Walters - are
you aware that the most dreadful circumstances have been happening at
Mr Dombey's houseand that Miss Dombey herself has left her father
whoin my opinion' said Mr Tootswith great excitement'is a
Brutethat it would be a flattery to call a - a marble monumentor a
bird of prey- and that she is not to be foundand has gone no one
knows where?'


'May I ask how you heard this?' inquired Walter.


'Lieutenant Walters' said Mr Tootswho had arrived at that



appellation by a process peculiar to himself; probably by jumbling up
his Christian name with the seafaring professionand supposing some
relationship between him and the Captainwhich would extendas a
matter of courseto their titles; 'Lieutenant WaltersI can have no
objection to make a straightforward reply. The fact isthat feeling
extremely interested in everything that relates to Miss Dombey - not
for any selfish reasonLieutenant Waltersfor I am well aware that
the most able thing I could do for all parties would be to put an end
to my existencewhich can only be regarded as an inconvenience - I
have been in the habit of bestowing a trifle now and then upon a
footman; a most respectable young manof the name of Towlinsonwho
has lived in the family some time; and Towlinson informed me
yesterday eveningthat this was the state of things. Since which
Captain Gills - and Lieutenant Walters - I have been perfectly
franticand have been lying down on the sofa all nightthe Ruin you
behold.'

'Mr Toots' said Walter'I am happy to be able to relieve your
mind. Pray calm yourself. Miss Dombey is safe and well.'

'Sir!' cried Mr Tootsstarting from his chair and shaking hands
with him anew'the relief is so excessiveand unspeakablethat if
you were to tell me now that Miss Dombey was married evenI could
smile. YesCaptain Gills' said Mr Tootsappealing to him'upon my
soul and bodyI really thinkwhatever I might do to myself
immediately afterwardsthat I could smileI am so relieved.'

'It will be a greater relief and delight stillto such a generous
mind as yours' said Walternot at all slow in returning his
greeting'to find that you can render service to Miss Dombey. Captain
Cuttlewill you have the kindness to take Mr Toots upstairs?'

The Captain beckoned to Mr Tootswho followed him with a
bewildered countenanceandascending to the top of the housewas
introducedwithout a word of preparation from his conductorinto
Florence's new retreat.

Poor Mr Toots's amazement and pleasure at sight of her were such
that they could find a vent in nothing but extravagance. He ran up to
herseized her handkissed itdropped itseized it againfell
upon one kneeshed tearschuckledand was quite regardless of his
danger of being pinned by Diogeneswhoinspired by the belief that
there was something hostile to his mistress in these demonstrations
worked round and round himas if only undecided at what particular
point to go in for the assaultbut quite resolved to do him a fearful
mischief.

'Oh Diyou badforgetful dog! Dear Mr TootsI am so rejoiced to
see you!'

'Thankee' said Mr Toots'I am pretty wellI'm much obliged to
youMiss Dombey. I hope all the family are the same.'

Mr Toots said this without the least notion of what he was talking
aboutand sat down on a chairstaring at Florence with the liveliest
contention of delight and despair going on in his face that any face
could exhibit.

'Captain Gills and Lieutenant Walters have mentionedMiss Dombey'
gasped Mr Toots'that I can do you some service. If I could by any
means wash out the remembrance of that day at Brightonwhen I
conducted myself - much more like a Parricide than a person of
independent property' said Mr Tootswith severe self-accusation'I
should sink into the silent tomb with a gleam of joy.'


'PrayMr Toots' said Florence'do not wish me to forget anything
in our acquaintance. I never canbelieve me. You have been far too
kind and good to me always.'

'Miss Dombey' returned Mr Toots'your consideration for my
feelings is a part of your angelic character. Thank you a thousand
times. It's of no consequence at all.'

'What we thought of asking you' said Florence'iswhether you
remember where Susanwhom you were so kind as to accompany to the
coach-office when she left meis to be found.'

'Why I do not certainlyMiss Dombey' said Mr Tootsafter a
little consideration'remember the exact name of the place that was
on the coach; and I do recollect that she said she was not going to
stop therebut was going farther on. ButMiss Dombeyif your object
is to find herand to have her heremyself and the Chicken will
produce her with every dispatch that devotion on my partand great
intelligence on the Chicken'scan ensure.

Mr Toots was so manifestly delighted and revived by the prospect of
being usefuland the disinterested sincerity of his devotion was so
unquestionablethat it would have been cruel to refuse him. Florence
with an instinctive delicacyforbore to urge the least obstacle
though she did not forbear to overpower him with thanks; and Mr Toots
proudly took the commission upon himself for immediate execution.

'Miss Dombey' said Mr Tootstouching her proffered handwith a
pang of hopeless love visibly shooting through himand flashing out
in his face'Good-bye! Allow me to take the liberty of sayingthat
your misfortunes make me perfectly wretchedand that you may trust
menext to Captain Gills himself. I am quite awareMiss Dombeyof
my own deficiencies - they're not of the least consequencethank you

-but I am entirely to be relied uponI do assure youMiss Dombey.'
With that Mr Toots came out of the roomagain accompanied by the
Captainwhostanding at a little distanceholding his hat under his
arm and arranging his scattered locks with his hookhad been a not
uninterested witness of what passed. And when the door closed behind
themthe light of Mr Toots's life was darkly clouded again.

'Captain Gills' said that gentlemanstopping near the bottom of
the stairsand turning round'to tell you the truthI am not in a
frame of mind at the present momentin which I could see Lieutenant
Walters with that entirely friendly feeling towards him that I should
wish to harbour in my breast. We cannot always command our feelings
Captain Gillsand I should take it as a particular favour if you'd
let me out at the private door.'

'Brother' returned the Captain'you shall shape your own course.
Wotever course you takeis plain and seamanlikeI'm wery sure.

'Captain Gills' said Mr Toots'you're extremely kind. Your good
opinion is a consolation to me. There is one thing' said Mr Toots
standing in the passagebehind the half-opened door'that I hope
you'll bear in mindCaptain Gillsand that I should wish Lieutenant
Walters to be made acquainted with. I have quite come into my property
nowyou knowand - and I don't know what to do with it. If I could
be at all useful in a pecuniary point of viewI should glide into the
silent tomb with ease and smoothness.'

Mr Toots said no morebut slipped out quietly and shut the door
upon himselfto cut the Captain off from any reply.


Florence thought of this good creaturelong after he had left her
with mingled emotions of pain and pleasure. He was so honest and
warm-heartedthat to see him again and be assured of his truth to her
in her distresswas a joy and comfort beyond all price; but for that
very reasonit was so affecting to think that she caused him a
moment's unhappinessor ruffledby a breaththe harmless current of
his lifethat her eyes filled with tearsand her bosom overflowed
with pity. Captain Cuttlein his different waythought much of Mr
Toots too; and so did Walter; and when the evening cameand they were
all sitting together in Florence's new roomWalter praised him in a
most impassioned mannerand told Florence what he had said on leaving
the housewith every graceful setting-off in the way of comment and
appreciation that his own honesty and sympathy could surround it with.

Mr Toots did not return upon the next dayor the nextor for
several days; and in the meanwhile Florencewithout any new alarm
lived like a quiet bird in a cageat the top of the old
Instrument-maker's house. But Florence drooped and hung her head more
and more plainlyas the days went on; and the expression that had
been seen in the face of the dead childwas often turned to the sky
from her high windowas if it sought his angel outon the bright
shore of which he had spoken: lying on his little bed.

Florence had been weak and delicate of lateand the agitation she
had undergone was not without its influences on her health. But it was
no bodily illness that affected her now. She was distressed in mind;
and the cause of her distress was Walter.

Interested in heranxious for herproud and glad to serve her
and showing all this with the enthusiasm and ardour of his character
Florence saw that he avoided her. All the long day throughhe seldom
approached her room. If she asked for himhe cameagain for the
moment as earnest and as bright as she remembered him when she was a
lost child in the staring streets; but he soon became constrained her
quick affection was too watchful not to know it - and uneasyand
soon left her. Unsoughthe never cameall daybetween the morning
and the night. When the evening closed inhe was always thereand
that was her happiest timefor then she half believed that the old
Walter of her childhood was not changed. Buteven thensome trivial
wordlookor circumstance would show her that there was an
indefinable division between them which could not be passed.

And she could not but see that these revealings of a great
alteration in Walter manifested themselves in despite of his utmost
efforts to hide them. In his consideration for hershe thoughtand
in the earnestness of his desire to spare her any wound from his kind
handhe resorted to innumerable little artifices and disguises. So
much the more did Florence feel the greatness of the alteration in
him; so much the oftener did she weep at this estrangement of her
brother.

The good Captain - her untiringtenderever zealous friend - saw
ittooFlorence thoughtand it pained him. He was less cheerful and
hopeful than he had been at firstand would steal looks at her and
Walterby turnswhen they were all three together of an evening
with quite a sad face.

Florence resolvedat lastto speak to Walter. She believed she
knew now what the cause of his estrangement wasand she thought it
would be a relief to her full heartand would set him more at ease
if she told him she had found it outand quite submitted to itand
did not reproach him.


It was on a certain Sunday afternoonthat Florence took this
resolution. The faithful Captainin an amazing shirt-collarwas
sitting by herreading with his spectacles onand she asked him
where Walter was.

'I think he's down belowmy lady lass' returned the Captain.

'I should like to speak to him' said Florencerising hurriedly as
if to go downstairs.

'I'll rouse him up hereBeauty' said the Captain'in a trice.'

Thereupon the Captainwith much alacrityshouldered his book for
he made it a point of duty to read none but very large books on a
Sundayas having a more staid appearance: and had bargainedyears
agofor a prodigious volume at a book-stallfive lines of which
utterly confounded him at any timeinsomuch that he had not yet
ascertained of what subject it treated - and withdrew. Walter soon
appeared.

'Captain Cuttle tells meMiss Dombey' he eagerly began on coming
in - but stopped when he saw her face.

'You are not so well to-day. You look distressed. You have been
weeping.'

He spoke so kindlyand with such a fervent tremor in his voice
that the tears gushed into her eyes at the sound of his words.

'Walter' said Florencegently'I am not quite welland I have
been weeping. I want to speak to you.'

He sat down opposite to herlooking at her beautiful and innocent
face; and his own turned paleand his lips trembled.

'You saidupon the night when I knew that you were saved - and oh!
dear Walterwhat I felt that nightand what I hoped!' - '

He put his trembling hand upon the table between themand sat
looking at her.

-'that I was changed. I was surprised to hear you say sobut I
understandnowthat I am. Don't be angry with meWalter. I was too
much overjoyed to think of itthen.'
She seemed a child to him again. It was the ingenuousconfiding
loving child he saw and heard. Not the dear womanat whose feet he
would have laid the riches of the earth.

'You remember the last time I saw youWalterbefore you went
away?'

He put his hand into his breastand took out a little purse.

'I have always worn it round my neck! If I had gone down in the
deepit would have been with me at the bottom of the sea.'

'And you will wear it stillWalterfor my old sake?'

'Until I die!'

She laid her hand on hisas fearlessly and simplyas if not a day
had intervened since she gave him the little token of remembrance.


'I am glad of that. I shall be always glad to think soWalter. Do
you recollect that a thought of this change seemed to come into our
minds at the same time that eveningwhen we were talking together?'

'No!' he answeredin a wondering tone.

'YesWalter. I had been the means of injuring your hopes and
prospects even then. I feared to think sothenbut I know it now. If
you were ablethenin your generosityto hide from me that you knew
it tooyou cannot do so nowalthough you try as generously as
before. You do. I thank you for itWalterdeeplytruly; but you
cannot succeed. You have suffered too much in your own hardshipsand
in those of your dearest relationquite to overlook the innocent
cause of all the peril and affliction that has befallen you. You
cannot quite forget me in that characterand we can be brother and
sister no longer. Butdear Walterdo not think that I complain of
you in this. I might have known it - ought to have known it - but
forgot it in my joy. All I hope is that you may think of me less
irksomely when this feeling is no more a secret one; and all I ask is
Walterin the name of the poor child who was your sister oncethat
you will not struggle with yourselfand pain yourselffor my sake
now that I know all!'

Walter had looked upon her while she said thiswith a face so full
of wonder and amazementthat it had room for nothing else. Now he
caught up the hand that touched hisso entreatinglyand held it
between his own.

'OhMiss Dombey' he said'is it possible that while I have been
suffering so muchin striving with my sense of what is due to you
and must be rendered to youI have made you suffer what your words
disclose to me? Neverneverbefore Heavenhave I thought of you but
as the singlebrightpureblessed recollection of my boyhood and my
youth. Never have I from the firstand never shall I to the last
regard your part in my lifebut as something sacrednever to be
lightly thought ofnever to be esteemed enoughneveruntil death
to be forgotten. Again to see you lookand hear you speakas you did
on that night when we partedis happiness to me that there are no
words to utter; and to be loved and trusted as your brotheris the
next gift I could receive and prize!'

'Walter' said Florencelooking at him earnestlybut with a
changing face'what is that which is due to meand must be rendered
to meat the sacrifice of all this?'

'Respect' said Walterin a low tone. 'Reverence.

The colour dawned in her faceand she timidly and thoughtfully
withdrew her hand; still looking at him with unabated earnestness.

'I have not a brother's right' said Walter. 'I have not a
brother's claim. I left a child. I find a woman.'

The colour overspread her face. She made a gesture as if of
entreaty that he would say no moreand her face dropped upon her
hands.

They were both silent for a time; she weeping.

'I owe it to a heart so trustingpureand good' said Walter
'even to tear myself from itthough I rend my own. How dare I say it
is my sister's!'

She was weeping still.


'If you had been happy; surrounded as you should be by loving and
admiring friendsand by all that makes the station you were born to
enviable' said Walter; 'and if you had called me brotherthenin
your affectionate remembrance of the pastI could have answered to
the name from my distant placewith no inward assurance that I
wronged your spotless truth by doing so. But here - and now!'

'Oh thank youthank youWalter! Forgive my having wronged you so
much. I had no one to advise me. I am quite alone.'

'Florence!' said Walterpassionately. 'I am hurried on to say
what I thoughtbut a few moments agonothing could have forced from
my lips. If I had been prosperous; if I had any means or hope of being
one day able to restore you to a station near your own; I would have
told you that there was one name you might bestow upon - me - a right
above all othersto protect and cherish you - that I was worthy of in
nothing but the love and honour that I bore youand in my whole heart
being yours. I would have told you that it was the only claim that you
could give me to defend and guard youwhich I dare accept and dare
assert; but that if I had that rightI would regard it as a trust so
precious and so pricelessthat the undivided truth and fervour of my
life would poorly acknowledge its worth.'

The head was still bent downthe tears still fallingand the
bosom swelling with its sobs.

'Dear Florence! Dearest Florence! whom I called so in my thoughts
before I could consider how presumptuous and wild it was. One last
time let me call you by your own dear nameand touch this gentle hand
in token of your sisterly forgetfulness of what I have said.'

She raised her headand spoke to him with such a solemn sweetness
in her eyes; with such a calmbrightplacid smile shining on him
through her tears; with such a lowsoft tremble in her frame and
voice; that the innermost chords of his heart were touchedand his
sight was dim as he listened.

'NoWalterI cannot forget it. I would not forget itfor the
world. Are you - are you very poor?'

'I am but a wanderer' said Walter'making voyages to liveacross
the sea. That is my calling now.

'Are you soon going away againWalter?'

'Very soon.

She sat looking at him for a moment; then timidly put her trembling
hand in his.

'If you will take me for your wifeWalterI will love you dearly.
If you will let me go with youWalterI will go to the world's end
without fear. I can give up nothing for you - I have nothing to
resignand no one to forsake; but all my love and life shall be
devoted to youand with my last breath I will breathe your name to
God if I have sense and memory left.'

He caught her to his heartand laid her cheek against his ownand
nowno more repulsedno more forlornshe wept indeedupon the
breast of her dear lover.

Blessed Sunday Bellsringing so tranquilly in their entranced and
happy ears! Blessed Sunday peace and quietharmonising with the


calmness in their soulsand making holy air around them! Blessed
twilight stealing onand shading her so soothingly and gravelyas
she falls asleeplike a hushed childupon the bosom she has clung
to!

Oh load of love and trustfulness that lies to lightly there! Ay
look down on the closed eyesWalterwith a proudly tender gaze; for
in all the wide wide world they seek but thee now - only thee!

The Captain remained in the little parlour until it was quite dark.
He took the chair on which Walter had been sittingand looked up at
the skylightuntil the dayby little and littlefaded awayand the
stars peeped down. He lighted a candlelighted a pipesmoked it out
and wondered what on earth was going on upstairsand why they didn't
call him to tea.

Florence came to his side while he was in the height of his
wonderment.

'Ay! lady lass!' cried the Captain. 'Whyyou and Wal'r have had a
long spell o' talkmy beauty.'

Florence put her little hand round one of the great buttons of his
coatand saidlooking down into his face:

'Dear CaptainI want to tell you somethingif you please.

The Captain raised his head pretty smartlyto hear what it was.
Catching by this means a more distinct view of Florencehe pushed
back his chairand himself with itas far as they could go.

'What! Heart's Delight!' cried the Captainsuddenly elated'Is it
that?'

'Yes!' said Florenceeagerly.

'Wal'r! Husband! THAT?' roared the Captaintossing up his glazed
hat into the skylight.

'Yes!' cried Florencelaughing and crying together.

The Captain immediately hugged her; and thenpicking up the glazed
hat and putting it ondrew her arm through hisand conducted her
upstairs again; where he felt that the great joke of his life was now
to be made.

'WhatWal'r my lad!' said the Captainlooking in at the door
with his face like an amiable warming-pan. 'So there ain't NO other
characterain't there?'

He had like to have suffocated himself with this pleasantrywhich
he repeated at least forty times during tea; polishing his radiant
face with the sleeve of his coatand dabbing his head all over with
his pocket-handkerchiefin the intervals. But he was not without a
graver source of enjoyment to fall back uponwhen so disposedfor he
was repeatedly heard to say in an undertoneas he looked with
ineffable delight at Walter and Florence:

'Ed'ard Cuttlemy ladyou never shaped a better course in your
lifethan when you made that there little property overjintly!'


CHAPTER 51.

Mr Dombey and the World

What is the proud man doingwhile the days go by? Does he ever
think of his daughteror wonder where she is gone? Does he suppose
she has come homeand is leading her old life in the weary house? No
one can answer for him. He has never uttered her namesince. His
household dread him too much to approach a subject on which he is
resolutely dumb; and the only person who dares question himhe
silences immediately.

'My dear Paul!' murmurs his sistersidling into the roomon the
day of Florence's departure'your wife! that upstart woman! Is it
possible that what I hear confusedlyis trueand that this is her
return for your unparalleled devotion to her; extendingI am sure
even to the sacrifice of your own relationsto her caprices and
haughtiness? My poor brother!'

With this speech feelingly reminiscent of her not having been asked
to dinner on the day of the first partyMrs Chick makes great use of
her pocket-handkerchiefand falls on Mr Dombey's neck. But Mr Dombey
frigidly lifts her offand hands her to a chair.

'I thank youLouisa' he says'for this mark of your affection;
but desire that our conversation may refer to any other subject. When
I bewail my fateLouisaor express myself as being in want of
consolationyou can offer itif you will have the goodness.'

'My dear Paul' rejoins his sisterwith her handkerchief to her
faceand shaking her head'I know your great spiritand will say no
more upon a theme so painful and revolting;' on the heads of which two
adjectivesMrs Chick visits scathing indignation; 'but pray let me
ask you - though I dread to hear something that will shock and
distress me - that unfortunate child Florence


'Louisa!' says her brothersternly'silence! Not another word of
this!'

Mrs Chick can only shake her headand use her handkerchiefand
moan over degenerate Dombeyswho are no Dombeys. But whether Florence
has been inculpated in the flight of Edithor has followed heror
has done too muchor too littleor anythingor nothingshe has not
the least idea.

He goes onwithout deviationkeeping his thoughts and feelings
close within his own breastand imparting them to no one. He makes no
search for his daughter. He may think that she is with his sisteror
that she is under his own roof. He may think of her constantlyor he
may never think about her. It is all one for any sign he makes.

But this is sure; he does not think that he has lost her. He has no
suspicion of the truth. He has lived too long shut up in his towering
supremacyseeing hera patient gentle creaturein the path below
itto have any fear of that. Shaken as he is by his disgracehe is
not yet humbled to the level earth. The root is broad and deepand in
the course of years its fibres have spread out and gathered
nourishment from everything around it. The tree is struckbut not
down.

Though he hide the world within him from the world without - which
he believes has but one purpose for the timeand thatto watch him


eagerly wherever he goes - he cannot hide those rebel traces of it
which escape in hollow eyes and cheeksa haggard foreheadand a
moodybrooding air. Impenetrable as beforehe is still an altered
man; andproud as everhe is humbledor those marks would not be
there.

The world. What the world thinks of himhow it looks at himwhat
it sees in himand what it says - this is the haunting demon of his
mind. It is everywhere where he is; andworse than thatit is
everywhere where he is not. It comes out with him among his servants
and yet he leaves it whispering behind; he sees it pointing after him
in the street; it is waiting for him in his counting-house; it leers
over the shoulders of rich men among the merchants; it goes beckoning
and babbling among the crowd; it always anticipates himin every
place; and is always busiesthe knowswhen he has gone away. When he
is shut up in his room at nightit is in his houseoutside it
audible in footsteps on the pavementvisible in print upon the table
steaming to and fro on railroads and in ships; restless and busy
everywherewith nothing else but him.

It is not a phantom of his imagination. It is as active in other
people's minds as in his. Witness Cousin Feenixwho comes from
Baden-Badenpurposely to talk to him. Witness Major Bagstockwho
accompanies Cousin Feenix on that friendly mission.

Mr Dombey receives them with his usual dignityand stands erect
in his old attitudebefore the fire. He feels that the world is
looking at him out of their eyes. That it is in the stare of the
pictures. That Mr Pittupon the bookcaserepresents it. That there
are eyes in its own maphanging on the wall.

'An unusually cold spring' says Mr Dombey - to deceive the world.

'DammeSir' says the Majorin the warmth of friendship'Joseph
Bagstock is a bad hand at a counterfeit. If you want to hold your
friends offDombeyand to give them the cold shoulderJ. B. is not
the man for your purpose. Joe is rough and toughSir; bluntSir
bluntis Joe. His Royal Highness the late Duke of York did me the
honour to saydeservedly or undeservedly - never mind that - "If
there is a man in the service on whom I can depend for coming to the
pointthat man is Joe - Joe Bagstock."'

Mr Dombey intimates his acquiescence.

'NowDombey' says the Major'I am a man of the world. Our friend
Feenix - if I may presume to - '

'HonouredI am sure' says Cousin Feenix.

' - is' proceeds the Majorwith a wag of his head'also a man of
the world. Dombeyyou are a man of the world. Nowwhen three men of
the world meet togetherand are friends - as I believe - ' again
appealing to Cousin Feenix.

'I am sure' says Cousin Feenix'most friendly.'

' - and are friends' resumes the Major'Old Joe's opinion is (I
may be wrong)that the opinion of the world on any particular
subjectis very easily got at.

'Undoubtedly' says Cousin Feenix. 'In point of factit's quite a
self-evident sort of thing. I am extremely anxiousMajorthat my
friend Dombey should hear me express my very great astonishment and
regretthat my lovely and accomplished relativewho was possessed of


every qualification to make a man happyshould have so far forgotten
what was due to - in point of factto the world - as to commit
herself in such a very extraordinary manner. I have been in a devilish
state of depression ever since; and said indeed to Long Saxby last
night - man of six foot tenwith whom my friend Dombey is probably
acquainted - that it had upset me in a confounded wayand made me
bilious. It induces a man to reflectthis kind of fatal catastrophe'
says Cousin Feenix'that events do occur in quite a providential
manner; for if my Aunt had been living at the timeI think the effect
upon a devilish lively woman like herselfwould have been
prostrationand that she would have fallenin point of facta
victim.'

'NowDombey! - ' says the Majorresuming his discourse with great
energy.

'I beg your pardon' interposes Cousin Feenix. 'Allow me another
word. My friend Dombey will permit me to saythat if any circumstance
could have added to the most infernal state of pain in which I find
myself on this occasionit would be the natural amazement of the
world at my lovely and accomplished relative (as I must still beg
leave to call her) being supposed to have so committed herself with a
person - man with white teethin point of fact - of very inferior
station to her husband. But while I mustrather peremptorilyrequest
my friend Dombey not to criminate my lovely and accomplished relative
until her criminality is perfectly establishedI beg to assure my
friend Dombey that the family I representand which is now almost
extinct (devilish sad reflection for a man)will interpose no
obstacle in his wayand will be happy to assent to any honourable
course of proceedingwith a view to the futurethat he may point
out. I trust my friend Dombey will give me credit for the intentions
by which I am animated in this very melancholy affairand - a - in
point of factI am not aware that I need trouble my friend Dombey
with any further observations.'

Mr Dombey bowswithout raising his eyesand is silent.

'NowDombey' says the Major'our friend Feenix havingwith an
amount of eloquence that Old Joe B. has never heard surpassed - noby
the LordSir! never!' - says the Majorvery blueindeedand
grasping his cane in the middle - 'stated the case as regards the
ladyI shall presume upon our friendshipDombeyto offer a word on
another aspect of it. Sir' says the Majorwith the horse's cough
'the world in these things has opinionswhich must be satisfied.'

'I know it' rejoins Mr Dombey.

'Of course you know itDombey' says the Major'DammeSirI
know you know it. A man of your calibre is not likely to be ignorant
of it.'

'I hope not' replies Mr Dombey.

'Dombey!' says the Major'you will guess the rest. I speak out prematurely
perhaps - because the Bagstock breed have always spoke
out. LittleSirhave they ever got by doing it; but it's in the
Bagstock blood. A shot is to be taken at this man. You have J. B. at
your elbow. He claims the name of friend. God bless you!'

'Major' returns Mr Dombey'I am obliged. I shall put myself in
your hands when the time comes. The time not being comeI have
forborne to speak to you.'

'Where is the fellowDombey?' inquires the Majorafter gasping


and looking at himfor a minute.

'I don't know.'

'Any intelligence of him?' asks the Major.

'Yes.'

'DombeyI am rejoiced to hear it' says the Major. 'I congratulate
you.'

'You will excuse - even youMajor' replies Mr Dombey'my
entering into any further detail at present. The intelligence is of a
singular kindand singularly obtained. It may turn out to be
valueless; it may turn out to be true; I cannot say at present. My
explanation must stop here.'

Although this is but a dry reply to the Major's purple enthusiasm
the Major receives it graciouslyand is delighted to think that the
world has such a fair prospect of soon receiving its due. Cousin
Feenix is then presented with his meed of acknowledgment by the
husband of his lovely and accomplished relativeand Cousin Feenix and
Major Bagstock retireleaving that husband to the world againand to
ponder at leisure on their representation of its state of mind
concerning his affairsand on its just and reasonable expectations.

But who sits in the housekeeper's roomshedding tearsand talking
to Mrs Pipchin in a low tonewith uplifted hands? It is a lady with
her face concealed in a very close black bonnetwhich appears not to
belong to her. It is Miss Toxwho has borrowed this disguise from her
servantand comes from Princess's Placethus secretlyto revive her
old acquaintance with Mrs Pipchinin order to get certain information
of the state of Mr Dombey.

'How does he bear itmy dear creature?' asks Miss Tox.

'Well' says Mrs Pipchinin her snappish way'he's pretty much as
usual.'

'Externally' suggests Miss Tox 'But what he feels within!'

Mrs Pipchin's hard grey eye looks doubtful as she answersin three
distinct jerks'Ah! Perhaps. I suppose so.'

'To tell you my mindLucretia' says Mrs Pipchin; she still calls
Miss Tox Lucretiaon account of having made her first experiments in
the child-quelling line of business on that ladywhen an unfortunate
and weazen little girl of tender years; 'to tell you my mind
LucretiaI think it's a good riddance. I don't want any of your
brazen faces heremyself!'

'Brazen indeed! Well may you say brazenMrs Pipchin!' returned
Miss Tox. 'To leave him! Such a noble figure of a man!' And here Miss
Tox is overcome.

'I don't know about nobleI'm sure' observes Mrs Pipchin;
irascibly rubbing her nose. 'But I know this - that when people meet
with trialsthey must bear 'em. Hoitytoity! I have had enough to
bear myselfin my time! What a fuss there is! She's goneand well
got rid of. Nobody wants her backI should think!' This hint of the
Peruvian Minescauses Miss Tox to rise to go away; when Mrs Pipchin
rings the bell for Towlinson to show her outMr Towlinsonnot having
seen Miss Tox for agesgrinsand hopes she's well; observing that he
didn't know her at firstin that bonnet.


'Pretty wellTowlinsonI thank you' says Miss Tox. 'I beg you'll
have the goodnesswhen you happen to see me herenot to mention it.
My visits are merely to Mrs Pipchin.'

'Very goodMiss' says Towlinson.

'Shocking circumstances occurTowlinson' says Miss Tox.

'Very much so indeedMiss' rejoins Towlinson.

'I hopeTowlinson' says Miss Toxwhoin her instruction of the
Toodle familyhas acquired an admonitorial toneand a habit of
improving passing occasions'that what has happened herewill be a
warning to youTowlinson.'

'Thank youMissI'm sure' says Towlinson.

He appears to be falling into a consideration of the manner in
which this warning ought to operate in his particular casewhen the
vinegary Mrs Pipchinsuddenly stirring him up with a 'What are you
doing? Why don't you show the lady to the door?' he ushers Miss Tox
forth. As she passes Mr Dombey's roomshe shrinks into the inmost
depths of the black bonnetand walkson tip-toe; and there is not
another atom in the world which haunts him sothat feels such sorrow
and solicitude about himas Miss Tox takes out under the black bonnet
into the streetand tries to carry home shadowed it from the
newly-lighted lamps

But Miss Tox is not a part of Mr Dombey's world. She comes back
every evening at dusk; adding clogs and an umbrella to the bonnet on
wet nights; and bears the grins of Towlinsonand the huffs and
rebuffs of Mrs Pipchinand all to ask how he doesand how he bears
his misfortune: but she has nothing to do with Mr Dombey's world.
Exacting and harassing as everit goes on without her; and shea by
no means bright or particular starmoves in her little orbit in the
corner of another systemand knows it quite welland comesand
criesand goes awayand is satisfied. Verily Miss Tox is easier of
satisfaction than the world that troubles Mr Dombey so much!

At the Counting Housethe clerks discuss the great disaster in all
its lights and shadesbut chiefly wonder who will get Mr Carker's
place. They are generally of opinion that it will be shorn of some of
its emolumentsand made uncomfortable by newly-devised checks and
restrictions; and those who are beyond all hope of it are quite sure
they would rather not have itand don't at all envy the person for
whom it may prove to be reserved. Nothing like the prevailing
sensation has existed in the Counting House since Mr Dombey's little
son died; but all such excitements there take a socialnot to say a
jovial turnand lead to the cultivation of good fellowship. A
reconciliation is established on this propitious occasion between the
acknowledged wit of the Counting House and an aspiring rivalwith
whom he has been at deadly feud for months; and a little dinner being
proposedin commemoration of their happily restored amitytakes
place at a neighbouring tavern; the wit in the chair; the rival acting
as Vice-President. The orations following the removal of the cloth are
opened by the Chairwho saysGentlemenhe can't disguise from
himself that this is not a time for private dissensions. Recent
occurrences to which he need not more particularly alludebut which
have not been altogether without notice in some Sunday Papers' and in
a daily paper which he need not name (here every other member of the
company names it in an audible murmur)have caused him to reflect;
and he feels that for him and Robinson to have any personal
differences at such a momentwould be for ever to deny that good


feeling in the general causefor which he has reason to think and
hope that the gentlemen in Dombey's House have always been
distinguished. Robinson replies to this like a man and a brother; and
one gentleman who has been in the office three yearsunder continual
notice to quit on account of lapses in his arithmeticappears in a
perfectly new lightsuddenly bursting out with a thrilling speechin
which he saysMay their respected chief never again know the
desolation which has fallen on his hearth! and says a great variety of
thingsbeginning with 'May he never again' which are received with
thunders of applause. In shorta most delightful evening is passed
only interrupted by a difference between two juniorswhoquarrelling
about the probable amount of Mr Carker's late receipts per annumdefy
each other with decantersand are taken out greatly excited. Soda
water is in general request at the office next dayand most of the
party deem the bill an imposition.

As to Perchthe messengerhe is in a fair way of being ruined for
life. He finds himself again constantly in bars of public-houses
being treated and lying dreadfully. It appears that he met everybody
concerned in the late transactioneverywhereand said to them
'Sir' or 'Madam' as the case was'why do you look so pale?' at
which each shuddered from head to footand said'OhPerch!' and ran
away. Either the consciousness of these enormitiesor the reaction
consequent on liquorreduces Mr Perch to an extreme state of low
spirits at that hour of the evening when he usually seeks consolation
in the society of Mrs Perch at Balls Pond; and Mrs Perch frets a good
dealfor she fears his confidence in woman is shaken nowand that he
half expects on coming home at night to find her gone off with some
Viscount - 'which' as she observes to an intimate female friend'is
what these wretches in the form of woman have to answer forMrs P. It
ain't the harm they do themselves so much as what they reflect upon
usMa'am; and I see it in Perch's eye.

Mr Dombey's servants are becomingat the same timequite
dissipatedand unfit for other service. They have hot suppers every
nightand 'talk it over' with smoking drinks upon the board. Mr
Towlinson is always maudlin after half-past tenand frequently begs
to know whether he didn't say that no good would ever come of living
in a corner house? They whisper about Miss Florenceand wonder where
she is; but agree that if Mr Dombey don't knowMrs Dombey does. This
brings them to the latterof whom Cook saysShe had a stately way
thoughhadn't she? But she was too high! They all agree that she was
too highand Mr Towlinson's old flamethe housemaid (who is very
virtuous)entreats that you will never talk to her any more about
people who hold their heads upas if the ground wasn't good enough
for 'em.

Everything that is said and done about itexcept by Mr Dombeyis
done in chorus. Mr Dombey and the world are alone together.

CHAPTER 52.

Secret Intelligence

Good Mrs Brown and her daughter Alice kept silent company together
in their own dwelling. It was early in the eveningand late in the
spring. But a few days had elapsed since Mr Dombey had told Major
Bagstock of his singular intelligencesingularly obtainedwhich
might turn out to be valuelessand might turn out to be true; and the
world was not satisfied yet.


The mother and daughter sat for a long time without interchanging a
word: almost without motion. The old woman's face was shrewdly anxious
and expectant; that of her daughter was expectant toobut in a less
sharp degreeand sometimes it darkenedas if with gathering
disappointment and incredulity. The old womanwithout heeding these
changes in its expressionthough her eyes were often turned towards
itsat mumbling and munchingand listening confidently.

Their abodethough poor and miserablewas not so utterly wretched
as in the days when only Good Mrs Brown inhabited it. Some few
attempts at cleanliness and order were manifestthough made in a
recklessgipsy waythat might have connected themat a glancewith
the younger woman. The shades of evening thickened and deepened as the
two kept silenceuntil the blackened walls were nearly lost in the
prevailing gloom.

Then Alice broke the silence which had lasted so longand said:

'You may give him upmother. He'll not come here.'

'Death give him up!' returned the old womanimpatiently. 'He will
come here.'

'We shall see' said Alice.

'We shall see him' returned her mother.

'And doomsday' said the daughter.

'You think I'm in my second childhoodI know!' croaked the old
woman. 'That's the respect and duty that I get from my own galbut
I'm wiser than you take me for. He'll come. T'other day when I touched
his coat in the streethe looked round as if I was a toad. But Lord
to see him when I said their namesand asked him if he'd like to find
out where they was!'

'Was it so angry?' asked her daughterroused to interest in a
moment.

'Angry? ask if it was bloody. That's more like the word. Angry? Ha
ha! To call that only angry!' said the old womanhobbling to the
cupboardand lighting a candlewhich displayed the workings of her
mouth to ugly advantageas she brought it to the table. 'I might as
well call your face only angrywhen you think or talk about 'em.'

It was something different from thattrulyas she sat as still as
a crouched tigresswith her kindling eyes.

'Hark!' said the old womantriumphantly. 'I hear a step coming.
It's not the tread of anyone that lives about hereor comes this way
often. We don't walk like that. We should grow proud on such
neighbours! Do you hear him?'

'I believe you are rightmother' replied Alicein a low voice.
'Peace! open the door.'

As she drew herself within her shawland gathered it about her
the old woman complied; and peering outand beckoninggave admission
to Mr Dombeywho stopped when he had set his foot within the door
and looked distrustfully around.

'It's a poor place for a great gentleman like your worship' said
the old womancurtseying and chattering. 'I told you sobut there's


no harm in it.'

'Who is that?' asked Mr Dombeylooking at her companion.

'That's my handsome daughter' said the old woman. 'Your worship
won't mind her. She knows all about it.'

A shadow fell upon his face not less expressive than if he had
groaned aloud'Who does not know all about it!' but he looked at her
steadilyand shewithout any acknowledgment of his presencelooked
at him. The shadow on his face was darker when he turned his glance
away from her; and even then it wandered back againfurtivelyas if
he were haunted by her bold eyesand some remembrance they inspired.

'Woman' said Mr Dombey to the old witch who was chucKling and
leering close at his elbowand whowhen he turned to address her
pointed stealthily at her daughterand rubbed her handsand pointed
again'Woman! I believe that I am weak and forgetful of my station in
coming herebut you know why I comeand what you offered when you
stopped me in the street the other day. What is it that you have to
tell me concerning what I want to know; and how does it happen that I
can find voluntary intelligence in a hovel like this' with a
disdainful glance about him'when I have exerted my power and means
to obtain it in vain? I do not think' he saidafter a moment's
pauseduring which he had observed hersternly'that you are so
audacious as to mean to trifle with meor endeavour to impose upon
me. But if you have that purposeyou had better stop on the threshold
of your scheme. My humour is not a trifling oneand my acknowledgment
will be severe.'

'Oh a proudhard gentleman!' chuckled the old womanshaking her
headand rubbing her shrivelled hands'oh hardhardhard! But your
worship shall see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears; not
with ours - and if your worship's put upon their trackyou won't mind
paying something for itwill youhonourable deary?'

'Money' returned Mr Dombeyapparently relievedand assured by
this inquiry'will bring about unlikely thingsI know. It may turn
even means as unexpected and unpromising as theseto account. Yes.
For any reliable information I receiveI will pay. But I must have
the information firstand judge for myself of its value.'

'Do you know nothing more powerful than money?' asked the younger
womanwithout risingor altering her attitude.

'Not hereI should imagine' said Mr Dombey.

'You should know of something that is more powerful elsewhereas I
judge' she returned. 'Do you know nothing of a woman's anger?'

'You have a saucy tongueJade' said Mr Dombey.

'Not usually' she answeredwithout any show of emotion: 'I speak
to you nowthat you may understand us betterand rely more on us. A
woman's anger is pretty much the same hereas in your fine house. I
am angry. I have been somany years. I have as good cause for my
anger as you have for yoursand its object is the same man.'

He startedin spite of himselfand looked at her with

astonishment.

'Yes' she saidwith a kind of laugh. 'Wide as the distance may
seem between usit is so. How it is sois no matter; that is my


storyand I keep my story to myself. I would bring you and him
togetherbecause I have a rage against him. My mother thereis
avaricious and poor; and she would sell any tidings she could glean
or anythingor anybodyfor money. It is fair enoughperhapsthat
you should pay her someif she can help you to what you want to know.
But that is not my motive. I have told you what mine isand it would
be as strong and all-sufficient with me if you haggled and bargained
with her for a sixpence. I have done. My saucy tongue says no moreif
you wait here till sunrise tomorrow.'

The old womanwho had shown great uneasiness during this speech
which had a tendency to depreciate her expected gainspulled Mr
Dombey softly by the sleeveand whispered to him not to mind her. He
glared at them bothby turnswith a haggard lookand saidin a
deeper voice than was usual with him:

'Go on - what do you know?'

'Ohnot so fastyour worship! we must wait for someone' answered
the old woman. 'It's to be got from someone else - wormed out screwed
and twisted from him.'

'What do you mean?' said Mr Dombey.

'Patience' she croakedlaying her handlike a clawupon his
arm. 'Patience. I'll get at it. I know I can! If he was to hold it
back from me' said Good Mrs Browncrooking her ten fingers'I'd
tear it out of him!'

Mr Dombey followed her with his eyes as she hobbled to the door
and looked out again: and then his glance sought her daughter; but she
remained impassivesilentand regardless of him.

'Do you tell mewoman' he saidwhen the bent figure of Mrs Brown
came backshaking its head and chattering to itself'that there is
another person expected here?'

'Yes!' said the old womanlooking up into his faceand nodding.

'From whom you are to exact the intelligence that is to be useful
to me?'

'Yes' said the old womannodding again.

'A stranger?'

'Chut!' said the old womanwith a shrill laugh. 'What signifies!
Wellwell; no. No stranger to your worship. But he won't see you.
He'd be afraid of youand wouldn't talk. You'll stand behind that
doorand judge him for yourself. We don't ask to be believed on trust
What! Your worship doubts the room behind the door? Oh the suspicion
of you rich gentlefolks! Look at itthen.'

Her sharp eye had detected an involuntary expression of this
feeling on his partwhich was not unreasonable under the
circumstances. In satisfaction of it she now took the candle to the
door she spoke of. Mr Dombey looked in; assured himself that it was an
emptycrazy room; and signed to her to put the light back in its
place.

'How long' he asked'before this person comes?'

'Not long' she answered. 'Would your worship sit down for a few
odd minutes?'


He made no answer; but began pacing the room with an irresolute
airas if he were undecided whether to remain or departand as if he
had some quarrel with himself for being there at all. But soon his
tread grew slower and heavierand his face more sternly thoughtful!;
as the object with which he had comefixed itself in his mindand
dilated there again.

While he thus walked up and down with his eyes on the groundMrs
Brownin the chair from which she had risen to receive himsat
listening anew. The monotony of his stepor the uncertainty of age
made her so slow of hearingthat a footfall without had sounded in
her daughter's ears for some momentsand she had looked up hastily to
warn her mother of its approachbefore the old woman was roused by
it. But then she started from her seatand whispering 'Here he is!'
hurried her visitor to his place of observationand put a bottle and
glass upon the tablewith such alacrityas to be ready to fling her
arms round the neck of Rob the Grinder on his appearance at the door.

'And here's my bonny boy' cried Mrs Brown'at last! - ohooho!
You're like my own sonRobby!'

'Oh! Misses Brown!' remonstrated the Grinder. 'Don't! Can't you be
fond of a cove without squeedging and throttling of him? Take care of
the birdcage in my handwill you?'

'Thinks of a birdcageafore me!' cried the old woman
apostrophizing the ceiling. 'Me that feels more than a mother for
him!'

'WellI'm sure I'm very much obliged to youMisses Brown' said
the unfortunate youthgreatly aggravated; 'but you're so jealous of a
cove. I'm very fond of you myselfand all thatof course; but I
don't smother youdo IMisses Brown?'

He looked and spoke as if he wOuld have been far from objecting to
do sohoweveron a favourable occasion.

'And to talk about birdcagestoo!' whimpered the Grinder. 'As If
that was a crime! Whylook'ee here! Do you know who this belongs to?'

'To Masterdear?' said the old woman with a grin.

'Ah!' replied the Grinderlifting a large cage tied up in a
wrapperon the tableand untying it with his teeth and hands. 'It's
our parrotthis is.'

'Mr Carker's parrotRob?'

'Will you hold your tongueMisses Brown?' returned the goaded
Grinder. 'What do you go naming names for? I'm blest' said Rob
pulling his hair with both hands in the exasperation of his feelings
'if she ain't enough to make a cove run wild!'

'What! Do you snub methankless boy!' cried the old womanwith
ready vehemence.

'Good graciousMisses Brownno!' returned the Grinderwith tears
in his eyes. 'Was there ever such a - ! Don't I dote upon youMisses
Brown?'

'Do yousweet Rob? Do you trulychickabiddy?' With thatMrs
Brown held him in her fond embrace once more; and did not release him
until he had made several violent and ineffectual struggles with his


legsand his hair was standing on end all over his head.

'Oh!' returned the Grinder'what a thing it is to be perfectly
pitched into with affection like this here. I wish she was - How have
you beenMisses Brown?'

'Ah! Not here since this night week!' said the old woman
contemplating him with a look of reproach.

'Good graciousMisses Brown' returned the Grinder'I said
tonight's a weekthat I'd come tonightdidn't I? And here I am. How
you do go on! I wish you'd be a little rationalMisses Brown. I'm
hoarse with saying things in my defenceand my very face is shiny
with being hugged!' He rubbed it hard with his sleeveas if to remove
the tender polish in question.

'Drink a little drop to comfort youmy Robin' said the old woman
filling the glass from the bottle and giving it to him.

'Thank'eeMisses Brown' returned the Grinder. 'Here's your
health. And long may you - et ceterer.' Whichto judge from the
expression of his facedid not include any very choice blessings.
'And here's her health' said the Grinderglancing at Alicewho sat
with her eyes fixedas it seemed to himon the wall behind himbut
in reality on Mr Dombey's face at the door'and wishing her the same
and many of 'em!'

He drained the glass to these two sentimentsand set it down.

'WellI sayMisses Brown!' he proceeded. 'To go on a little
rational now. You're a judge of birdsand up to their waysas I know
to my cost.'

'Cost!' repeated Mrs Brown.

'SatisfactionI mean' returned the Grinder. 'How you do take up a
coveMisses Brown! You've put it all out of my head again.'

'Judge of birdsRobby' suggested the old woman.

'Ah!' said the Grinder. 'WellI've got to take care of this parrot
- certain things being soldand a certain establishment broke up and
as I don't want no notice took at presentI wish you'd attend to
her for a week or soand give her board and lodgingwill you? If I
must come backwards and forwards' mused the Grinder with a dejected
face'I may as well have something to come for.'

'Something to come for?' screamed the old woman.

'Besides youI meanMisses Brown' returned the craven Rob. 'Not
that I want any inducement but yourselfMisses BrownI'm sure. Don't
begin againfor goodness' sake.'

'He don't care for me! He don't care for meas I care for him!'
cried Mrs Brownlifting up her skinny hands. 'But I'll take care of
his bird.'

'Take good care of it tooyou knowMrs Brown' said Robshaking
his head. 'If you was so much as to stroke its feathers once the wrong
wayI believe it would be found out.'

'Ahso sharp as thatRob?' said Mrs Brownquickly.

'SharpMisses Brown!' repeated Rob. 'But this is not to be talked


about.'

Checking himself abruptlyand not without a fearful glance across
the roomRob filled the glass againand having slowly emptied it
shook his headand began to draw his fingers across and across the
wires of the parrot's cage by way of a diversion from the dangerous
theme that had just been broached.

The old woman eyed him slilyand hitching her chair nearer his
and looking in at the parrotwho came down from the gilded dome at
her callsaid:

'Out of place nowRobby?'

'Never you mindMisses Brown' returned the Grindershortly.

'Board wagesperhapsRob?' said Mrs Brown.

'Pretty Polly!' said the Grinder.

The old woman darted a glance at him that might have warned him to
consider his ears in dangerbut it was his turn to look in at the
parrot nowand however expressive his imagination may have made her
angry scowlit was unseen by his bodily eyes.

'I wonder Master didn't take you with himRob' said the old
womanin a wheedling voicebut with increased malignity of aspect.

Rob was so absorbed in contemplation of the parrotand in trolling
his forefinger on the wiresthat he made no answer.

The old woman had her clutch within a hair's breadth of his shock
of hair as it stooped over the table; but she restrained her fingers
and saidin a voice that choked with its efforts to be coaxing:

'Robbymy child.'

'WellMisses Brown' returned the Grinder.

'I say I wonder Master didn't take you with himdear.'

'Never you mindMisses Brown' returned the Grinder.

Mrs Brown instantly directed the clutch of her right hand at his
hairand the clutch of her left hand at his throatand held on to
the object of her fond affection with such extraordinary furythat
his face began to blacken in a moment.

'Misses Brown!' exclaimed the Grinder'let gowill you? What are
you doing of? Helpyoung woman! Misses Brow- Brow- !'

The young womanhoweverequally unmoved by his direct appeal to
herand by his inarticulate utteranceremained quite neutraluntil
after struggling with his assailant into a cornerRob disengaged
himselfand stood there panting and fenced in by his own elbows
while the old womanpanting tooand stamping with rage and
eagernessappeared to be collecting her energies for another swoop
upon him. At this crisis Alice interposed her voicebut not in the
Grinder's favourby saying

'Well donemother. Tear him to pieces!'

'Whatyoung woman!' blubbered Rob; 'are you against me too? What
have I been and done? What am I to be tore to pieces forI should


like to know? Why do you take and choke a cove who has never done you
any harmneither of you? Call yourselves femalestoo!' said the
frightened and afflicted Grinderwith his coat-cuff at his eye. 'I'm
surprised at you! Where's your feminine tenderness?'


'You thankless dog!' gasped Mrs Brown. 'You impudent insulting
dog!'


'What have I been and done to go and give you offenceMisses
Brown?' retorted the fearful Rob. 'You was very much attached to me a
minute ago.'


'To cut me off with his short answers and his sulky words' said
the old woman. 'Me! Because I happen to be curious to have a little
bit of gossip about Master and the ladyto dare to play at fast and
loose with me! But I'll talk to you no moremy lad. Now go!'


'I'm sureMisses Brown' returned the abject Grinder'I never
Insiniwated that I wished to go. Don't talk like thatMisses Brown
if you please.'


'I won't talk at all' said Mrs Brownwith an action of her
crooked fingers that made him shrink into half his natural compass in
the corner. 'Not another word with him shall pass my lips. He's an
ungrateful hound. I cast him off. Now let him go! And I'll slip those
after him that shall talk too much; that won't be shook away; that'll
hang to him like leechesand slink arter him like foxes. What! He
knows 'em. He knows his old games and his old ways. If he's forgotten
'emthey'll soon remind him. Now let him goand see how he'll do
Master's businessand keep Master's secretswith such company always
following him up and down. Hahaha! He'll find 'em a different sort
from you and meAlly; Close as he is with you and me. Now let him go
now let him go!'


The old womanto the unspeakable dismay of the Grinderwalked her
twisted figure round and roundin a ring of some four feet in
diameterconstantly repeating these wordsand shaking her fist above
her headand working her mouth about.


'Misses Brown' pleaded Robcoming a little out of his corner
'I'm sure you wouldn't injure a coveon second thoughtsand in cold
bloodwould you?'


'Don't talk to me' said Mrs Brownstill wrathfully pursuing her
circle. 'Now let him gonow let him go!'


'Misses Brown' urged the tormented Grinder'I didn't mean to -
Ohwhat a thing it is for a cove to get into such a line as this! - I
was only careful of talkingMisses Brownbecause I always amon
account of his being up to everything; but I might have known it
wouldn't have gone any further. I'm sure I'm quite agreeable' with a
wretched face'for any little bit of gossipMisses Brown. Don't go
on like thisif you please. Ohcouldn't you have the goodness to put
in a word for a miserable covehere?' said the Grinderappealing in
desperation to the daughter.


'Comemotheryou hear what he says' she interposedin her stern
voiceand with an impatient action of her head; 'try him once more
and if you fall out with him againruin himif you likeand have
done with him.'


Mrs Brownmoved as it seemed by this very tender exhortation
presently began to howl; and softening by degreestook the apologetic
Grinder to her armswho embraced her with a face of unutterable woe



and like a victim as he wasresumed his former seatclose by the
side of his venerable friendwhom he sufferednot without much
constrained sweetness of countenancecombating very expressive
physiognomical revelations of an opposite character to draw his arm
through hersand keep it there.

'And how's Masterdeary dear?' said Mrs Brownwhensitting in
this amicable posturethey had pledged each other.

'Hush! If you'd be so goodMisses Brownas to speak a little
lower' Rob implored. 'Whyhe's pretty wellthank'eeI suppose.'

'You're not out of placeRobby?' said Mrs Brownin a wheedling
tone.

'WhyI'm not exactly out of placenor in' faltered Rob. 'I - I'm
still in payMisses Brown.'

'And nothing to doRob?'

'Nothing particular to do just nowMisses Brownbut to - keep my
eyes opensaid the Grinderrolling them in a forlorn way.

'Master abroadRob?'

'Ohfor goodness' sakeMisses Browncouldn't you gossip with a
cove about anything else?' cried the Grinderin a burst of despair.

The impetuous Mrs Brown rising directlythe tortured Grinder
detained herstammering 'Ye-esMisses BrownI believe he's abroad.
What's she staring at?' he addedin allusion to the daughterwhose
eyes were fixed upon the face that now again looked out behind

'Don't mind herlad' said the old womanholding him closer to
prevent his turning round. 'It's her way - her way. Tell meRob. Did
you ever see the ladydeary?'

'OhMisses Brownwhat lady?' cried the Grinder in a tone of
piteous supplication.

'What lady?' she retorted. 'The lady; Mrs Dombey.'

'YesI believe I see her once' replied Rob.

'The night she went awayRobbyeh?' said the old woman in his
earand taking note of every change in his face. 'Aha! I know it was
that night.'

'Wellif you know it was that nightyou knowMisses Brown'
replied Rob'it's no use putting pinchers into a cove to make him say
so.

'Where did they go that nightRob? Straight away? How did they go?
Where did you see her? Did she laugh? Did she cry? Tell me all about
it' cried the old hagholding him closer yetpatting the hand that
was drawn through his arm against her other handand searching every
line in his face with her bleared eyes. 'Come! Begin! I want to be
told all about it. WhatRobboy! You and me can keep a secret
togethereh? We've done so before now. Where did they go firstRob?'

The wretched Grinder made a gaspand a pause.

'Are you dumb?' said the old womanangrily.


'LordMisses Brownno! You expect a cove to be a flash of
lightning. I wish I was the electric fluency' muttered the bewildered
Grinder. 'I'd have a shock at somebodythat would settle their
business.'

'What do you say?' asked the old womanwith a grin.

'I'm wishing my love to youMisses Brown' returned the false Rob
seeking consolation in the glass. 'Where did they go to first was it?
Him and herdo you mean?'

'Ah!' said the old womaneagerly. 'Them two.'

'Whythey didn't go nowhere - not togetherI mean' answered Rob.

The old woman looked at himas though she had a strong impulse
upon her to make another clutch at his head and throatbut was
restrained by a certain dogged mystery in his face.

'That was the art of it' said the reluctant Grinder; 'that's the
way nobody saw 'em goor has been able to say how they did go. They
went different waysI tell you Misses Brown.

'Ayayay! To meet at an appointed place' chuckled the old
womanafter a moment's silent and keen scrutiny of his face.

'Whyif they weren't a going to meet somewhereI suppose they
might as well have stayed at homemightn't theyBrown?' returned the
unwilling Grinder.

'WellRob? Well?' said the old womandrawing his arm yet tighter
through her ownas ifin her eagernessshe were afraid of his
slipping away.

'Whathaven't we talked enough yetMisses Brown?' returned the
Grinderwhobetween his sense of injuryhis sense of liquorand
his sense of being on the rackhad become so lachrymosethat at
almost every answer he scooped his coats into one or other of his
eyesand uttered an unavailing whine of remonstrance. 'Did she laugh
that nightwas it? Didn't you ask if she laughedMisses Brown?'

'Or cried?' added the old womannodding assent.

'Neither' said the Grinder. 'She kept as steady when she and me oh
I see you will have it out of meMisses Brown! But take your
solemn oath nowthat you'll never tell anybody.'

This Mrs Brown very readily did: being naturally Jesuitical; and
having no other intention in the matter than that her concealed
visitor should hear for himself.

'She kept as steadythenwhen she and me went down to
Southampton' said the Grinder'as a image. In the morning she was
just the sameMisses Brown. And when she went away in the packet
before daylightby herself - me pretending to be her servantand
seeing her safe aboard - she was just the same. Noware you
contentedMisses Brown?'

'NoRob. Not yet' answered Mrs Browndecisively.

'Ohhere's a woman for you!' cried the unfortunate Robin an
outburst of feeble lamentation over his own helplessness.

'What did you wish to know nextMisses Brown?'


'What became of Master? Where did he go?' she inquiredstill
holding hIm tightand looking close into his facewith her sharp
eyes.

'Upon my soulI don't knowMisses Brown' answered Rob.

'Upon my soul I don't know what he didnor where he wentnor
anything about him I only know what he said to me as a caution to hold
my tonguewhen we parted; and I tell you thisMisses Brownas a
friendthat sooner than ever repeat a word of what we're saying now
you had better take and shoot yourselfor shut yourself up in this
houseand set it a-firefor there's nothing he wouldn't doto be
revenged upon you. You don't know him half as well as I doMisses
Brown. You're never safe from himI tell you.'

'Haven't I taken an oath' retorted the old woman'and won't I
keep it?'

'WellI'm sure I hope you willMisses Brown' returned Rob
somewhat doubtfullyand not without a latent threatening in his
manner. 'For your own sakequite as much as mine'

He looked at her as he gave her this friendly cautionand
emphasized it with a nodding of his head; but finding it uncomfortable
to encounter the yellow face with its grotesque actionand the ferret
eyes with their keen old wintry gazeso close to his ownhe looked
down uneasily and sat skulking in his chairas if he were trying to
bring hImself to a sullen declaration that he would answer no more
questions. The old womanstill holding him as beforetook this
opportunity of raising the forefinger of her right handin the air
as a stealthy signal to the concealed observer to give particular
attention to what was about to follow.

'Rob' she saidin her most coaxing tone.

'Good graciousMisses Brownwhat's the matter now?' returned the
exasperated Grinder.

'Rob! where did the lady and Master appoint to meet?'

Rob shuffled more and moreand looked up and looked downand bit
his thumband dried it on his waistcoatand finally saideyeing his
tormentor askance'How should I knowMisses Brown?'

The old woman held up her finger againas beforeand replying
'Comelad! It's no use leading me to thatand there leaving me. I
want to know' waited for his answer. Robafter a discomfited pause
suddenly broke out with'How can I pronounce the names of foreign
placesMrs Brown? What an unreasonable woman you are!'

'But you have heard it saidRobby' she retorted firmly'and you
know what it sounded like. Come!'

'I never heard it saidMisses Brown' returned the Grinder.

'Then' retorted the old woman quickly'you have seen it written
and you can spell it.'

Robwith a petulant exclamation between laughing and crying - for
he was penetrated with some admiration of Mrs Brown's cunningeven
through this persecution - after some reluctant fumbling in his
waistcoat pocketproduced from it a little piece of chalk. The old
woman's eyes sparkled when she saw it between his thumb and finger


and hastily clearing a space on the deal tablethat he might write
the word thereshe once more made her signal with a shaking hand.

'Now I tell you beforehand what it isMisses Brown' said Rob
'it's no use asking me anything else. I won't answer anything else; I
can't. How long it was to be before they metor whose plan it was
that they was to go away aloneI don't know no more than you do. I
don't know any more about it. If I was to tell you how I found out
this wordyou'd believe that. Shall I tell youMisses Brown?'

'YesRob.'

'Well thenMisses Brown. The way - now you won't ask any moreyou
know?' said Robturning his eyeswhich were now fast getting drowsy
and stupidupon her.

'Not another word' said Mrs Brown.

'Well thenthe way was this. When a certain person left the lady
with mehe put a piece of paper with a direction written on it in the
lady's handsaying it was in case she should forget. She wasn't
afraid of forgettingfor she tore it up as soon as his back was
turnedand when I put up the carriage stepsI shook out one of the
pieces - she sprinkled the rest out of the windowI supposefor
there was none there afterwardsthough I looked for 'em. There was
only one word on itand that was thisif you must and will know. But
remember! You're upon your oathMisses Brown!'

Mrs Brown knew thatshe said. Robhaving nothing more to say
began to chalkslowly and laboriouslyon the table.

'"D' the old woman read aloud, when he had formed the letter.

'Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown?' he exclaimed, covering
it with his hand, and turning impatiently upon her. 'I won't have it
read out. Be quiet, will you!'

'Then write large, Rob,' she returned, repeating her secret signal;
'for my eyes are not good, even at print.'

Muttering to himself, and returning to his work with an ill will,
Rob went on with the word. As he bent his head down, the person for
whose information he so unconsciously laboured, moved from the door
behind him to within a short stride of his shoulder, and looked
eagerly towards the creeping track of his hand upon the table. At the
same time, Alice, from her opposite chair, watched it narrowly as it
shaped the letters, and repeated each one on her lips as he made it,
without articulating it aloud. At the end of every letter her eyes and
Mr Dombey's met, as if each of them sought to be confirmed by the
other; and thus they both spelt D.I.J.O.N.

'There!' said the Grinder, moistening the palm of his hand hastily,
to obliterate the word; and not content with smearing it out, rubbing
and planing all trace of it away with his coat-sleeve, until the very
colour of the chalk was gone from the table. 'Now, I hope you're
contented, Misses Brown!'

The old woman, in token of her being so, released his arm and
patted his back; and the Grinder, overcome with mortification,
cross-examination, and liquor, folded his arms on the table, laid his
head upon them, and fell asleep.

Not until he had been heavily asleep some time, and was snoring
roundly, did the old woman turn towards the door where Mr Dombey stood


concealed, and beckon him to come through the room, and pass out. Even
then, she hovered over Rob, ready to blind him with her hands, or
strike his head down, if he should raise it while the secret step was
crossing to the door. But though her glance took sharp cognizance of
the sleeper, it was sharp too for the waking man; and when he touched
her hand with his, and in spite of all his caution, made a chinking,
golden sound, it was as bright and greedy as a raven's.

The daughter's dark gaze followed him to the door, and noted well
how pale he was, and how his hurried tread indicated that the least
delay was an insupportable restraint upon him, and how he was burning
to be active and away. As he closed the door behind him, she looked
round at her mother. The old woman trotted to her; opened her hand to
show what was within; and, tightly closing it again in her jealousy
and avarice, whispered:

'What will he do, Ally?'

'Mischief,' said the daughter.

'Murder?' asked the old woman.

'He's a madman, in his wounded pride, and may do that, for anything
we can say, or he either.'

Her glance was brighter than her mother's, and the fire that shone
in it was fiercer; but her face was colourless, even to her lips

They said no more, but sat apart; the mother communing with her
money; the daughter with her thoughts; the glance of each, shining in
the gloom of the feebly lighted room. Rob slept and snored. The
disregarded parrot only was in action. It twisted and pulled at the
wires of its cage, with its crooked beak, and crawled up to the dome,
and along its roof like a fly, and down again head foremost, and
shook, and bit, and rattled at every slender bar, as if it knew its
master's danger, and was wild to force a passage out, and fly away to
warn him of it.

CHAPTER 53.

More Intelligence

There were two of the traitor's own blood - his renounced brother
and sister - on whom the weight of his guilt rested almost more
heavily, at this time, than on the man whom he had so deeply injured.
Prying and tormenting as the world was, it did Mr Dombey the service
of nerving him to pursuit and revenge. It roused his passion, stung
his pride, twisted the one idea of his life into a new shape, and made
some gratification of his wrath, the object into which his whole
intellectual existence resolved itself. All the stubbornness and
implacability of his nature, all its hard impenetrable quality, all
its gloom and moroseness, all its exaggerated sense of personal
importance, all its jealous disposition to resent the least flaw in
the ample recognition of his importance by others, set this way like
many streams united into one, and bore him on upon their tide. The
most impetuously passionate and violently impulsive of mankind would
have been a milder enemy to encounter than the sullen Mr Dombey
wrought to this. A wild beast would have been easier turned or soothed
than the grave gentleman without a wrinkle in his starched cravat.


But the very intensity of his purpose became almost a substitute
for action in it. While he was yet uninformed of the traitor's
retreat, it served to divert his mind from his own calamity, and to
entertain it with another prospect. The brother and sister of his
false favourite had no such relief; everything in their history, past
and present, gave his delinquency a more afflicting meaning to them.

The sister may have sometimes sadly thought that if she had
remained with him, the companion and friend she had been once, he
might have escaped the crime into which he had fallen. If she ever
thought so, it was still without regret for what she had done, without
the least doubt of her duty, without any pricing or enhancing of her
self-devotion. But when this possibility presented itself to the
erring and repentant brother, as it sometimes did, it smote upon his
heart with such a keen, reproachful touch as he could hardly bear. No
idea of retort upon his cruel brother came into his mind. New
accusation of himself, fresh inward lamentings over his own
unworthiness, and the ruin in which it was at once his consolation and
his self-reproach that he did not stand alone, were the sole kind of
reflections to which the discovery gave rise in him.

It was on the very same day whose evening set upon the last
chapter, and when Mr Dombey's world was busiest with the elopement of
his wife, that the window of the room in which the brother and sister
sat at their early breakfast, was darkened by the unexpected shadow of
a man coming to the little porch: which man was Perch the Messenger.

'I've stepped over from Balls Pond at a early hour,' said Mr Perch,
confidentially looking in at the room door, and stopping on the mat to
wipe his shoes all round, which had no mud upon them, 'agreeable to my
instructions last night. They was, to be sure and bring a note to you,
Mr Carker, before you went out in the morning. I should have been here
a good hour and a half ago,' said Mr Perch, meekly, 'but fOr the state
of health of Mrs P., who I thought I should have lost in the night, I
do assure you, five distinct times.'

'Is your wife so ill?' asked Harriet.

'Why, you see,' said Mr Perch, first turning round to shut the door
carefully, 'she takes what has happened in our House so much to heart,
Miss. Her nerves is so very delicate, you see, and soon unstrung. Not
but what the strongest nerves had good need to be shook, I'm sure. You
feel it very much yourself, no doubts.

Harriet repressed a sigh, and glanced at her brother.

'I'm sure I feel it myself, in my humble way,' Mr Perch went on to
say, with a shake of his head, 'in a manner I couldn't have believed
if I hadn't been called upon to undergo. It has almost the effect of
drink upon me. I literally feels every morning as if I had been taking
more than was good for me over-night.'

Mr Perch's appearance corroborated this recital of his symptoms.
There was an air of feverish lassitude about it, that seemed referable
to drams; and, which, in fact, might no doubt have been traced to
those numerous discoveries of himself in the bars of public-houses,
being treated and questioned, which he was in the daily habit of
making.

'Therefore I can judge,' said Mr Perch, shaking his head and
speaking in a silvery murmur, 'of the feelings of such as is at all
peculiarly sitiwated in this most painful rewelation.'

Here Mr Perch waited to be confided in; and receiving no


confidence, coughed behind his hand. This leading to nothing, he
coughed behind his hat; and that leading to nothing, he put his hat on
the ground and sought in his breast pocket for the letter.

'If I rightly recollect, there was no answer,' said Mr Perch, with
an affable smile; 'but perhaps you'll be so good as cast your eye over
it, Sir.'

John Carker broke the seal, which was Mr Dombey's, and possessing
himself of the contents, which were very brief, replied,

'No. No answer is expected.'

'Then I shall wish you good morning, Miss,' said Perch, taking a
step toward the door, and hoping, I'm sure, that you'll not permit
yourself to be more reduced in mind than you can help, by the late
painful rewelation. The Papers,' said Mr Perch, taking two steps back
again, and comprehensively addressing both the brother and sister in a
whisper of increased mystery, 'is more eager for news of it than you'd
suppose possible. One of the Sunday ones, in a blue cloak and a white
hat, that had previously offered for to bribe me - need I say with
what success? - was dodging about our court last night as late as
twenty minutes after eight o'clock. I see him myself, with his eye at
the counting-house keyhole, which being patent is impervious. Another
one,' said Mr Perch, 'with military frogs, is in the parlour of the
King's Arms all the blessed day. I happened, last week, to let a
little obserwation fall there, and next morning, which was Sunday, I
see it worked up in print, in a most surprising manner.'

Mr Perch resorted to his breast pocket, as if to produce the
paragraph but receiving no encouragement, pulled out his beaver
gloves, picked up his hat, and took his leave; and before it was high
noon, Mr Perch had related to several select audiences at the King's
Arms and elsewhere, how Miss Carker, bursting into tears, had caught
him by both hands, and said, 'Oh! dear dear Perch, the sight of you is
all the comfort I have left!' and how Mr John Carker had said, in an
awful voice, 'Perch, I disown him. Never let me hear hIm mentioned as
a brother more!'

'Dear John,' said Harriet, when they were left alone, and had
remained silent for some few moments. 'There are bad tidings in that
letter.'

'Yes. But nothing unexpected,' he replied. 'I saw the writer

yesterday.'

'The writer?'

'Mr Dombey. He passed twice through the Counting House while I was
there. I had been able to avoid him before, but of course could not
hope to do that long. I know how natural it was that he should regard
my presence as something offensive; I felt it must be so, myself.'

'He did not say so?'

'No; he said nothing: but I saw that his glance rested on me for a
moment, and I was prepared for what would happen - for what has
happened. I am dismissed!'

She looked as little shocked and as hopeful as she could, but it
was distressing news, for many reasons.

'I need not tell you"' said John Carkerreading the letter'"why


your name would henceforth have an unnatural soundin however remote
a connexion with mineor why the daily sight of anyone who bears it
would be unendurable to me. I have to notify the cessation of all
engagements between usfrom this dateand to request that no renewal
of any communication with meor my establishmentbe ever attempted
by you." - Enclosed is an equivalent in money to a generously long
noticeand this is my discharge." Heaven knowsHarrietit is a
lenient and considerate onewhen we remember all!'

'If it be lenient and considerate to punish you at allJohnfor
the misdeed of another' she replied gently'yes.'

'We have been an ill-omened race to him' said John Carker. 'He has
reason to shrink from the sound of our nameand to think that there
is something cursed and wicked in our blood. I should almost think it
tooHarrietbut for you.'

'Brotherdon't speak like this. If you have any special reasonas
you say you haveand think you have - though I sayNo!- to love me
spare me the hearing of such wild mad words!'

He covered his face with both his hands; but soon permitted her
coming near himto take one in her own.

'After so many yearsthis parting is a melancholy thingI know'
said his sister'and the cause of it is dreadful to us both. We have
to livetooand must look about us for the means. Wellwell! We can
do soundismayed. It is our pridenot our troubleto striveJohn
and to strive together!'

A smile played on her lipsas she kissed his cheekand entreated
him to be of of good cheer.

'Ohdearest sister! Tiedof your own noble willto a ruined man!
whose reputation is blighted; who has no friend himselfand has
driven every friend of yours away!'

'John!' she laid her hand hastily upon his lips'for my sake! In
remembrance of our long companionship!' He was silent 'Nowlet me
tell youdear' quietly sitting by his side'I haveas you have
expected this; and when I have been thinking of itand fearing that
it would happenand preparing myself for itas well as I couldI
have resolved to tell youif it should be sothat I have kept a
secret from youand that we have a friend.'

'What's our friend's nameHarriet?' he answered with a sorrowful

smile.

'IndeedI don't knowbut he once made a very earnest protestation
to me of his friendship and his wish to serve us: and to this day I
believe 'him.'

'Harriet!' exclaimed her wondering brother'where does this friend

live?'

'Neither do I know that' she returned. 'But he knows us bothand
our history - all our little historyJohn. That is the reason whyat
his own suggestionI have kept the secret of his comingherefrom
youlest his acquaintance with it should distress you.

'Here! Has he been hereHarriet?'


'Herein this room. Once.'

'What kind of man?'

'Not young. "Grey-headed as he said, and fast growing greyer."
But generousand frankand goodI am sure.'

'And only seen onceHarriet?'

'In this room only once' said his sisterwith the slightest and
most transient glow upon her cheek; 'but when herehe entreated me to
suffer him to see me once a week as he passed byin token of our
being welland continuing to need nothing at his hands. For I told
himwhen he proffered us any service he could render - which was the
object of his visit - that we needed nothing.'

'And once a week - '

'Once every week since thenand always on the same dayand at the
same hourhe his gone past; always on foot; always going in the same
direction - towards London; and never pausing longer than to bow to
meand wave his hand cheerfullyas a kind guardian might. He made
that promise when he proposed these curious interviewsand has kept
it so faithfully and pleasantlythat if I ever felt any trifling
uneasiness about them in the beginning (which I don't think I did
John; his manner was so plain and true) It very soon vanishedand
left me quite glad when the day was coming. Last Monday - the first
since this terrible event - he did not go by; and I have wondered
whether his absence can have been in any way connected with what has
happened.'

'How?' inquired her brother.

'I don't know how. I have only speculated on the coincidence; I
have not tried to account for it. I feel sure he will return. When he
doesdear Johnlet me tell him that I have at last spoken to you
and let me bring you together. He will certainly help us to a new
livelihood. His entreaty was that he might do something to smooth my
life and yours; and I gave him my promise that if we ever wanted a
friendI would remember him.'

'Then his name was to be no secret'Harriet' said her brother
who had listened with close attention'describe this gentleman to me.
I surely ought to know one who knows me so well.'

His sister paintedas vividly as she couldthe featuresstature
and dress of her visitor; but John Carkereither from having no
knowledge of the originalor from some fault in her descriptionor
from some abstraction of his thoughts as he walked to and fro
ponderingcould not recognise the portrait she presented to him.

Howeverit was agreed between them that he should see the original
when he next appeared. This concludedthe sister applied herself
with a less anxious breastto her domestic occupations; and the
grey-haired manlate Junior of Dombey'sdevoted the first day of his
unwonted liberty to working in the garden.

It was quite late at nightand the brother was reading aloud while
the sister plied her needlewhen they were interrupted by a knocking
at the door. In the atmosphere of vague anxiety and dread that lowered
about them in connexion with their fugitive brotherthis sound
unusual therebecame almost alarming. The brother going to the door
the sister sat and listened timidly. Someone spoke to himand he
replied and seemed surprised; and after a few wordsthe two


approached together.

'Harriet' said her brotherlighting in their late visitorand
speaking in a low voice'Mr Morfin - the gentleman so long in
Dombey's House with James.'

His sister started backas if a ghost had entered. In the doorway
stood the unknown friendwith the dark hair sprinkled with greythe
ruddy facethe broad clear browand hazel eyeswhose secret she had
kept so long!

'John!' she saidhalf-breathless. 'It is the gentleman I told you
oftoday!'

'The gentlemanMiss Harriet' said the visitorcoming in - for he
had stopped a moment in the doorway - 'is greatly relieved to hear you
say that: he has been devising ways and meansall the way hereof
explaining himselfand has been satisfied with none. Mr JohnI am
not quite a stranger here. You were stricken with astonishment when
you saw me at your door just now. I observe you are more astonished at
present. Well! That's reasonable enough under existing circumstances.
If we were not such creatures of habit as we arewe shouldn't have
reason to be astonished half so often.'

By this timehe had greeted Harriet with that able mingling of
cordiality and respect which she recollected so welland had sat down
near herpulled off his glovesand thrown them into his hat upon the
table.

'There's nothing astonishing' he said'in my having conceived a
desire to see your sisterMr Johnor in my having gratified it in my
own way. As to the regularity of my visits since (which she may have
mentioned to you)there is nothing extraordinary in that. They soon
grew into a habit; and we are creatures of habit - creatures of
habit!'

Putting his hands into his pocketsand leaning back in his chair
he looked at the brother and sister as if it were interesting to him
to see them together; and went on to saywith a kind of irritable
thoughtfulness:

'It's this same habit that confirms some of uswho are capable of
better thingsin Lucifer's own pride and stubbornness - that confirms
and deepens others of us in villainy - more of us in indifference that
hardens us from day to dayaccording to the temper of our clay
like imagesand leaves us as susceptible as images to new impressions
and convictions. You shall judge of its influence on meJohn. For
more years than I need nameI had my smalland exactly defined
sharein the management of Dombey's Houseand saw your brother (who
has proved himself a scoundrel! Your sister will forgive my being
obliged to mention it) extending and extending his influenceuntil
the business and its owner were his football; and saw you toiling at
your obscure desk every day; and was quite content to be as little
troubled as I might beout of my own strip of dutyand to let
everything about me go onday by dayunquestionedlike a great
machine - that was its habit and mine - and to take it all for
grantedand consider it all right. My Wednesday nights came regularly
roundour quartette parties came regularly offmy violoncello was in
good tuneand there was nothing wrong in my world - or if anything
not much - or little or muchit was no affair of mine.'

'I can answer for your being more respected and beloved during all
that time than anybody in the HouseSir' said John Carker.


'Pooh! Good-natured and easy enoughI daresay'returned the other
'a habit I had. It suited the Manager; it suited the man he managed:
it suited me best of all. I did what was allotted to me to domade no
court to either of themand was glad to occupy a station in which
none was required. So I should have gone on till nowbut that my room
had a thin wall. You can tell your sister that it was divided from the
Manager's room by a wainscot partition.'

'They were adjoining rooms; had been onePerhapsoriginally; and
were separatedas Mr Morfin says' said her brotherlooking back to
him for the resumption of his explanation.

'I have whistledhummed tunesgone accurately through the whole
of Beethoven's Sonata in B' to let him know that I was within
hearing' said Mr Morfin; 'but he never heeded me. It happened seldom
enough that I was within hearing of anything of a private nature
certainly. But when I wasand couldn't otherwise avoid knowing
something of itI walked out. I walked out onceJohnduring a
conversation between two brothersto whichin the beginningyoung
Walter Gay was a party. But I overheard some of it before I left the
room. You remember it sufficientlyperhapsto tell your sister what
its nature was?'

'It referredHarriet' said her brother in a low voice'to the
pastand to our relative positions in the House.'

'Its matter was not new to mebut was presented in a new aspect.
It shook me in my habit - the habit of nine-tenths of the world - of
believing that all was right about mebecause I was used to it' said
their visitor; 'and induced me to recall the history of the two
brothersand to ponder on it. I think it was almost the first time in
my life when I fell into this train of reflection - how will many
things that are familiarand quite matters of course to us nowlook
when we come to see them from that new and distant point of view which
we must all take upone day or other? I was something less
good-naturedas the phrase goesafter that morningless easy and
complacent altogether.'

He sat for a minute or sodrumming with one hand on the table; and
resumed in a hurryas if he were anxious to get rid of his
confession.

'Before I knew what to door whether I could do anythingthere
was a second conversation between the same two brothersin which
their sister was mentioned. I had no scruples of conscience in
suffering all the waifs and strays of that conversation to float to me
as freely as they would. I considered them mine by right. After that
I came here to see the sister for myself. The first time I stopped at
the garden gateI made a pretext of inquiring into the character of a
poor neighbour; but I wandered out of that tractand I think Miss
Harriet mistrusted me. The second time I asked leave to come in; came
in; and said what I wished to say. Your sister showed me reasons which
I dared not disputefor receiving no assistance from me then; but I
established a means of communication between uswhich remained
unbroken until within these few dayswhen I was preventedby
important matters that have lately devolved upon mefrom maintaining
them'

'How little I have suspected this' said John Carker'when I have
seen you every daySir! If Harriet could have guessed your name - '

'Whyto tell you the truthJohn' interposed the visitor'I kept
it to myself for two reasons. I don't know that the first might have
been binding alone; but one has no business to take credit for good


intentionsand I made up my mindat all eventsnot to disclose
myself until I should be able to do you some real service or other. My
second reason wasthat I always hoped there might be some lingering
possibility of your brother's relenting towards you both; and in that
caseI felt that where there was the chance of a man of his
suspiciouswatchful characterdiscovering that you had been secretly
befriended by methere was the chance of a new and fatal cause of
division. I resolvedto be sureat the risk of turning his
displeasure against myself - which would have been no matter - to
watch my opportunity of serving you with the head of the House; but
the distractions of deathcourtshipmarriageand domestic
unhappinesshave left us no head but your brother for this longlong
time. And it would have been better for us' said the visitor
dropping his voice'to have been a lifeless trunk.'

He seemed conscious that these latter words had escaped hIm against
his willand stretching out a hand to the brotherand a hand to the
sistercontinued: 'All I could desire to sayand moreI have now
said. All I mean goes beyond wordsas I hope you understand and
believe. The time has comeJohn - though most unfortunately and
unhappily come - when I may help you without interfering with that
redeeming strugglewhich has lasted through so many years; since you
were discharged from it today by no act of your own. It is late; I
need say no more to-night. You will guard the treasure you have here
without advice or reminder from me.'

With these words he rose to go.

'But go you firstJohn' he said goodhumouredly'with a light
without saying what you want to saywhatever that maybe;' John
Carker's heart was fulland he would have relieved it in speech' if
he could; 'and let me have a word with your sister. We have talked
alone beforeand in this room too; though it looks more natural with
you here.'

Following him out with his eyeshe turned kindly to Harrietand
said in a lower voiceand with an altered and graver manner:

'You wish to ask me something of the man whose sister it is your
misfortune to be.'

'I dread to ask' said Harriet.

'You have looked so earnestly at me more than once' rejoined the
visitor'that I think I can divine your question. Has he taken money?
Is it that?'

'Yes.'

'He has not.'

'I thank Heaven!' said Harriet. 'For the sake of John.'

'That he has abused his trust in many ways' said Mr Morfin; 'that
he has oftener dealt and speculated to advantage for himselfthan for
the House he represented; that he has led the House onto prodigious
venturesoften resulting in enormous losses; that he has always
pampered the vanity and ambition of his employerwhen it was his duty
to have held them in checkand shownas it was in his power to do
to what they tended here or there; will notperhapssurprise you
now. Undertakings have been entered onto swell the reputation of the
House for vast resourcesand to exhibit it in magnificent contrast to
other merchants' Housesof which it requires a steady head to
contemplate the possibly - a few disastrous changes of affairs might


render them the probably - ruinous consequences. In the midst of the
many transactions of the Housein most parts of the world: a great
labyrinth of which only he has held the clue: he has had the
opportunityand he seems to have used itof keeping the various
results afloatwhen ascertainedand substituting estimates and
generalities for facts. But latterly - you follow meMiss Harriet?'

'Perfectlyperfectly' she answeredwith her frightened face
fixed on his. 'Pray tell me all the worst at once.

'Latterlyhe appears to have devoted the greatest pains to making
these results so plain and clearthat reference to the private books
enables one to grasp themnumerous and varying as they arewith
extraordinary ease. As if he had resolved to show his employer at one
broad view what has been brought upon him by ministration to his
ruling passion! That it has been his constant practice to minister to
that passion baselyand to flatter it corruptlyis indubitable. In
thathis criminalityas it is connected with the affairs of the
Housechiefly consists.'

'One other word before you leave medear Sir' said Harriet.
'There is no danger in all this?'

'How danger?' he returnedwith a little hesitation.

'To the credit of the House?'

'I cannot help answering you plainlyand trusting you completely'
said Mr Morfinafter a moment's survey of her face.

'You may. Indeed you may!'

'I am sure I may. Danger to the House's credit? No; none There may
be difficultygreater or less difficultybut no dangerunless unless
indeed - the head of the Houseunable to bring his mind to
the reduction of its enterprisesand positively refusing to believe
that it isor can bein any position but the position in which he
has always represented it to himselfshould urge it beyond its
strength. Then it would totter.'

'But there is no apprehension of that?' said Harriet.

'There shall be no half-confidence' he repliedshaking her hand
'between us. Mr Dombey is unapproachable by anyoneand his state of
mind is haughtyrashunreasonableand ungovernablenow. But he is
disturbed and agitated now beyond all common boundsand it may pass.
You now know allboth worst and best. No more to-nightand
good-night!'

With that he kissed her handandpassing out to the door where
her brother stood awaiting his comingput him cheerfully aside when
he essayed to speak; told him thatas they would see each other soon
and oftenhe might speak at another timeif he wouldbut there was
no leisure for it then; and went away at a round pacein order that
no word of gratitude might follow him.

The brother and sister sat conversing by the firesideuntil it was
almost day; made sleepless by this glimpse of the new world that
opened before themand feeling like two people shipwrecked long ago
upon a solitary coastto whom a ship had come at lastwhen they were
old in resignationand had lost all thought of any other home. But
another and different kind of disquietude kept them waking too. The
darkness out of which this light had broken on them gathered around;
and the shadow of their guilty brother was in the house where his foot


had never trod.

Nor was it to be driven outnor did it fade before the sun. Next
morning it was there; at noon; at night Darkest and most distinct at
nightas is now to be told.

John Carker had gone outin pursuance of a letter of appointment
from their friendand Harriet was left in the house alone. She had
been alone some hours. A dullgrave eveningand a deepening
twilightwere not favourable to the removal of the oppression on her
spirits. The idea of this brotherlong unseen and unknownflitted
about her in frightful shapes He was deaddyingcalling to her
staring at herfrowning on her. The pictures in her mind were so
obtrusive and exact thatas the twilight deepenedshe dreaded to
raise her head and look at the dark corners of the roomlest his
wraiththe offspring of her excited imaginationshould be waiting
thereto startle her. Once she had such a fancy of his being in the
next roomhiding - though she knew quite well what a distempered
fancy it wasand had no belief in it - that she forced herself to go
therefor her own conviction. But in vain. The room resumed its
shadowy terrorsthe moment she left it; and she had no more power to
divest herself of these vague impressions of dreadthan if they had
been stone giantsrooted in the solid earth.

It was almost darkand she was sitting near the windowwith her
head upon her handlooking downwhensensible of a sudden increase
in the gloom of the apartmentshe raised her eyesand uttered an
involuntary cry. Close to the glassa pale scared face gazed in;
vacantlyfor an instantas searching for an object; then the eyes
rested on herselfand lighted up.

'Let me in! Let me in! I want to speak to you!' and the hand
rattled on the glass.

She recognised immediately the woman with the long dark hairto
whom she had given warmthfoodand shelterone wet night. Naturally
afraid of herremembering her violent behaviourHarrietretreating
a little from the windowstood undecided and alarmed.

'Let me in! Let me speak to you! I am thankful - quiet - humble anything
you like. But let me speak to you.'

The vehement manner of the entreatythe earnest expression of the
facethe trembling of the two hands that were raised imploringlya
certain dread and terror in the voice akin to her own condition at the
momentprevailed with Harriet. She hastened to the door and opened
it.

'May I come inor shall I speak here?' said the womancatching at
her hand.

'What is it that you want? What is it that you have to say?'

'Not muchbut let me say it outor I shall never say it. I am
tempted now to go away. There seem to be hands dragging me from the
door. Let me come inif you can trust me for this once!'

Her energy again prevailedand they passed into the firelight of
the little kitchenwhere she had before satand ateand dried her
clothes.

'Sit there' said Alicekneeling down beside her'and look at me.
You remember me?'


'I do.'


'You remember what I told you I had beenand where I came from
ragged and lamewith the fierce wind and weather beating on my head?'


'Yes.'


'You know how I came back that nightand threw your money in the
dirtand you and your race. Nowsee me hereupon my knees. Am l
less earnest nowthan I was then?'


'If what you ask' said Harrietgently'is forgiveness - '


'But it's not!' returned the otherwith a proudfierce look 'What
I ask is to be believed. Now you shall judge if I am worthy of belief
both as I wasand as I am.'


Still upon her kneesand with her eyes upon the fireand the fire
shining on her ruined beauty and her wild black hairone long tress
of which she pulled over her shoulderand wound about her handand
thoughtfully bit and tore while speakingshe went on:


'When I was young and prettyand this' plucking contemptuously at
the hair she heldwas only handled delicatelyand couldn't be
admired enoughmy motherwho had not been very mindful of me as a
childfound out my meritsand was fond of meand proud of me. She
was covetous and poorand thought to make a sort of property of me.
No great lady ever thought that of a daughter yetI'm sureor acted
as if she did - it's never donewe all know - and that shows that the
only instances of mothers bringing up their daughters wrongand evil
coming of itare among such miserable folks as us.'


Looking at the fireas if she were forgetfulfor the momentof
having any auditorshe continued in a dreamy wayas she wound the
long tress of hair tight round and round her hand.


'What came of thatI needn't say. Wretched marriages don't come of
such thingsin our degree; only wretchedness and ruin. Wretchedness
and ruin came on me - came on me.


Raising her eyes swiftly from their moody gaze upon the fireto
Harriet's faceshe said:


'I am wasting timeand there is none to spare; yet if I hadn't
thought of allI shouldn't be here now. Wretchedness and ruin came on
meI say. I was made a short-lived toyand flung aside more cruelly
and carelessly than even such things are. By whose hand do you think?'


'Why do you ask me?' said Harriet.


'Why do you tremble?' rejoined Alicewith an eager look. 'His
usage made a Devil of me. I sunk in wretchedness and ruinlower and
lower yet. I was concerned in a robbery - in every part of it but the
gains - and was found outand sent to be triedwithout a friend
without a penny. Though I was but a girlI would have gone to Death
sooner than ask him for a wordif a word of his could have saved me.
I would! To any death that could have been invented. But my mother
covetous alwayssent to him in my nametold the true story of my
caseand humbly prayed and petitioned for a small last gift - for not
so many pounds as I have fingers on this hand. Who was itdo you
thinkwho snapped his fingers at me in my miserylyingas he
believedat his feetand left me without even this poor sign of
remembrance; well satisfied that I should be sent abroadbeyond the
reach of farther trouble to himand should dieand rot there? Who



was thisdo you think?'

'Why do you ask me?' repeated Harriet.

'Why do you tremble?' said Alicelaying her hand upon her arm' and
looking in her face'but that the answer is on your lips! It was your
brother James.

Harriet trembled more and morebut did not avert her eyes from the
eager look that rested on them.

'When I knew you were his sister - which was on that night - I came
backweary and lameto spurn your gift. I felt that night as if I
could have travelledweary and lameover the whole worldto stab
himif I could have found him in a lonely place with no one near. Do
you believe that I was earnest in all that?'

'I do! Good Heavenwhy are you come again?'

'Since then' said Alicewith the same grasp of her armand the
same look in her face'I have seen him! I have followed him with my
eyesIn the broad day. If any spark of my resentment slumbered in my
bosomit sprung into a blaze when my eyes rested on him. You know he
has wronged a proud manand made him his deadly enemy. What if I had
given information of him to that man?'

'Information!' repeated Harriet.

'What if I had found out one who knew your brother's secret; who
knew the manner of his flightwho knew where he and the companion of
his flight were gone? What if I had made him utter all his knowledge
word by wordbefore his enemyconcealed to hear it? What if I had
sat by at the timelooking into this enemy's faceand seeing it
change till it was scarcely human? What if I had seen him rush away
madin pursuit? What if I knewnowthat he was on his roadmore
fiend than manand mustin so many hourscome up with him?'

'Remove your hand!' said Harrietrecoiling. 'Go away! Your touch
is dreadful to me!'

'I have done this' pursued the otherwith her eager look
regardless of the interruption. 'Do I speak and look as if I really
had? Do you believe what I am saying?'

'I fear I must. Let my arm go!'

'Not yet. A moment more. You can think what my revengeful purpose
must have beento last so longand urge me to do this?'

'Dreadful!' said Harriet.

'Then when you see me now' said Alice hoarsely'here again
kneeling quietly on the groundwith my touch upon your armwith my
eyes upon your faceyou may believe that there is no common
earnestness in what I sayand that no common struggle has been
battling in my breast. I am ashamed to speak the wordsbut I relent.
I despise myself; I have fought with myself all dayand all last
night; but I relent towards him without reasonand wish to repair
what I have doneif it is possible. I wouldn't have them come
together while his pursuer is so blind and headlong. If you had seen
him as he went out last nightyou would know the danger better.

'How can it be prevented? What can I do?' cried Harriet.


'All night long' pursued the otherhurriedly'I had dreams of
him - and yet I didn't sleep - in his blood. All dayI have had him
near me.

'What can I do?' cried Harrietshuddering at these words.

'If there is anyone who'll writeor sendor go to himlet them
lose no time. He is at Dijon. Do you know the nameand where it is?'

'Yes.'

'Warn him that the man he has made his enemy is in a frenzyand
that he doesn't know him if he makes light of his approach. Tell him
that he is on the road - I know he is! - and hurrying on. Urge him to
get away while there is time - if there is time - and not to meet him
yet. A month or so will make years of difference. Let them not
encounterthrough me. Anywhere but there! Any time but now! Let his
foe follow himand find him for himselfbut not through me! There is
enough upon my head without.'

The fire ceased to be reflected in her jet black hairuplifted
faceand eager eyes; her hand was gone from Harriet's arm; and the
place where she had been was empty.

CHAPTER 54.

The Fugitives

Tea-timean hour short of midnight; the placea French apartment
comprising some half-dozen rooms; - a dull cold hall or corridora
dining-rooma drawing-rooma bed-roomand an inner drawingroomor
boudoirsmaller and more retired than the rest. All these shut in by
one large pair of doors on the main staircasebut each room provided
with two or three pairs of doors of its ownestablishing several
means of communication with the remaining portion of the apartmentor
with certain small passages within the wallleadingas is not
unusual in such housesto some back stairs with an obscure outlet
below. The whole situated on the first floor of so large an Hotel
that it did not absorb one entire row of windows upon one side of the
square court-yard in the centreupon which the whole four sides of
the mansion looked.

An air of splendoursufficiently faded to be melancholyand
sufficiently dazzling to clog and embarrass the details of life with a
show of statereigned in these rooms The walls and ceilings were
gilded and painted; the floors were waxed and polished; crimson
drapery hung in festoons from windowdoorand mirror; and
candelabragnarled and intertwisted like the branches of treesor
horns of animalsstuck out from the panels of the wall. But in the
day-timewhen the lattice-blinds (now closely shut) were openedand
the light let intraces were discernible among this fineryof wear
and tear and dustof sun and damp and smokeand lengthened intervals
of want of use and habitationwhen such shows and toys of life seem
sensitive like lifeand waste as men shut up in prison do. Even
nightand clusters of burning candlescould not wholly efface them
though the general glitter threw them in the shade.

The glitter of bright tapersand their reflection in
looking-glassesscraps of gilding and gay colourswere confinedon
this nightto one room - that smaller room within the restjust now
enumerated. Seen from the hallwhere a lamp was feebly burning


through the dark perspective of open doorsit looked as shining and
precious as a gem. In the heart of its radiance sat a beautiful woman

-Edith.
She was alone. The same defiantscornful woman still. The cheek a
little wornthe eye a little larger in appearanceand more lustrous
but the haughty bearing just the same. No shame upon her brow; no late
repentance bending her disdainful neck. Imperious and stately yetand
yet regardless of herself and of all elseshe sat wIth her dark eyes
cast downwaiting for someone.

No bookno workno occupation of any kind but her own thought
beguiled the tardy time. Some purposestrong enough to fill up any
pausepossessed her. With her lips pressed togetherand quivering if
for a moment she released them from her control; with her nostril
inflated; her hands clasped in one another; and her purpose swelling
in her breast; she satand waited.

At the sound of a key in the outer doorand a footstep in the
hallshe started upand cried 'Who's that?' The answer was in
Frenchand two men came in with jingling traysto make preparation
for supper.

'Who had bade them to do so?' she asked.

'Monsieur had commanded itwhen it was his pleasure to take the
apartment. Monsieur had saidwhen he stayed there for an houren
routeand left the letter for Madame - Madame had received it
surely?'

'Yes.'

'A thousand pardons! The sudden apprehension that it might have
been forgotten had struck hIm;' a bald manwith a large beard from a
neighbouring restaurant; 'with despair! Monsieur had said that supper
was to be ready at that hour: also that he had forewarned Madame of
the commands he had givenin his letter. Monsieur had done the Golden
Head the honour to request that the supper should be choice and
delicate. Monsieur would find that his confidence in the Golden Head
was not misplaced.'

Edith said no morebut looked on thoughtfully while they prepared
the table for two personsand set the wine upon it. She arose before
they had finishedand taking a lamppassed into the bed-chamber and
into the drawing-roomwhere she hurriedly but narrowly examined all
the doors; particularly one in the former room that opened on the
passage in the wall. From this she took the keyand put it on the
outer side. She then came back.

The men - the second of whom was a darkbilious subjectin a
jacketclose shavedand with a black head of hair close cropped had
completed their preparation of the tableand were standing
looking at it. He who had spoken beforeinquired whether Madame
thought it would be long before Monsieur arrived?

'She couldn't say. It was all one.'

'Pardon! There was the supper! It should be eaten on the instant.
Monsieur (who spoke French like an Angel - or a Frenchman - it was all
the same) had spoken with great emphasis of his punctuality. But the
English nation had so grand a genius for punctuality. Ah! what noise!
Great Heavenhere was Monsieur. Behold him!'

In effectMonsieuradmitted by the other of the twocamewith


his gleaming teeththrough the dark roomslike a mouth; and arriving
in that sanctuary of light and coloura figure at full length
embraced Madameand addressed her in the French tongue as his
charming wife

'My God! Madame is going to faint. Madame is overcome with joy!'
The bald man with the beard observed itand cried out.

Madame had only shrunk and shivered. Before the words were spoken
she was standing with her hand upon the velvet back of a great chair;
her figure drawn up to its full heightand her face immoveable.

'Francois has flown over to the Golden Head for supper. He flies on
these occasions like an angel or a bird. The baggage of Monsieur is in
his room. All is arranged. The supper will be here this moment.' These
facts the bald man notified with bows and smilesand presently the
supper came.

The hot dishes were on a chafing-dish; the cold already set forth
with the change of service on a sideboard. Monsieur was satisfied with
this arrangement. The supper table being smallit pleased him very
well. Let them set the chafing-dish upon the floorand go. He would
remove the dishes with his own hands.

'Pardon!' said the bald manpolitely. 'It was impossible!'

Monsieur was of another opinion. He required no further attendance
that night.

'But Madame - ' the bald man hinted.

'Madame' replied Monsieur'had her own maid. It was enough.'

'A million pardons! No! Madame had no maid!'

'I came here alone' said Edith 'It was my choice to do so. I am
well used to travelling; I want no attendance. They need send nobody
to me.

Monsieur accordinglypersevering in his first proposed
impossibilityproceeded to follow the two attendants to the outer
doorand secure it after them for the night. The bald man turning
round to bowas he went outobserved that Madame still stood with
her hand upon the velvet back of the great chairand that her face
was quite regardless of himthough she was looking straight before
her.

As the sound of Carker's fastening the door resounded through the
intermediate roomsand seemed to come hushed and stilled into that
last distant onethe sound of the Cathedral clock striking twelve
mingled with itin Edith's ears She heard him pauseas if he heard
it too and listened; and then came back towards herlaying a long
train of footsteps through the silenceand shutting all the doors
behind him as he came along. Her handfor a momentleft the velvet
chair to bring a knife within her reach upon the table; then she stood
as she had stood before.

'How strange to come here by yourselfmy love!' he said as he
entered.

'What?' she returned.

Her tone was so harsh; the quick turn of her head so fierce; her
attitude so repellent; and her frown so black; that he stoodwith the


lamp in his handlooking at heras if she had struck him motionless.

'I say' he at length repeatedputting down the lampand smiling
his most courtly smile'how strange to come here alone! It was
unnecessarty caution surelyand might have defeated itself. You were
to have engaged an attendant at Havre or Rouenand have had abundance
of time for the purposethough you had been the most capricious and
difficult (as you are the most beautifulmy love) of women.'

Her eyes gleamed strangely on himbut she stood with her hand
resting on the chairand said not a word.

'I have never' resumed Carker'seen you look so handsomeas you
do to-night. Even the picture I have carried in my mind during this
cruel probationand which I have contemplated night and dayis
exceeded by the reality.'

Not a word. Not a look Her eyes completely hidden by their drooping
lashesbut her head held up.

'Hardunrelenting terms they were!' said Carkerwith a smile
'but they are all fulfilled and passedand make the present more
delicious and more safe. Sicily shall be the Place of our retreat. In
the idlest and easiest part of the worldmy soulwe'll both seek
compensation for old slavery.'

He was coming gaily towards herwhenin an instantshe caught
the knife up from the tableand started one pace back.

'Stand still!' she said'or I shall murder you!'

The sudden change in herthe towering fury and intense abhorrence
sparkling in her eyes and lighting up her browmade him stop as if a
fire had stopped him.

'Stand still!' she said'come no nearer meupon your life!'

They both stood looking at each other. Rage and astonishment were
in his facebut he controlled themand said lightly

'Comecome! Tushwe are aloneand out of everybody's sight and
hearing. Do you think to frighten me with these tricks of virtue?'

'Do you think to frighten me' she answered fiercely'from any
purpose that I haveand any course I am resolved uponby reminding
me of the solitude of this placeand there being no help near? Me
who am here alonedesignedly? If I feared youshould I not have
avoided you? If I feared youshould I be herein the dead of night
telling you to your face what I am going to tell?'

'And what is that' he said'you handsome shrew? Handsomer so
than any other woman in her best humour?'

'I tell you nothing' she returneduntil you go back to that chair

-except thisonce again - Don't come near me! Not a step nearer. I
tell youif you doas Heaven sees usI shall murder you!'
'Do you mistake me for your husband?' he retortedwith a grin.

Disdaining to replyshe stretched her arm outpointing to the
chair. He bit his lipfrownedlaughedand sat down in itwith a
baffledirresoluteimpatient airhe was unable to conceal; and
biting his nail nervouslyand looking at her sidewayswith bitter
discomfitureeven while he feigned to be amused by her caprice.


She put the knife down upon the tableand touching her bosom wIth
her handsaid:

'I have something lying here that is no love trinketand sooner
than endure your touch once moreI would use it on you - and you know
itwhile I speak - with less reluctance than I would on any other
creeping thing that lives.'

He affected to laugh jestinglyand entreated her to act her play
out quicklyfor the supper was growing cold. But the secret look with
which he regarded herwas more sullen and loweringand he struck his
foot once upon the floor with a muttered oath.

'How many times' said Edithbending her darkest glance upon him'
'has your bold knavery assailed me with outrage and insult? How many
times in your smooth mannerand mocking words and lookshave I been
twitted with my courtship and my marriage? How many times have you
laid bare my wound of love for that sweetinjured girl and lacerated
it? How often have you fanned the fire on whichfor two yearsI have
writhed; and tempted me to take a desperate revengewhen it has most
tortured me?'

'I have no doubtMa'am' he replied'that you have kept a good
accountand that it's pretty accurate. ComeEdith. To your husband
poor wretchthis was well enough - '

'Whyif' she saidsurveying him with a haughty contempt and
disgustthat he shrunk underlet him brave it as he would'if all
my other reasons for despising him could have been blown away like
feathershis having you for his counsellor and favouritewould have
almost been enough to hold their place.'

'Is that a reason why you have run away with me?' he asked her
tauntingly.

'Yesand why we are face to face for the last time. Wretch! We
meet tonightand part tonight. For not one moment after I have ceased
to speakwill I stay here!'

He turned upon her with his ugliest lookand gripped the table
with his hand; but neither rosenor otherwise answered or threatened
her.

'I am a woman' she saidconfronting him steadfastly'who from
her childhood has been shamed and steeled. I have been offered and
rejectedput up and appraiseduntil my very soul has sickened. I
have not had an accomplishment or grace that might have been a
resource to mebut it has been paraded and vended to enhance my
valueas if the common crier had called it through the streets. My
poorproud friendshave looked on and approved; and every tie
between us has been deadened in my breast. There is not one of them
for whom I careas I could care for a pet dog. I stand alone in the
worldremembering well what a hollow world it has been to meand
what a hollow part of it I have been myself. You know thisand you
know that my fame with it is worthless to me.'

'Yes; I imagined that' he said.

'And calculated on it' she rejoined'and so pursued me. Grown too
indifferent for any opposition but indifferenceto the daily working
of the hands that had moulded me to this; and knowing that my marriage
would at least prevent their hawking of me up and down; I suffered
myself to be soldas infamously as any woman with a halter round her


neck is sold in any market-place. You know that.'

'Yes' he saidshowing all his teeth 'I know that.'

'And calculated on it' she rejoined once more'and so pursued me.
From my marriage dayI found myself exposed to such new shame - to
such solicitation and pursuit (expressed as clearly as if it had been
written in the coarsest wordsand thrust into my hand at every turn)
from one mean villainthat I felt as if I had never known humiliation
till that time. This shame my husband fixed upon me; hemmed me round
withhimself; steeped me inwith his own handsand of his own act
repeated hundreds of times. And thus - forced by the two from every
point of rest I had - forced by the two to yield up the last retreat
of love and gentleness within meor to be a new misfortune on its
innocent object - driven from each to eachand beset by one when I
escaped the other - my anger rose almost to distraction against both I
do not know against which it rose higher - the master or the man!'

He watched her closelyas she stood before him in the very triumph
of her indignant beauty. She was resolutehe saw; undauntable; with
no more fear of him than of a worm.

'What should I say of honour or of chastity to you!' she went on.
'What meaning would it have to you; what meaning would it have from
me! But if I tell you that the lightest touch of your hand makes my
blood cold with antipathy; that from the hour when I first saw and
hated youto nowwhen my instinctive repugnance is enhanced by every
minute's knowledge of you I have since hadyou have been a loathsome
creature to me which has not its like on earth; how then?'

He answered with a faint laugh'Ay! How thenmy queen?'

'On that nightwhenemboldened by the scene you had assisted at
you dared come to my room and speak to me' she said'what passed?'

He shrugged his shouldersand laughed

'What passed?' she said.

'Your memory is so distinct' he said'that I have no doubt you
can recall it.'

'I can' she said. 'Hear it! Proposing thenthis flight - not this
flightbut the flight you thought it - you told me that in the having
given you that meetingand leaving you to be discovered thereif you
so thought fit; and in the having suffered you to be alone with me
many times before- and having made the opportunitiesyou saidand
in the having openly avowed to you that I had no feeling for my
husband but aversionand no care for myself - I was lost; I had given
you the power to traduce my name; and I livedin virtuous reputation
at the pleasure of your breath'

'All stratagems in love - ' he interruptedsmiling. 'The old
adage - '

'On that night' said Edith'and thenthe struggle that I long
had had with something that was not respect for my good fame - that
was I know not what - perhaps the clinging to that last retreat- was
ended. On that nightand thenI turned from everything but passion
and resentment. I struck a blow that laid your lofty master in the
dustand set you therebefore melooking at me nowand knowing
what I mean.'

He sprung up from his chair with a great oath. She put her hand


into her bosomand not a finger tremblednot a hair upon her head
was stirred. He stood still: she too: the table and chair between
them.~

'When I forget that this man put his lips to mine that nightand
held me in his arms as he has done again to-night' said Edith
pointing at him; 'when I forget the taint of his kiss upon my cheek the
cheek that Florence would have laid her guiltless face against when
I forget my meeting with herwhile that taint was hot upon me
and in what a flood the knowledge rushed upon me when I saw herthat
in releasing her from the persecution I had caused by my loveI
brought a shame and degradation on her name through mineand in all
time to come should be the solitary figure representing in her mind
her first avoidance of a guilty creature - thenHusbandfrom whom I
stand divorced henceforthI will forget these last two yearsand
undo what I have doneand undeceive you!'

Her flashing eyesuplifted for a momentlighted again on Carker
and she held some letters out in her left hand.

'See these!' she saidcontemptuously. 'You have addressed these to
me in the false name you go by; one heresome elsewhere on my road.
The seals are unbroken. Take them back!'

She crunched them in her handand tossed them to his feet. And as
she looked upon him nowa smile was on her face.

'We meet and part to-night' she said. 'You have fallen on Sicilian
days and sensual resttoo soon. You might have cajoledand fawned
and played your traitor's parta little longerand grown richer. You
purchase your voluptuous retirement dear!'

'Edith!' he retortedmenacing her with his hand. 'Sit down! Have
done with this! What devil possesses you?'

'Their name is Legion' she replieduprearing her proud form as if
she would have crushed him; 'you and your master have raised them in a
fruitful houseand they shall tear you both. False to himfalse to
his innocent childfalse every way and everywherego forth and boast
of meand gnash your teethfor onceto know that you are lying!'

He stood before hermuttering and menacingand scowling round as
if for something that would help him to conquer her; but with the same
indomitable spirit she opposed himwithout faltering.

'In every vaunt you make' she said'I have my triumph I single
out in you the meanest man I knowthe parasite and tool of the proud
tyrantthat his wound may go the deeperand may rankle more. Boast
and revenge me on him! You know how you came here to-night; you know
how you stand cowering there; you see yourself in colours quite as
despicableif not as odiousas those in which I see you. Boast then
and revenge me on yourself.'

The foam was on his lips; the wet stood on his forehead. If she
would have faltered once for only one half-momenthe would have
pinioned her; but she was as firm as rockand her searching eyes
never left him.

'We don't part so' he said. 'Do you think I am drivellingto let
you go in your mad temper?'

'Do you think' she answered'that I am to be stayed?'

'I'll trymy dear' he said with a ferocious gesture of his head.


'God's mercy on youif you try by coming near me!' she replied.

'And what' he said'if there are none of these same boasts and
vaunts on my part? What if I were to turn too? Come!' and his teeth
fairly shone again. 'We must make a treaty of thisor I may take some
unexpected course. Sit downsit down!'

'Too late!' she criedwith eyes that seemed to sparkle fire. 'I
have thrown my fame and good name to the winds! I have resolved to
bear the shame that will attach to me - resolved to know that it
attaches falsely - that you know it too - and that he does notnever
canand never shall. I'll dieand make no sign. For thisI am here
alone with youat the dead of night. For thisI have met you here
in a false nameas your wife. For thisI have been seen here by
those menand left here. Nothing can save you now.

He would have sold his soul to root herin her beautyto the
floorand make her arms drop at her sidesand have her at his mercy.
But he could not look at herand not be afraid of her. He saw a
strength within her that was resistless. He saw that she was
desperateand that her unquenchable hatred of him would stop at
nothing. His eyes followed the hand that was put with such rugged
uncongenial purpose into her white bosomand he thought that if it
struck at hImand failedit would strike therejust as soon.

He did not venturethereforeto advance towards her; but the door
by which he had entered was behind himand he stepped back to lock
it.

'Lastlytake my warning! Look to yourself!' she saidand smiled
again. 'You have been betrayedas all betrayers are. It has been made
known that you are in this placeor were to beor have been. If I
liveI saw my husband in a carriage in the street to-night!'

'Strumpetit's false!' cried Carker.

At the momentthe bell rang loudly in the hall. He turned white
as she held her hand up like an enchantressat whose invocation the
sound had come.

'Hark! do you hear it?'

He set his back against the door; for he saw a change in herand
fancied she was coming on to pass him. Butin a momentshe was gone
through the opposite doors communicating with the bed-chamberand
they shut upon her.

Once turnedonce changed in her inflexible unyielding lookhe
felt that he could cope with her. He thought a sudden terror
occasioned by this night-alarmhad subdued her; not the less readily
for her overwrought condition. Throwing open the doorshe followed
almost instantly.

But the room was dark; and as she made no answer to his callhe
was fain to go back for the lamp. He held it upand looked round
everywhereexpecting to see her crouching in some corner; but the
room was empty. Sointo the drawing-room and dining-room he wentin
successionwith the uncertain steps of a man in a strange place;
looking fearfully aboutand prying behind screens and couches; but
she was not there. Nonor in the hallwhich was so bare that he
could see thatat a glance.

All this timethe ringing at the bell was constantly renewedand


those without were beating at the door. He put his lamp down at a
distanceand going near itlistened. There were several voices
talking together: at least two of them in English; and though the door
was thickand there was great confusionhe knew one of these too
well to doubt whose voice it was.

He took up his lamp againand came back quickly through all the
roomsstopping as he quitted eachand looking round for herwith
the light raised above his head. He was standing thus in the
bed-chamberwhen the doorleading to the little passage in the wall
caught his eye. He went to itand found it fastened on the other
side; but she had dropped a veil in going throughand shut it in the
door.

All this time the people on the stairs were ringing at the bell
and knocking with their hands and feet.

He was not a coward: but these sounds; what had gone before; the
strangeness of the placewhich had confused himeven in his return
from the hall; the frustration of his schemes (forstrange to sayhe
would have been much bolderif they had succeeded); the unseasonable
time; the recollection of having no one near to whom he could appeal
for any friendly office; above allthe sudden sensewhich made even
his heart beat like leadthat the man whose confidence he had
outragedand whom he had so treacherously deceivedwas there to
recognise and challenge him with his mask plucked off his face; struck
a panic through him. He tried the door in which the veil was shutbut
couldn't force it. He opened one of the windowsand looked down
through the lattice of the blindinto the court-yard; but it was a
high leapand the stones were pitiless.

The ringing and knocking still continuing - his panic too - he went
back to the door in the bed-chamberand with some new effortseach
more stubborn than the lastwrenched it open. Seeing the little
staircase not far offand feeling the night-air coming uphe stole
back for his hat and coatmade the door as secure after hIm as he
couldcrept down lamp in handextinguished it on seeing the street
and having put it in a cornerwent out where the stars were shining.

CHAPTER 55.

Rob the Grinder loses his Place

The Porter at the iron gate which shut the court-yard from the
streethad left the little wicket of his house openand was gone
away; no doubt to mingle in the distant noise at the door of the great
staircase. Lifting the latch softlyCarker crept outand shutting
the jangling gate after him with as little noise as possiblehurried
off.

In the fever of his mortification and unavailing ragethe panic
that had seized upon him mastered him completely. It rose to such a
height that he would have blindly encountered almost any riskrather
than meet the man of whomtwo hours agohe had been utterly
regardless. His fierce arrivalwhich he had never expected; the sound
of his voice; their having been so near a meetingface to face; he
would have braved out thisafter the first momentary shock of alarm
and would have put as bold a front upon his guilt as any villain. But
the springing of his mine upon himselfseemed to have rent and
shivered all his hardihood and self-reliance. Spurned like any
reptile; entrapped and mocked; turned uponand trodden down by the


proud woman whose mind he had slowly poisonedas he thoughtuntil
she had sunk into the mere creature of his pleasure; undeceived in his
deceitand with his fox's hide stripped offhe sneaked away
abasheddegradedand afraid.

Some other terror came upon hIm quite removed from this of being
pursuedsuddenlylike an electric shockas he was creeping through
the streets Some visionary terrorunintelligible and inexplicable
asssociated with a trembling of the ground- a rush and sweep of
something through the airlike Death upon the wing. He shrunkas if
to let the thing go by. It was not goneit never had been thereyet
what a startling horror it had left behind.

He raised his wicked face so full of troubleto the night sky
where the starsso full of peacewere shining on him as they had
been when he first stole out into the air; and stopped to think what
he should do. The dread of being hunted in a strange remote place
where the laws might not protect him - the novelty of the feeling that
it was strange and remoteoriginating in his being left alone so
suddenly amid the ruins of his plans - his greater dread of seeking
refuge nowin Italy or in Sicilywhere men might be hired to
assissinate himhe thoughtat any dark street corner-the waywardness
of guilt and fear - perhaps some sympathy of action with the turning
back of all his schemes - impelled him to turn back tooand go to
England.

'I am safer therein any case. If I should not decide' he
thought'to give this fool a meetingI am less likely to be traced
therethan abroad herenow. And if I should (this cursed fit being
over)at least I shall not be alonewith out a soul to speak toor
advise withor stand by me. I shall not be run in upon and worried
like a rat.'

He muttered Edith's nameand clenched his hand. As he crept along
in the shadow of the massive buildingshe set his teethand muttered
dreadful imprecations on her headand looked from side to sideas if
in search of her. Thushe stole on to the gate of an inn-yard. The
people were a-bed; but his ringing at the bell soon produced a man
with a lanternin company with whom he was presently in a dim
coach-housebargaining for the hire of an old phaetonto Paris.

The bargain was a short one; and the horses were soon sent for.
Leaving word that the carriage was to follow him when they camehe
stole away againbeyond the townpast the old rampartsout on the
open roadwhich seemed to glide away along the dark plainlike a
stream.

Whither did it flow? What was the end of it? As he pausedwith
some such suggestion within himlooking over the gloomy flat where
the slender trees marked out the wayagain that flight of Death came
rushing upagain went onimpetuous and resistlessagain was nothing
but a horror in his minddark as the scene and undefined as its
remotest verge.

There was no wind; there was no passing shadow on the deep shade of
the night; there was no noise. The city lay behind hImlighted here
and thereand starry worlds were hidden by the masonry of spire and
roof that hardly made out any shapes against the sky. Dark and lonely
distance lay around him everywhereand the clocks were faintly
striking two.

He went forward for what appeared a long timeand a long way;
often stopping to listen. At last the ringing of horses' bells greeted
his anxious ears. Now softerand now loudernow inaudiblenow


ringing very slowly over bad groundnow brisk and merryit came on;
until with a loud shouting and lashinga shadowy postillion muffled
to the eyeschecked his four struggling horses at his side.

'Who goes there! Monsieur?'

'Yes.'

'Monsieur has walked a long way in the dark midnight.'

'No matter. Everyone to his task. Were there any other horses
ordered at the Post-house?'

'A thousand devils! - and pardons! other horses? at this hour? No.'

'Listenmy friend. I am much hurried. Let us see how fast we can
travel! The fasterthe more money there will be to drink. Off we go
then! Quick!'

'Halloa! whoop! Halloa! Hi!' Awayat a gallopover the black
landscapescattering the dust and dirt like spray!

The clatter and commotion echoed to the hurry and discordance of
the fugitive's ideas. Nothing clear withoutand nothing clear within.
Objects flitting pastmerging into one anotherdimly descried
confusedly lost sight ofgone! Beyond the changing scraps of fence
and cottage immediately upon the roada lowering waste. Beyond the
shifting images that rose up in his mind and vanished as they showed
themselvesa black expanse of dread and rage and baffled villainy.
Occasionallya sigh of mountain air came from the distant Jura
fading along the plain. Sometimes that rush which was so furious and
horribleagain came sweeping through his fancypassed awayand left
a chill upon his blood.

The lampsgleaming on the medley of horses' headsjumbled with
the shadowy driverand the fluttering of his cloakmade a thousand
indistinct shapesanswering to his thoughts. Shadows of familiar
peoplestooping at their desks and booksin their remembered
attitudes; strange apparitions of the man whom he was flying fromor
of Edith; repetitions in the ringing bells and rolling wheelsof
words that had been spoken; confusions of time and placemaking last
night a month agoa month ago last night - home now distant beyond
hopenow instantly accessible; commotiondiscordhurrydarkness
and confusion in his mindand all around him. - Hallo! Hi! away at a
gallop over the black landscape; dust and dirt flying like spraythe
smoking horses snorting and plunging as if each of them were ridden by
a demonaway in a frantic triumph on the dark road - whither?

Again the nameless shock comes speeding upand as it passesthe
bells ring in his ears 'whither?' The wheels roar in his ears
'whither?' All the noise and rattle shapes itself into that cry. The
lights and shadows dance upon the horses' heads like imps. No stopping
now: no slackening! Onon Away with him upon the dark road wildly!

He could not think to any purpose. He could not separate one
subject of reflection from anothersufficiently to dwell upon itby
itselffor a minute at a time. The crash of his project for the
gaining of a voluptuous compensation for past restraint; the overthrow
of his treachery to one who had been true and generous to himbut
whose least proud word and look he had treasured upat interestfor
years - for false and subtle men will always secretly despise and
dislike the object upon which they fawn and always resent the payment
and receipt of homage that they know to be worthless; these were the
themes uppermost in his mind. A lurking rage against the woman who had


so entrapped him and avenged herself was always there; crude and
misshapen schemes of retaliation upon herfloated in his brain; but
nothing was distinct. A hurry and contradiction pervaded all his
thoughts. Even while he was so busy with this feveredineffectual
thinkinghis one constant idea wasthat he would postpone reflection
until some indefinite time.

Thenthe old days before the second marriage rose up in his
remembrance. He thought how jealous he had been of the boyhow
jealous he had been of the girlhow artfully he had kept intruders at
a distanceand drawn a circle round his dupe that none but himself
should cross; and then he thoughthad he done all this to be flying
nowlike a scared thieffrom only the poor dupe?

He could have laid hands upon himself for his cowardicebut it was
the very shadow of his defeatand could not be separated from it. To
have his confidence in his own knavery so shattered at a blow - to be
within his own knowledge such a miserable tool - was like being
paralysed. With an impotent ferocity he raged at Edithand hated Mr
Dombey and hated himselfbut still he fledand could do nothing
else.

Again and again he listened for the sound of wheels behind. Again
and again his fancy heard itcoming on louder and louder. At last he
was so persuaded of thisthat he cried out'Stop' preferring even
the loss of ground to such uncertainty.

The word soon brought carriagehorsesdriverall in a heap
togetheracross the road.

'The devil!' cried the driverlooking over his shoulder'what's
the matter?'

'Hark! What's that?'

'What?'

'That noise?'

'Ah Heavenbe quietcursed brigand!' to a horse who shook his
bells 'What noise?'

'Behind. Is it not another carriage at a gallop? There! what's
that?' Miscreant with a Pig's headstand still!' to another horse
who bit anotherwho frightened the other twowho plunged and backed.
'There is nothing coming.'

'Nothing.'

'Nonothing but the day yonder.'

'You are rightI think. I hear nothing nowindeed. Go on!'

The entangled equipagehalf hidden in the reeking cloud from the
horsesgoes on slowly at firstfor the driverchecked unnecessarily
in his progresssulkily takes out a pocket-knifeand puts a new lash
to his whip. Then 'Hallowhoop! Hallohi!' Away once moresavagely.

And now the stars fadedand the day glimmeredand standing in the
carriagelooking backhe could discern the track by which he had
comeand see that there was no traveller within viewon all the
heavy expanse. And soon it was broad dayand the sun began to shine
on cornfields and vineyards; and solitary labourersrisen from little
temporary huts by heaps of stones upon the roadwerehere and there


at work repairing the highwayor eating bread. By and bythere were
peasants going to their daily labouror to marketor lounging at the
doors of poor cottagesgazing idly at him as he passed. And then
there was a postyardankle-deep in mudwith steaming dunghills and
vast outhouses half ruined; and looking on this dainty prospectan
immenseoldshadelessglaringstone chateauwith half its windows
blindedand green damp crawling lazily over itfrom the balustraded
terrace to the taper tips of the extinguishers upon the turrets.

Gathered up moodily in a corner of the carriageand only intent on
going fast - except when he stood upfor a mile togetherand looked
back; which he would do whenever there was a piece of open country he
went onstill postponing thought indefinitelyand still always
tormented with thinking to no purpose.

Shamedisappointmentand discomfiture gnawed at his heart; a
constant apprehension of being overtakenor met - for he was
groundlessly afraid even of travellerswho came towards him by the
way he was going - oppressed him heavily. The same intolerable awe and
dread that had come upon him in the nightreturned unweakened in the
day. The monotonous ringing of the bells and tramping of the horses;
the monotony of his anxietyand useless rage; the monotonous wheel of
fearregretand passionhe kept turning round and round; made the
journey like a visionin which nothing was quite real but his own
torment.

It was a vision of long roadsthat stretched away to an horizon
always receding and never gained; of ill-paved townsup hill and
downwhere faces came to dark doors and ill-glazed windowsand where
rows of mudbespattered cows and oxen were tied up for sale in the long
narrow streetsbutting and lowingand receiving blows on their blunt
heads from bludgeons that might have beaten them in; of bridges
crosseschurchespostyardsnew horses being put in against their
willsand the horses of the last stage reekingpantingand laying
their drooping heads together dolefully at stable doors; of little
cemeteries with black crosses settled sideways in the gravesand
withered wreaths upon them dropping away; again of longlong roads
dragging themselves outup hill and downto the treacherous horizon.

Of morningnoonand sunset; nightand the rising of an early
moon. Of long roads temporarily left behindand a rough pavement
reached; of battering and clattering over itand looking upamong
house-roofsat a great church-tower; of getting out and eating
hastilyand drinking draughts of wine that had no cheering influence;
of coming forth afootamong a host of beggars - blind men with
quivering eyelidsled by old women holding candles to their faces;
idiot girls; the lamethe epilepticand the palsied - of passing
through the clamourand looking from his seat at the upturned
countenances and outstretched handswith a hurried dread of
recognising some pursuer pressing forward - of galloping away again
upon the longlong roadgathered updull and stunnedin his
corneror rising to see where the moon shone faintly on a patch of
the same endless road miles awayor looking back to see who followed.

Of never sleepingbut sometimes dozing with unclosed eyesand
springing up with a startand a reply aloud to an imaginary voice. Of
cursing himself for being therefor having fledfor having let her
gofor not having confronted and defied him. Of having a deadly
quarrel with the whole worldbut chiefly with himself. Of blighting
everything with his black mood as he was carried on and away.

It was a fevered vision of things past and present all confounded
together; of his life and journey blended into one. Of being madly
hurried somewherewhither he must go. Of old scenes starting up among


the novelties through which he travelled. Of musing and brooding over
what was past and distantand seeming to take no notice of the actual
objects he encounteredbut with a wearisome exhausting consciousness
of being bewildered by themand having their images all crowded in
his hot brain after they were gone.

A vision of change upon changeand still the same monotony of
bells and wheelsand horses' feetand no rest. Of town and country
postyardshorsesdrivershill and valleylight and darknessroad
and pavementheight and hollowwet weather and dryand still the
same monotony of bells and wheelsand horses' feetand no rest. A
vision of tending on at lasttowards the distant capitalby busier
roadsand sweeping roundby old cathedralsand dashing through
small towns and villagesless thinly scattered on the road than
formerlyand sitting shrouded in his cornerwith his cloak up to his
faceas people passing by looked at him.

Of rolling on and onalways postponing thoughtand always racked
with thinking; of being unable to reckon up the hours he had been upon
the roador to comprehend the points of time and place in his
journey. Of being parched and giddyand half mad. Of pressing onin
spite of allas if he could not stopand coming into Pariswhere
the turbid river held its swift course undisturbedbetween two
brawling streams of life and motion.

A troubled visionthenof bridgesquaysinterminable streets;
of wine-shopswater-carriersgreat crowds of peoplesoldiers
coachesmilitary drumsarcades. Of the monotony of bells and wheels
and horses' feet being at length lost in the universal din and uproar.
Of the gradual subsidence of that noise as he passed out in another
carriage by a different barrier from that by which he had entered. Of
the restorationas he travelled on towards the seacoastof the
monotony of bells and wheelsand horses' feetand no rest.

Of sunset once againand nightfall. Of long roads againand dead
of nightand feeble lights in windows by the roadside; and still the
old monotony of bells and wheelsand horses' feetand no rest. Of
dawnand daybreakand the rising of the sun. Of tolling slowly up a
hilland feeling on its top the fresh sea-breeze; and seeing the
morning light upon the edges of the distant waves. Of coming down into
a harbour when the tide was at its fulland seeing fishing-boats
float onand glad women and children waiting for them. Of nets and
seamen's clothes spread out to dry upon the shore; of busy saIlors
and their voices high among ships' masts and rigging; of the buoyancy
and brightness of the waterand the universal sparkling.

Of receding from the coastand looking back upon it from the deck
when it was a haze upon the waterwith here and there a little
opening of bright land where the Sun struck. Of the swelland flash
and murmur of the calm sea. Of another grey line on the oceanon the
vessel's trackfast growing clearer and higher. Of cliffs and
buildingsand a windmilland a churchbecoming more and more
visible upon it. Of steaming on at last into smooth waterand mooring
to a pier whence groups of people looked downgreeting friends on
board. Of disembarkingpassing among them quicklyshunning every
one; and of being at last again in England.

He had thoughtin his dreamof going down into a remote
country-place he knewand lying quiet therewhile he secretly
informed himself of what transpiredand determined how to actStill
in the same stunned conditionhe remembered a certain station on the
railwaywhere he would have to branch off to his place of
destinationand where there was a quiet Inn. Herehe indistinctly
resolved to tarry and rest.


With this purpose he slunk into a railway carriage as quickly as he
couldand lying there wrapped in his cloak as if he were asleepwas
soon borne far away from the seaand deep into the inland green.
Arrived at his destination he looked outand surveyed it carefully.
He was not mistaken in his impression of the place. It was a retired
spoton the borders of a little wood. Only one housenewly-built or
altered for the purposestood theresurrounded by its neat garden;
the small town that was nearestwas some miles away. Here he alighted
then; and going straight into the tavernunobserved by anyone
secured two rooms upstairs communicating with each otherand
sufficiently retired.

His object was to restand recover the command of himselfand the
balance of his mind. Imbecile discomfiture and rage - so thatas he
walked about his roomhe ground his teeth - had complete possession
of him. His thoughtsnot to be stopped or directedstill wandered
where they wouldand dragged him after them. He was stupefiedand he
was wearied to death.

Butas if there were a curse upon him that he should never rest
againhis drowsy senses would not lose their consciousness. He had no
more influence with themin this regardthan if they had been
another man's. It was not that they forced him to take note of present
sounds and objectsbut that they would not be diverted from the whole
hurried vision of his journey. It was constantly before him all at
once. She stood therewith her dark disdainful eyes again upon him;
and he was riding on neverthelessthrough town and countrylight and
darknesswet weather and dryover road and pavementhill and
valleyheight and hollowjaded and scared by the monotony of bells
and wheelsand horses' feetand no rest.

'What day is this?' he asked of the waiterwho was making
preparations for his dinner.

'DaySir?'

'Is it Wednesday?'

'WednesdaySir? NoSir. ThursdaySir.'

'I forgot. How goes the time? My watch is unwound.'

'Wants a few minutes of five o'clockSir. Been travelling a long
timeSirperhaps?'

'Yes'

'By railSir?'

'Yes'

'Very confusingSir. Not much in the habit of travelling by rail
myselfSirbut gentlemen frequently say so.'

'Do many gentlemen come here?

'Pretty wellSirin general. Nobody here at present. Rather slack
just nowSir. Everything is slackSir.'

He made no answer; but had risen into a sitting posture on the sofa
where he had been lyingand leaned forward with an arm on each knee
staring at the ground. He could not master his own attention for a
minute together. It rushed away where it wouldbut it neverfor an


instantlost itself in sleep.


He drank a quantity of wine after dinnerin vain. No such
artificial means would bring sleep to his eyes. His thoughtsmore
incoherentdragged him more unmercifully after them - as if a wretch
condemned to such expiationwere drawn at the heels of wild horses.
No oblivionand no rest.


How long he satdrinking and broodingand being dragged in
imagination hither and thitherno one could have told less correctly
than he. But he knew that he had been sitting a long time by
candle-lightwhen he started up and listenedin a sudden terror.


For nowindeedit was no fancy. The ground shookthe house
rattledthe fierce impetuous rush was in the air! He felt it come up
and go darting by; and even when he had hurried to the windowand saw
what it washe stoodshrinking from itas if it were not safe to
look.


A curse upon the fiery devilthundering along so smoothlytracked
through the distant valley by a glare of light and lurid smokeand
gone! He felt as if he had been plucked out of its pathand saved
from being torn asunder. It made him shrink and shudder even nowwhen
its faintest hum was hushedand when the lines of iron road he could
trace in the moonlightrunning to a pointwere as empty and as
silent as a desert.


Unable to restand irresistibly attracted - or he thought so - to
this roadhe went outand lounged on the brink of itmarking the
way the train had goneby the yet smoking cinders that were lying in
its track. After a lounge of some half hour in the direction by which
it had disappearedhe turned and walked the other way - still keeping
to the brink of the road - past the inn gardenand a long way down;
looking curiously at the bridgessignalslampsand wondering when
another Devil would come by.


A trembling of the groundand quick vibration in his ears; a
distant shriek; a dull light advancingquickly changed to two red
eyesand a fierce firedropping glowing coals; an irresistible
bearing on of a great roaring and dilating mass; a high windand a
rattle - another come and goneand he holding to a gateas if to
save himself!


He waited for anotherand for another. He walked back to his
former pointand back again to thatand stillthrough the wearisome
vision of his journeylooked for these approaching monsters. He
loitered about the stationwaiting until one should stay to call
there; and when one didand was detached for waterhe stood parallel
with itwatching its heavy wheels and brazen frontand thinking what
a cruel power and might it had. Ugh! To see the great wheels slowly
turningand to think of being run down and crushed!


Disordered with wine and want of rest - that want which nothing
although he was so wearywould appease - these ideas and objects
assumed a diseased importance in his thoughts. When he went back to
his roomwhich was not until near midnightthey still haunted him
and he sat listening for the coming of another.


So in his bedwhither he repaired with no hope of sleep. He still
lay listening; and when he felt the trembling and vibrationgot up
and went to the windowto watch (as he could from its position) the
dull light changing to the two red eyesand the fierce fire dropping
glowing coalsand the rush of the giant as it fled pastand the
track of glare and smoke along the valley. Then he would glance in the



direction by which he intended to depart at sunriseas there was no
rest for him there; and would lie down againto be troubled by the
vision of his journeyand the old monotony of bells and wheels and
horses' feetuntil another came. This lasted all night. So far from
resuming the mastery of himselfhe seemedif possibleto lose it
more and moreas the night crept on. When the dawn appearedhe was
still tormented with thinkingstill postponing thought until he
should be in a better state; the pastpresentand future all floated
confusedly before himand he had lost all power of looking steadily
at any one of them.

'At what time' he asked the man who had waited on hIm over-night
now entering with a candle'do I leave heredid you say?'

'About a quarter after fourSir. Express comes through at four
Sir. - It don't stop.

He passed his hand across his throbbing headand looked at his
watch. Nearly half-past three.

'Nobody going with youSirprobably' observed the man. 'Two
gentlemen hereSirbut they're waiting for the train to London.'

'I thought you said there was nobody here' said Carkerturning
upon him with the ghost of his old smilewhen he was angry or
suspicious.

'Not thensir. Two gentlemen came in the night by the short train
that stops hereSir. Warm waterSir?'

'No; and take away the candle. There's day enough for me.'

Having thrown himself upon the bedhalf-dressed he was at the
window as the man left the room. The cold light of morning had
succeeded to night and there was alreadyin the skythe red
suffusion of the coming sun. He bathed his head and face with water there
was no cooling influence in it for him - hurriedly put on his
clothespaid what he owedand went out.

The air struck chill and comfortless as it breathed upon him. There
was a heavy dew; andhot as he wasit made him shiver. After a
glance at the place where he had walked last nightand at the
signal-lights burning in the morningand bereft of their
significancehe turned to where the sun was risingand beheld itin
its gloryas it broke upon the scene.

So awfulso transcendent in its beautyso divinely solemn. As he
cast his faded eyes upon itwhere it rosetranquil and serene
unmoved by all the wrong and wickedness on which its beams had shone
since the beginning of the worldwho shall say that some weak sense
of virtue upon Earthand its in Heavendid not manifest itselfeven
to him? If ever he remembered sister or brother with a touch of
tenderness and remorsewho shall say it was not then?

He needed some such touch then. Death was on him. He was marked off

-the living worldand going down into his grave.
He paid the money for his journey to the country-place he had
thought of; and was walking to and froalonelooking along the lines
of ironacross the valley in one directionand towards a dark bridge
near at hand in the other; whenturning in his walkwhere it was
bounded by one end of the wooden stage on which he paced up and down
he saw the man from whom he had fledemerging from the door by which
he himself had entered


And their eyes met.

In the quick unsteadiness of the surprisehe staggeredand
slipped on to the road below him. But recovering his feet immediately
he stepped back a pace or two upon that roadto interpose some wider
space between themand looked at his pursuerbreathing short and
quick.

He heard a shout - another - saw the face change from its
vindictive passion to a faint sickness and terror - felt the earth
tremble - knew in a moment that the rush was come - uttered a shriek looked
round - saw the red eyesbleared and dimin the daylight
close upon him - was beaten downcaught upand whirled away upon a
jagged millthat spun him round and roundand struck him limb from
limband licked his stream of life up with its fiery heatand cast
his mutilated fragments in the air.

When the travellerwho had been recognisedrecovered from a
swoonhe saw them bringing from a distance something coveredthat
lay heavy and stillupon a boardbetween four menand saw that
others drove some dogs away that sniffed upon the roadand soaked his
blood upwith a train of ashes.

CHAPTER 56.

Several People delightedand the Game Chicken disgusted

The Midshipman was all alive. Mr Toots and Susan had arrived at
last. Susan had run upstairs like a young woman bereft of her senses
and Mr Toots and the Chicken had gone into the Parlour.

'Oh my own pretty darling sweet Miss Floy!' cried the Nipper
running into Florence's room'to think that it should come to this
and I should find you here my own dear dove with nobody to wait upon
you and no home to call your own but never never will I go away again
Miss Floy for though I may not gather moss I'm not a rolling stone nor
is my heart a stone or else it wouldn't bust as it is busting now oh
dear oh dear!'

Pouring out these wordswithout the faintest indication of a stop
of any sortMiss Nipperon her knees beside her mistresshugged her
close.

'Oh love!' cried Susan'I know all that's past I know it all my
tender pet and I'm a choking give me air!'

'Susandear good Susan!' said Florence. 'Oh bless her! I that was
her little maid when she was a little child! and is she reallyreally
truly going to be married?'exclaimed Susanin a burst of pain and
pleasurepride and griefand Heaven knows how many other conflicting
feelings.

'Who told you so?' said Florence.

'Oh gracious me! that innocentest creetur Toots' returned Susan
hysterically. 'I knew he must be right my dearbecause he took on so.
He's the devotedest and innocentest infant! And is my darling'
pursued Susanwith another close embrace and burst of tears'really
really going to be married!'


The mixture of compassionpleasuretendernessprotectionand
regret with which the Nipper constantly recurred to this subjectand
at every such onceraised her head to look in the young face and kiss
itand then laid her head again upon her mistress's shoulder
caressing her and sobbingwas as womanly and good a thingin its
wayas ever was seen in the world.

'Therethere!' said the soothing voice of Florence presently. 'Now
you're quite yourselfdear Susan!'

Miss Nippersitting down upon the floorat her mistress's feet
laughing and sobbingholding her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes with
one handand patting Diogenes with the other as he licked her face
confessed to being more composedand laughed and cried a little more
in proof of it.

'I-I-I never did see such a creetur as that Toots' said Susan'in
all my born days never!'

'So kind' suggested Florence.

'And so comic!' Susan sobbed. 'The way he's been going on inside
with me with that disrespectable Chicken on the box!'

'About whatSusan?' inquired Florencetimidly.

'Oh about Lieutenant Waltersand Captain Gillsand you my dear
Miss Floyand the silent tomb' said Susan.

'The silent tomb!' repeated Florence.

'He says' here Susan burst into a violent hysterical laugh'that
he'll go down into it now immediately and quite comfortablebut bless
your heart my dear Miss Floy he won'the's a great deal too happy in
seeing other people happy for thathe may not be a Solomon' pursued
the Nipperwith her usual volubility'nor do I say he is but this I
do say a less selfish human creature human nature never knew!' Miss
Nipper being still hystericallaughed immoderately after making this
energetic declarationand then informed Florence that he was waiting
below to see her; which would be a rich repayment for the trouble he
had had in his late expedition.

Florence entreated Susan to beg of Mr Toots as a favour that she
might have the pleasure of thanking him for his kindness; and Susan
in a few momentsproduced that young gentlemanstill very much
dishevelled in appearanceand stammering exceedingly.

'Miss Dombey' said Mr Toots. 'To be again permitted to - to - gaze

-at leastnot to gazebut - I don't exactly know what I was going
to saybut it's of no consequence.
'I have to thank you so often' returned Florencegiving him both
her handswith all her innocent gratitude beaming in her face'that
I have no words leftand don't know how to do it.'

'Miss Dombey' said Mr Tootsin an awful voice'if it was
possible that you couldconsistently with your angelic natureCurse
meyou would - if I may be allowed to say so - floor me infinitely
lessthan by these undeserved expressions of kindness Their effect
upon me - is - but' said Mr Tootsabruptly'this is a digression
and of no consequence at all.'

As there seemed to be no means of replying to thisbut by thanking
him againFlorence thanked him again.


'I could wish' said Mr Toots'to take this opportunityMiss
Dombeyif I mightof entering into a word of explanation. I should
have had the pleasure of - of returning with Susan at an earlier
period; butin the first placewe didn't know the name of the
relation to whose house she had goneandin the secondas she had
left that relation's and gone to another at a distanceI think that
scarcely anything short of the sagacity of the Chickenwould have
found her out in the time.'

Florence was sure of it.

'Thishowever' said Mr Toots'is not the point. The company of
Susan has beenI assure youMiss Dombeya consolation and
satisfaction to mein my state of mindmore easily conceived than
described. The journey has been its own reward. Thathoweverstill
is not the point. Miss DombeyI have before observed that I know I am
not what is considered a quick person. I am perfectly aware of that. I
don't think anybody could be better acquainted with his own - if it
was not too strong an expressionI should say with the thickness of
his own head - than myself. ButMiss DombeyI donotwithstanding
perceive the state of - of things - with Lieutenant Walters. Whatever
agony that state of things may have caused me (which is of no
consequence at all)I am bound to saythat Lieutenant Walters is a
person who appears to be worthy of the blessing that has fallen on his
- on his brow. May he wear it longand appreciate itas a very
differentand very unworthy individualthat it is of no consequence
to namewould have done! Thathoweverstillis not the point. Miss
DombeyCaptain Gills is a friend of mine; and during the interval
that is now elapsingI believe it would afford Captain Gills pleasure
to see me occasionally coming backwards and forwards here. It would
afford me pleasure so to come. But I cannot forget that I once
committed myselffatallyat the corner of the Square at Brighton;
and if my presence will bein the least degreeunpleasant to youI
only ask you to name it to me nowand assure you that I shall
perfectly understand you. I shall not consider it at all unkindand
shall only be too delighted and happy to be honoured with your
confidence.'

'Mr Toots' returned Florence'if youwho are so old and true a
friend of minewere to stay away from this house nowyou would make
me very unhappy. It can nevernevergive me any feeling but pleasure
to see you.

'Miss Dombey' said Mr Tootstaking out his pocket-handkerchief
'if I shed a tearit is a tear of joy. It is of no consequenceand I
am very much obliged to you. I may be allowed to remarkafter what
you have so kindly saidthat it is not my intention to neglect my
person any longer.'

Florence received this intimation with the prettiest expression of
perplexity possible.

'I mean' said Mr Toots'that I shall consider it my duty as a
fellow-creature generallyuntil I am claimed by the silent tombto
make the best of myselfand to - to have my boots as brightly
polishedas - as -circumstances will admit of. This is the last time
Miss Dombeyof my intruding any observation of a private and personal
nature. I thank you very much indeed. if I am notin a general way
as sensible as my friends could wish me to beor as I could wish
myselfI really amupon my word and honourparticularly sensible of
what is considerate and kind. I feel' said Mr Tootsin an
impassioned tone'as if I could express my feelingsat the present
momentin a most remarkable mannerif - if - I could only get a


start.'

Appearing not to get itafter waiting a minute or two to see if it
would comeMr Toots took a hasty leaveand went below to seek the
Captainwhom he found in the shop.

'Captain Gills' said Mr Toots'what is now to take place between
ustakes place under the sacred seal of confidence. It is the sequel
Captain Gillsof what has taken place between myself and Miss Dombey
upstairs.'

'Alow and aloftehmy lad?' murmured the Captain.

'Exactly soCaptain Gills' said Mr Tootswhose fervour of
acquiescence was greatly heightened by his entire ignorance of the
Captain's meaning. 'Miss DombeyI believeCaptain Gillsis to be
shortly united to Lieutenant Walters?'

'Whyaymy lad. We're all shipmets here- Wal'r and sweet- heart
will be jined together in the house of bondageas soon as the askings
is over' whispered Captain Cuttlein his ear.

'The askingsCaptain Gills!' repeated Mr Toots.

'In the churchdown yonder' said the Captainpointing his thumb
over his shoulder.

'Oh! Yes!' returned Mr Toots.

'And then' said the Captainin his hoarse whisperand tapping Mr
Toots on the chest with the back of his handand falling from him
with a look of infinite admiration'what follers? That there pretty
creeturas delicately brought up as a foreign birdgoes away upon
the roaring main with Wal'r on a woyage to China!'

'LordCaptain Gills!' said Mr Toots.

'Ay!' nodded the Captain. 'The ship as took him upwhen he was
wrecked in the hurricane that had drove her clean out of her course
was a China traderand Wal'r made the woyageand got into favour
aboard and ashore - being as smart and good a lad as ever stepped and
sothe supercargo dying at Cantonhe got made (having acted as
clerk afore)and now he's supercargo aboard another shipsame
owners. And soyou see' repeated the Captainthoughtfully'the
pretty creetur goes away upon the roaring main with Wal'ron a woyage
to China.'

Mr Toots and Captain Cuttle heaved a sigh in concert. 'What then?'
said the Captain. 'She loves him true. He loves her true. Them as
should have loved and tended of hertreated of her like the beasts as
perish. When shecast out of homecome here to meand dropped upon
them planksher wownded heart was broke. I know it. IEd'ard Cuttle
see it. There's nowt but truekindsteady loveas can ever piece it
up again. If so be I didn't know thatand didn't know as Wal'r was
her true lovebrotherand she hisI'd have these here blue arms and
legs chopped offafore I'd let her go. But I know itand what then!
WhythenI sayHeaven go with 'em bothand so it will! Amen!'

'Captain Gills' said Mr Toots'let me have the pleasure of
shaking hands You've a way of saying thingsthat gives me an
agreeable warmthall up my back. I say Amen. You are awareCaptain
Gillsthat Itoohave adored Miss Dombey.'

'Cheer up!' said the Captainlaying his hand on Mr Toots's


shoulder. 'Stand byboy!'

'It is my intentionCaptain Gills' returned the spirited Mr
Toots'to cheer up. Also to standbyas much as possible. When the
silent tomb shall yawnCaptain GillsI shall be ready for burial;
not before. But not being certainjust at presentof my power over
myselfwhat I wish to say to youand what I shall take it as a
particular favour if you will mention to Lieutenant Waltersis as
follows.'

'Is as follers' echoed the Captain. 'Steady!'

'Miss Dombey being so inexpressably kind' continued Mr Toots with
watery eyes'as to say that my presence is the reverse of
disagreeable to herand you and everybody here being no less
forbearing and tolerant towards one who - who certainly' said Mr
Tootswith momentary dejection'would appear to have been born by
mistakeI shall come backwards and forwards of an eveningduring the
short time we can all be together. But what I ask is this. Ifat any
momentI find that I cannot endure the contemplation of Lieutenant
Walters's blissand should rush outI hopeCaptain Gillsthat you
and he will both consider it as my misfortune and not my faultor the
want of inward conflict. That you'll feel convinced I bear no malice
to any living creature-least of all to Lieutenant Walters himself and
that you'll casually remark that I have gone out for a walkor
probably to see what o'clock it is by the Royal Exchange. Captain
Gillsif you could enter into this arrangementand could answer for
Lieutenant Waltersit would be a relief to my feelings that I should
think cheap at the sacrifice of a considerable portion of my
property.'

'My lad' returned the Captain'say no more. There ain't a colour
you can run upas won't be made outand answered toby Wal'r and
self.'

'Captain Gills' said Mr Toots'my mind is greatly relieved. I
wish to preserve the good opinion of all here. I - I - mean wellupon
my honourhowever badly I may show it. You know' said Mr Toots
'it's as exactly as Burgess and Co. wished to oblige a customer with a
most extraordinary pair of trousersand could not cut out what they
had in their minds.'

With this apposite illustrationof which he seemed a little Proud
Mr Toots gave Captain Cuttle his blessing and departed.

The honest Captainwith his Heart's Delight in the houseand
Susan tending herwas a beaming and a happy man. As the days flew by
he grew more beaming and more happyevery day. After some conferences
with Susan (for whose wisdom the Captain had a profound respectand
whose valiant precipitation of herself on Mrs MacStinger he could
never forget)he proposed to Florence that the daughter of the
elderly lady who usually sat under the blue umbrella in Leadenhall
Marketshouldfor prudential reasons and considerations of privacy
be superseded in the temporary discharge of the household dutiesby
someone who was not unknown to themand in whom they could safely
confide. Susanbeing presentthen namedin furtherance of a
suggestion she had previously offered to the CaptainMrs Richards.
Florence brightened at the name. And Susansetting off that very
afternoon to the Toodle domicileto sound Mrs Richardsreturned in
triumph the same eveningaccompanied by the identical rosy-cheeked
apple-faced Pollywhose demonstrationswhen brought into Florence's
presencewere hardly less affectionate than those of Susan Nipper
herself.


This piece of generalship accomplished; from which the Captain
derived uncommon satisfactionas he didindeedfrom everything else
that was donewhatever it happened to be; Florence had next to
prepare Susan for their approaching separation. This was a much more
difficult taskas Miss Nipper was of a resolute dispositionand had
fully made up her mind that she had come back never to be parted from
her old mistress any more.

'As to wages dear Miss Floy' she said'you wouldn't hint and
wrong me so as think of naming themfor I've put money by and
wouldn't sell my love and duty at a time like this even if the
Savings' Banks and me were total strangers or the Banks were broke to
piecesbut you've never been without me darling from the time your
poor dear Ma was took awayand though I'm nothing to be boasted of
you're used to me and oh my own dear mistress through so many years
don't think of going anywhere without mefor it mustn't and can't
be!'

'Dear SusanI am going on a longlong voyage.'

'Well Miss Floyand what of that? the more you'll want me. Lengths
of voyages ain't an object in my eyesthank God!' said the impetuous
Susan Nipper.

'ButSusanI am going with Walterand I would go with Walter
anywhere - everywhere! Walter is poorand I am very poorand I must
learnnowboth to help myselfand help him.'

'Dear Miss Floy!' cried Susanbursting out afreshand shaking her
head violently'it's nothing new to you to help yourself and others
too and be the patientest and truest of noble heartsbut let me talk
to Mr Walter Gay and settle it with himfor suffer you to go away
across the world alone I cannotand I won't.'

'AloneSusan?' returned Florence. 'Alone? and Walter taking me
with him!' Ahwhat a brightamazedenraptured smile was on her
face! - He should have seen it. 'I am sure you will not speak to
Walter if I ask you not' she added tenderly; 'and pray don'tdear.'

Susan sobbed 'Why notMiss Floy?'

'Because' said Florence'I am going to be his wifeto give him
up my whole heartand to live with him and die with him. He might
thinkif you said to him what you have said to methat I am afraid
of what is before meor that you have some cause to be afraid for me.
WhySusandearI love him!'

Miss Nipper was so much affected by the quiet fervour of these
wordsand the simpleheartfeltall-pervading earnestness expressed
in themand making the speaker's face more beautiful and pure than
everthat she could only cling to her againcrying. Was her little
mistress reallyreally going to be marriedand pityingcaressing
and protecting heras she had done before. But the Nipperthough
susceptible of womanly weaknesseswas almost as capable of putting
constraint upon herself as of attacking the redoubtable MacStinger.
From that timeshe never returned to the subjectbut was always
cheerfulactivebustlingand hopeful. She didindeedinform Mr
Toots privatelythat she was only 'keeping up' for the timeand that
when it was all overand Miss Dombey was goneshe might be expected
to become a spectacle distressful; and Mr Toots did also express that
it was his case tooand that they would mingle their tears together;
but she never otherwise indulged her private feelings in the presence
of Florence or within the precincts of the Midshipman.


Limited and plain as Florence's wardrobe was - what a contrast to
that prepared for the last marriage in which she had taken part! there
was a good deal to do in getting it readyand Susan Nipper
worked away at her sideall daywith the concentrated zeal of fifty
sempstresses. The wonderful contributions Captain Cuttle would have
made to this branch of the outfitif he had been permitted - as pink
parasolstinted silk stockingsblue shoesand other articles no
less necessary on shipboard - would occupy some space in the recital.
He was inducedhoweverby various fraudulent representationsto
limit his contributions to a work-box and dressing caseof each of
which he purchased the very largest specimen that could be got for
money. For ten days or a fortnight afterwardshe generally sat
during the greater part of the daygazing at these boxes; divided
between extreme admiration of themand dejected misgivings that they
were not gorgeous enoughand frequently diving out into the street to
purchase some wild article that he deemed necessary to their
completeness. But his master-stroke wasthe bearing of them both off
suddenlyone morningand getting the two words FLORENCE GAY engraved
upon a brass heart inlaid over the lid of each. After thishe smoked
four pipes successively in the little parlour by himselfand was
discovered chucklingat the expiration of as many hours.

Walter was busy and away all daybut came there every morning
early to see Florenceand always passed the evening with her.
Florence never left her high rooms but to steal downstairs to wait for
him when it was his time to comeorsheltered by his proud
encircling armto bear him company to the door againand sometimes
peep into the street. In the twilight they were always together. Oh
blessed time! Oh wandering heart at rest! Oh deepexhaustlessmighty
well of lovein which so much was sunk!

The cruel mark was on her bosom yet. It rose against her father
with the breath she drewit lay between her and her lover when he
pressed her to his heart. But she forgot it. In the beating of that
heart for herand in the beating of her own for himall harsher
music was unheardall stern unloving hearts forgotten. Fragile and
delicate she wasbut with a might of love within her that couldand
didcreate a world to fly toand to rest inout of his one image.

How often did the great houseand the old dayscome before her in
the twilight timewhen she was sheltered by the armso proudso
fondandcreeping closer to himshrunk within it at the
recollection! How oftenfrom remembering the night when she went down
to that room and met the never-to-be forgotten lookdid she raise her
eyes to those that watched her with such loving earnestnessand weep
with happiness in such a refuge! The more she clung to itthe more
the dear dead child was in her thoughts: but as if the last time she
had seen her fatherhad been when he was sleeping and she kissed his
faceshe always left him soand neverin her fancypassed that
hour.

'Walterdear' said Florenceone eveningwhen it was almost
dark.'Do you know what I have been thinking to-day?'

'Thinking how the time is flying onand how soon we shall be upon
the seasweet Florence?'

'I don't mean thatWalterthough I think of that too. I have been
thinking what a charge I am to you.

'A precioussacred chargedear heart! WhyI think that
sometimes.'

'You are laughingWalter. I know that's much more in your thoughts


than mine. But I mean a cost.

'A costmy own?'

'In moneydear. All these preparations that Susan and I are so
busy with - I have been able to purchase very little for myself. You
were poor before. But how much poorer I shall make youWalter!'

'And how much richerFlorence!'

Florence laughedand shook her head.

'Besides' said Walter'long ago - before I went to sea - I had a
little purse presented to medearestwhich had money in it.'

'Ah!' returned Florencelaughing sorrowfully'very little! very
littleWalter! Butyou must not think' and here she laid her light
hand on his shoulderand looked into his face'that I regret to be
this burden on you. Nodear loveI am glad of it. I am happy in it.
I wouldn't have it otherwise for all the world!'

'Nor Iindeeddear Florence.'

'Ay! butWalteryou can never feel it as I do. I am so proud of
you! It makes my heart swell with such delight to know that those who
speak of you must say you married a poor disowned girlwho had taken
shelter here; who had no other homeno other friends; who had nothing

-nothing! OhWalterif I could have brought you millionsI never
could have been so happy for your sakeas I am!'
'And youdear Florence? are you nothing?' he returned.

'NonothingWalter. Nothing but your wife.' The light hand stole
about his neckand the voice came nearer - nearer. 'I am nothing any
morethat is not you. I have no earthly hope any morethat is not
you. I have nothing dear to me any morethat is not you.

Oh! well might Mr Toots leave the little company that eveningand
twice go out to correct his watch by the Royal Exchangeand once to
keep an appointment with a banker which he suddenly rememberedand
once to take a little turn to Aldgate Pump and back!

But before he went upon these expeditionsor indeed before he
cameand before lights were broughtWalter said:

'Florencelovethe lading of our ship is nearly finishedand
probably on the very day of our marriage she will drop down the river.
Shall we go away that morningand stay in Kent until we go on board
at Gravesend within a week?'

'If you pleaseWalter. I shall be happy anywhere. But - '

'Yesmy life?'

'You know' said Florence'that we shall have no marriage party
and that nobody will distinguish us by our dress from other people. As
we leave the same daywill you - will you take me somewhere that
morningWalter - early - before we go to church?'

Walter seemed to understand heras so true a lover so truly loved
shouldand confirmed his ready promise with a kiss - with more than
one perhapsor two or threes or five or six; and in the grave
peaceful eveningFlorence was very happy.


Then into the quiet room came Susan Nipper and the candles; shortly
afterwardsthe teathe Captainand the excursive Mr Tootswhoas
above mentionedwas frequently on the move afterwardsand passed but
a restless evening. Thishoweverwas not his habit: for he generally
got on very wellby dint of playing at cribbage with the Captain
under the advice and guidance of Miss Nipperand distracting his mind
with the calculations incidental to the game; which he found to be a
very effectual means of utterly confounding himself.

The Captain's visage on these occasions presented one of the finest
examples of combination and succession of expression ever observed.
His instinctive delicacy and his chivalrous feeling towards Florence
taught him that it was not a time for any boisterous jollityor
violent display of satisfaction; floating reminiscences of Lovely Peg
on the other handwere constantly struggling for a ventand urging
the Captain to commit himself by some irreparable demonstration. Anon
his admiration of Florence and Walter - well-matchedtrulyand full
of grace and interest in their youthand loveand good looksas
they sat apart - would take such complete possession of hImthat he
would lay down his cardsand beam upon themdabbing his head all
over with his pockethandkerchief; until warnedperhapsby the sudden
rushing forth of Mr Tootsthat he had unconsciously been very
instrumentalindeedin making that gentleman miserable. This
reflection would make the Captain profoundly melancholyuntil the
return of Mr Toots; when he would fall to his cards againwith many
side winks and nodsand polite waves of his hook at Miss Nipper
importing that he wasn't going to do so any more. The state that
ensued on thiswasperhapshis best; for thenendeavouring to
discharge all expression from his facehe would sit staring round the
roomwith all these expressions conveyed into it at onceand each
wrestling with the other. Delighted admiration of Florence and Walter
always overthrew the restand remained victorious and undisguised
unless Mr Toots made another rush into the airand then the Captain
would sitlike a remorseful culprituntil he came back again
occasionally calling upon himselfin a low reproachful voiceto
'Stand by!' or growling some remonstrance to 'Ed'ard Cuttlemy lad'
on the want of caution observabl in his behaviour.

One of Mr Toots's hardest trialshoweverwas of his own seeking.
On the approach of the Sunday which was to witness the last of those
askings in church of which the Captain had spokenMr Toots thus
stated his feelings to Susan Nipper.

'Susan' said Mr Toots'I am drawn towards the building. The words
which cut me off from Miss Dombey for everwill strike upon my ears
like a knell you knowbut upon my word and honourI feel that I must
hear them. Therefore' said Mr Toots'will you accompany me
to-morrowto the sacred edifice?'

Miss Nipper expressed her readiness to do soif that would be any
satisfaction to Mr Tootsbut besought him to abandon his idea of
going.

'Susan' returned Mr Tootswith much solemnity'before my
whiskers began to be observed by anybody but myselfI adored Miss
Dombey. While yet a victim to the thraldom of BlimberI adored Miss
Dombey. When I could no longer be kept out of my propertyin a legal
point of viewand - and accordingly came into it - I adored Miss
Dombey. The banns which consign her to Lieutenant Waltersand me to to
Gloomyou know' said Mr Tootsafter hesitating for a strong
expression'may be dreadfulwill be dreadful; but I feel that I
should wish to hear them spoken. I feel that I should wish to know
that the ground wascertainly cut from under meand that I hadn't a
hope to cherishor a - or a legin shortto - to go upon.'


Susan Nipper could only commiserate Mr Toots's unfortunate
conditionand agreeunder these circumstancesto accompany him;
which she did next morning.

The church Walter had chosen for the purposewas a mouldy old
church in a yardhemmed in by a labyrinth of back streets and courts
with a little burying-ground round itand itself buried in a kind of
vaultformed by the neighbouring housesand paved with echoing
stones It was a great dimshabby pilewith high old oaken pews
among which about a score of people lost themselves every Sunday;
while the clergyman's voice drowsily resounded through the emptiness
and the organ rumbled and rolled as if the church had got the colic
for want of a congregation to keep the wind and damp out. But so far
was this city church from languishing for the company of other
churchesthat spires were clustered round itas the masts of
shipping cluster on the river. It would have been hard to count them
from its steeple-topthey were so many. In almost every yard and
blind-place nearthere was a church. The confusion of bells when
Susan and Mr Toots betook themselves towards it on the Sunday morning
was deafening. There were twenty churches close togetherclamouring
for people to come in.

The two stray sheep in question were penned by a beadle in a
commodious pewandbeing earlysat for some time counting the
congregationlistening to the disappointed bell high up in the tower
or looking at a shabby little old man in the porch behind the screen
who was ringing the samelike the Bull in Cock Robin' with his foot
in a stirrup. Mr Tootsafter a lengthened survey of the large books
on the reading-deskwhispered Miss Nipper that he wondered where the
banns were keptbut that young lady merely shook her head and
frowned; repelling for the time all approaches of a temporal nature.

Mr Tootshoweverappearing unable to keep his thoughts from the
bannswas evidently looking out for them during the whole preliminary
portion of the service. As the time for reading them approachedthe
poor young gentleman manifested great anxiety and trepidationwhich
was not diminished by the unexpected apparition of the Captain in the
front row of the gallery. When the clerk handed up a list to the
clergymanMr Tootsbeing then seatedheld on by the seat of the
pew; but when the names of Walter Gay and Florence Dombey were read
aloud as being in the third and last stage of that associationhe was
so entirley conquered by his feelings as to rush from the church
without his hatfollowed by the beadle and pew-openerand two
gentlemen of the medical profeesionwho happened to be present; of
whom the first-named presently returned for that articleinforming
Miss Nipper in a whisper that she was not to make herself uneasy about
the gentlemanas the gentleman said his indisposition was of no
consequence.

Miss Nipperfeeling that the eyes of that integral portion of
Europe which lost itself weekly among the high-backed pewswere upon
herwould have been sufficient embarrassed by this incidentthough
it had terminated here; the more soas the Captain in the front row
of the gallerywas in a state of unmitigated consciousness which
could hardly fail to express to the congregation that he had some
mysterious connection with it. But the extreme restlessness of Mr
Toots painfully increased and protracted the delicacy of her
situation. That young gentlemanincapablein his state of mindof
remaining alone in the churchyarda prey to solitary meditationand
also desirousno doubtof testifying his respect for the offices he
had in some measure interruptedsuddenly returned - not coming back
to the pewbut stationing himself on a free seat in the aisle
between two elderly females who were in the habit of receiving their


portion of a weekly dole of bread then set forth on a shelf in the
porch. In this conjunction Mr Toots remainedgreatly disturbing the
congregationwho felt it impossible to avoid looking at himuntil
his feelings overcame him againwhen he departed silently and
suddenly. Not venturing to trust himself in the church any moreand
yet wishing to have some social participation in what was going on
thereMr Toots wasafter thisseen from time to timelooking in
with a lorn aspectat one or other of the windows; and as there were
several windows accessible to him from withoutand as his
restlessness was very greatit not only became difficult to conceive
at which window he would appear nextbut likewise became necessary
as it werefor the whole congregation to speculate upon the chances
of the different windowsduring the comparative leisure afforded them
by the sermon. Mr Toots's movements in the churchyard were so
eccentricthat he seemed generally to defeat all calculationand to
appearlike the conjuror's figurewhere he was least expected; and
the effect of these mysterious presentations was much increased by its
being difficult to him to see inand easy to everybody else to see
out: which occasioned his remainingevery timelonger than might
have been expectedwith his face close to the glassuntil he all at
once became aware that all eyes were upon himand vanished.

These proceedings on the part of Mr Tootsand the strong
individual consciousness of them that was exhibited by the Captain
rendered Miss Nipper's position so responsible a onethat she was
mightily relieved by the conclusion of the service; and was hardly so
affable to Mr Toots as usualwhen he informed her and the Captainon
the way backthat now he was sure he had no hopeyou knowhe felt
more comfortable - at least not exactly more comfortablebut more
comfortably and completely miserable.

Swiftly nowindeedthe time flew by until it was the evening
before the day appointed for the marriage. They were all assembled in
the upper room at the Midshipman'sand had no fear of interruption;
for there were no lodgers in the house nowand the Midshipman had it
all to himself. They were grave and quiet in the prospect of
to-morrowbut moderately cheerful too. Florencewith Walter close
beside herwas finishing a little piece of work intended as a parting
gift to the Captain. The Captain was playing cribbage with Mr Toots.
Mr Toots was taking counsel as to his handof Susan Nipper. Miss
Nipper was giving itwith all due secrecy and circumspection.
Diogenes was listeningand occasionally breaking out into a gruff
half-smothered fragment of a barkof which he afterwards seemed
half-ashamedas if he doubted having any reason for it.

'Steadysteady!' said the Captain to Diogenes'what's amiss with
you? You don't seem easy in your mind to-nightmy boy!'

Diogenes wagged his tailbut pricked up his ears immediately
afterwardsand gave utterance to another fragment of a bark; for
which he apologised to the Captainby again wagging his tail.

'It's my opinionDi' said the Captainlooking thoughtfully at
his cardsand stroking his chin with his hook'as you have your
doubts of Mrs Richards; but if you're the animal I take you to be
you'll think better o' that; for her looks is her commission. Now
Brother:' to Mr Toots: 'if so be as you're readyheave ahead.'

The Captain spoke with all composure and attention to the gamebut
suddenly his cards dropped out of his handhis mouth and eyes opened
widehis legs drew themselves up and stuck out in front of his chair
and he sat staring at the door with blank amazement. Looking round
upon the companyand seeing that none of them observed him or the
cause of his astonishmentthe Captain recovered himself with a great


gaspstruck the table a tremendous blowcried in a stentorian roar
'Sol Gills ahoy!' and tumbled into the arms of a weather-beaten
pea-coat that had come with Polly into the room.

In another momentWalter was in the arms of the weather-beaten
pea-coat. In another momentFlorence was in the arms of the
weather-beaten pea-coat. In another momentCaptain Cuttle had
embraced Mrs Richards and Miss Nipperand was violently shaking hands
with Mr Tootsexclaimingas he waved his hook above his head
'Hooroarmy ladhooroar!' To which Mr Tootswholly at a loss to
account for these proceedingsreplied with great politeness
'CertainlyCaptain Gillswhatever you think proper!'

The weather-beaten pea-coatand a no less weather-beaten cap and
comforter belonging to itturned from the Captain and from Florence
back to Walterand sounds came from the weather-beaten pea-coatcap
and comforteras of an old man sobbing underneath them; while the
shaggy sleeves clasped Walter tight. During this pausethere was an
universal silenceand the Captain polished his nose with great
diligence. But when the pea-coatcapand comforter lifted themselves
up againFlorence gently moved towards them; and she and Walter
taking them offdisclosed the old Instrument-makera little thinner
and more careworn than of oldin his old Welsh wig and his old
coffee-coloured coat and basket buttonswith his old infallible
chronometer ticking away in his pocket.

'Chock full o' science' said the radiant Captain'as ever he was!
Sol GillsSol Gillswhat have you been up tofor this many a long
daymy ould boy?'

'I'm half blindNed' said the old man'and almost deaf and dumb
with joy.'

'His wery woice' said the Captainlooking round with an
exultation to which even his face could hardly render justice - 'his
wery woice as chock full o' science as ever it was! Sol Gillslay to
my ladupon your own wines and fig-trees like a taut ould patriark as
you areand overhaul them there adwentures o' yournin your own
formilior woice. 'Tis the woice' said the Captainimpressivelyand
announcing a quotation with his hook'of the sluggardI heerd him
complainyou have woke me too soonI must slumber again. Scatter his
ene-miesand make 'em fall!'

The Captain sat down with the air of a man who had happily
expressed the feeling of everybody presentand immediately rose again
to present Mr Tootswho was much disconcerted by the arrival of
anybodyappearing to prefer a claim to the name of Gills.

'Although' stammered Mr Toots'I had not the pleasure of your
acquaintanceSirbefore you were - you were - '

'Lost to sightto memory dear' suggested the Captainin a low
voice.

Exactly soCaptain Gills!' assented Mr Toots. 'Although I had not
the pleasure of your acquaintanceMr - Mr Sols' said Tootshitting
on that name in the inspiration of a bright idea'before that
happenedI have the greatest pleasureI assure youin - you know
in knowing you. I hope' said Mr Toots'that you're as well as can be
expected.'

With these courteous wordsMr Toots sat down blushing and
chuckling.


The old Instrument-makerseated in a corner between Walter and
Florenceand nodding at Pollywho was looking onall smiles and
delightanswered the Captain thus:

'Ned Cuttlemy dear boyalthough I have heard something of the
changes of events herefrom my pleasant friend there - what a
pleasant face she has to be sureto welcome a wanderer home!' said
the old manbreaking offand rubbing his hands in his old dreamy
way.

'Hear him!' cried the Captain gravely. ''Tis woman as seduces all
mankind. For which' aside to Mr Toots'you'll overhaul your Adam and
Evebrother.'

'I shall make a point of doing soCaptain Gills' said Mr Toots.

'Although I have heard something of the changes of eventsfrom
her' resumed the Instrument-makertaking his old spectacles from his
pocketand putting them on his forehead in his old manner'they are
so great and unexpectedand I am so overpowered by the sight of my
dear boyand by the' - glancing at the downcast eyes of Florence
and not attempting to finish the sentence - 'that I - I can't say much
to-night. But my dear Ned Cuttlewhy didn't you write?'

The astonishment depicted in the Captain's features positively
frightened Mr Tootswhose eyes were quite fixed by itso that he
could not withdraw them from his face.

'Write!' echoed the Captain. 'WriteSol Gills?'

'Ay' said the old man'either to Barbadosor Jamaicaor
DemeraraThat was what I asked.'

'What you askedSol Gills?' repeated the Captain.

'Ay' said the old man. 'Don't you knowNed? Sure you have not
forgotten? Every time I wrote to you.'

The Captain took off his glazed hathung it on his hookand
smoothing his hair from behind with his handsat gazing at the group
around him: a perfect image of wondering resignation.

'You don't appear to understand meNed!' observed old Sol.

'Sol Gills' returned the Captainafter staring at him and the
rest for a long timewithout speaking'I'm gone about and adrift.
Pay out a word or two respecting them adwenturswill you! Can't I
bring upnohows? Nohows?' said the Captainruminatingand staring
all round.

'You knowNed' said Sol Gills'why I left here. Did you open my
packetNed?'

'Whyayay' said the Captain. 'To be sureI opened the packet.'

'And read it?' said the old man.

'And read it' answered the Captaineyeing him attentivelyand
proceeding to quote it from memory. '"My dear Ned Cuttlewhen I left
home for the West Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my
dear-" There he sits! There's Wal'r!' said the Captainas if he were
relieved by getting hold of anything that was real and indisputable.

'WellNed. Now attend a moment!' said the old man. 'When I wrote


first - that was from Barbados - I said that though you would receive
that letter long before the year was outI should be glad if you
would open the packetas it explained the reason of my going away.
Very goodNed. When I wrote the secondthirdand perhaps the fourth
times - that was from Jamaica - I said I was in just the same state
couldn't restand couldn't come away from that part of the world
without knowing that my boy was lost or saved. When I wrote next that
I thinkwas from Demerarawasn't it?'

'That he thinks was from Demerarawarn't it!' said the Captain
looking hopelessly round.

'I said' proceeded old Sol'that still there was no certain
information got yet. That I found many captains and othersin that
part of the worldwho had known me for yearsand who assisted me
with a passage here and thereand for whom I was ablenow and then
to do a little in returnin my own craft. That everyone was sorry for
meand seemed to take a sort of interest in my wanderings; and that I
began to think it would be my fate to cruise about in search of
tidings of my boyuntil I died.'

'Began to think as how he was a scientific Flying Dutchman!' said
the Captainas beforeand with great seriousness.

'But when the news come one dayNed- that was to Barbadosafter
I got back there- that a China trader home'ard bound had been spoke
that had my boy aboardthenNedI took passage in the next ship and
came home; arrived at home to-night to find it truethank God!' said
the old mandevoutly.

The Captainafter bowing his head with great reverencestared all
round the circlebeginning with Mr Tootsand ending with the
Instrument-maker; then gravely said:

'Sol Gills! The observation as I'm a-going to make is calc'lated to
blow every stitch of sail as you can carryclean out of the
bolt-ropesand bring you on your beam ends with a lurch. Not one of
them letters was ever delivered to Ed'ard Cuttle. Not one o' them
letters' repeated the Captainto make his declaration the more
solemn and impressive'was ever delivered unto Ed'ard Cuttle
Marinerof Englandas lives at home at easeand doth improve each
shining hour!'

'And posted by my own hand! And directed by my own handNumber
nine Brig Place!' exclaimed old Sol.

The colour all went out of the Captain's face and all came back
again in a glow.

'What do you meanSol Gillsmy friendby Number nine Brig
Place?' inquired the Captain.

'Mean? Your lodgingsNed' returned the old man. 'Mrs
What's-her-name! I shall forget my own name nextbut I am behind the
present time - I always wasyou recollect - and very much confused.
Mrs - '

'Sol Gills!' said the Captainas if he were putting the most
improbable case in the world'it ain't the name of MacStinger as
you're a trying to remember?'

'Of course it is!' exclaimed the Instrument-maker. 'To be sure Ned.
Mrs MacStinger!'


Captain Cuttlewhose eyes were now as wide open as they would be
and the knobs upon whose face were perfectly luminousgave a long
shrill whistle of a most melancholy soundand stood gazing at
everybody in a state of speechlessness.

'Overhaul that there againSol Gillswill you be so kind?' he
said at last.

'All these letters' returned Uncle Solbeating time with the
forefinger of his right hand upon the palm of his leftwith a
steadiness and distinctness that might have done honoureven to the
infallible chronometer in his pocket'I posted with my own handand
directed with my own handto Captain Cuttleat Mrs MacStinger's
Number nine Brig Place.'

The Captain took his glazed hat off his hooklooked into itput
it onand sat down.

'Whyfriends all' said the Captainstaring round in the last
state of discomfiture'I cut and run from there!'

'And no one knew where you were goneCaptain Cuttle?' cried Walter
hastily.

'Bless your heartWal'r' said the Captainshaking his head
'she'd never have allowed o' my coming to take charge o' this here
property. Nothing could be done but cut and run. Lord love you
Wal'r!' said the Captain'you've only seen her in a calm! But see her
when her angry passions rise - and make a note on!'

'I'd give it her!' remarked the Nippersoftly.

'Would youdo you thinkmy dear?' returned the Captainwith
feeble admiration. 'Wellmy dearit does you credit. But there ain't
no wild animal I wouldn't sooner face myself. I only got my chest away
by means of a friend as nobody's a match for. It was no good sending
any letter there. She wouldn't take in any letterbless you' said
the Captain'under them circumstances! Whyyou could hardly make it
worth a man's while to be the postman!'

'Then it's pretty clearCaptain Cuttlethat all of usand you
and Uncle Sol especially' said Walter'may thank Mrs MacStinger for
no small anxiety.'

The general obligation in this wise to the determined relict of the
late Mr MacStingerwas so apparentthat the Captain did not contest
the point; but being in some measure ashamed of his positionthough
nobody dwelt upon the subjectand Walter especially avoided it
remembering the last conversation he and the Captain had held together
respecting ithe remained under a cloud for nearly five minutes - an
extraordinary period for him when that sunhis facebroke out once
moreshining on all beholders with extraordinary brilliancy; and he
fell into a fit of shaking hands with everybody over and over again.

At an early hourbut not before Uncle Sol and Walter had
questioned each other at some length about their voyages and dangers
they allexcept Waltervacated Florence's roomand went down to the
parlour. Here they were soon afterwards joined by Walterwho told
them Florence was a little sorrowful and heavy-heartedand had gone
to bed. Though they could not have disturbed her with their voices
down therethey all spoke in a whisper after this: and eachin his
different wayfelt very lovingly and gently towards Walter's fair
young bride: and a long explanation there was of everything relating
to herfor the satisfaction of Uncle Sol; and very sensible Mr Toots


was of the delicacy with which Walter made his name and services
importantand his presence necessary to their little council.

'Mr Toots' said Walteron parting with him at the house door'we
shall see each other to-morrow morning?'

'Lieutenant Walters' returned Mr Tootsgrasping his hand
fervently'I shall certainly be present.

'This is the last night we shall meet for a long time - the last
night we may ever meet' said Walter. 'Such a noble heart as yours
must feelI thinkwhen another heart is bound to it. I hope you know
that I am very grateful to you?'

'Walters' replied Mr Tootsquite touched'I should be glad to
feel that you had reason to be so.'

'Florence' said Walter'on this last night of her bearing her own
namehas made me promise - it was only just nowwhen you left us
together - that I would tell you - with her dear love - '

Mr Toots laid his hand upon the doorpostand his eyes upon his
hand.

-with her dear love' said Walter'that she can never have a
friend whom she will value above you. That the recollection of your
true consideration for her alwayscan never be forgotten by her. That
she remembers you in her prayers to-nightand hopes that you will
think of her when she is far away. Shall I say anything for you?'
'SayWalter' replied Mr Toots indistinctly'that I shall think
of her every daybut never without feeling happy to know that she is
married to the man she lovesand who loves her. Sayif you please
that I am sure her husband deserves her - even her!- and that I am
glad of her choice.'

Mr Toots got more distinct as he came to these last wordsand
raising his eyes from the doorpostsaid them stoutly. He then shook
Walter's hand again with a fervour that Walter was not slow to return
and started homeward.

Mr Toots was accompanied by the Chickenwhom he had of late
brought with him every eveningand left in the shopwith an idea
that unforeseen circumstances might arise from withoutin which the
prowess of that distinguished character would be of service to the
Midshipman. The Chicken did not appear to be in a particularly good
humour on this occasion. Either the gas-lamps were treacherousor he
cocked his eye in a hideous mannerand likewise distorted his nose
when Mr Tootscrossing the roadlooked back over his shoulder at the
room where Florence slept. On the road homehe was more demonstrative
of aggressive intentions against the other foot-passengersthan
comported with a professor of the peaceful art of self-defence.
Arrived at homeinstead of leaving Mr Toots in his apartments when he
had escorted him thitherhe remained before him weighing his white
hat in both hands by the brimand twitching his head and nose (both
of which had been many times brokenand but indifferently repaired)
with an air of decided disrespect.

His patron being much engaged with his own thoughtsdid not
observe this for some timenor indeed until the Chickendetermined
not to be overlookedhad made divers clicking sounds with his tongue
and teethto attract attention.

'NowMaster' said the Chickendoggedlywhen heat length


caught Mr Toots's eye'I want to know whether this here gammon is to
finish itor whether you're a going in to win?'

'Chicken' returned Mr Toots'explain yourself.'

'Why thenhere's all about itMaster' said the Chicken. 'I ain't
a cove to chuck a word away. Here's wot it is. Are any on 'em to be
doubled up?'

When the Chicken put this question he dropped his hatmade a dodge
and a feint with his left handhit a supposed enemy a violent blow
with his rightshook his head smartlyand recovered himself'

'ComeMaster' said the Chicken. 'Is it to be gammon or pluck?
Which?'

Chicken' returned Mr Toots'your expressions are coarseand your
meaning is obscure.'

'WhythenI tell you whatMaster' said the Chicken. 'This is
where it is. It's mean.'

'What is meanChicken?' asked Mr Toots.

'It is' said the Chickenwith a frightful corrugation of his
broken nose. 'There! NowMaster! Wot! When you could go and blow on
this here match to the stiff'un;' by which depreciatory appellation it
has been since supposed that the Game One intended to signify Mr
Dombey; 'and when you could knock the winner and all the kit of 'em
dead out o' wind and timeare you going to give in? To give in? 'said
the Chickenwith contemptuous emphasis. 'Wyit's mean!'

'Chicken' said Mr Tootsseverely'you're a perfect Vulture! Your
sentiments are atrocious.'

'My sentiments is Game and FancyMaster' returned the Chicken.
'That's wot my sentiments is. I can't abear a meanness. I'm afore the
publicI'm to be heerd on at the bar of the Little Helephantand no
Gov'ner o' mine mustn't go and do what's mean. Wyit's mean' said
the Chickenwith increased expression. 'That's where it is. It's
mean.'

'Chicken' said Mr Toots'you disgust me.'

'Master' returned the Chickenputting on his hat'there's a pair
on usthen. Come! Here's a offer! You've spoke to me more than once't
or twice't about the public line. Never mind! Give me a fi'typunnote
to-morrowand let me go.'

'Chicken' returned Mr Toots'after the odious sentiments you have
expressedI shall be glad to part on such terms.'

'Done then' said the Chicken. 'It's a bargain. This here conduct
of yourn won't suit my bookMaster. Wyit's mean' said the Chicken;
who seemed equally unable to get beyond that pointand to stop short
of it. 'That's where it is; it's mean!'

So Mr Toots and the Chicken agreed to part on this incompatibility
of moral perception; and Mr Toots lying down to sleepdreamed happily
of Florencewho had thought of him as her friend upon the last night
of her maiden lifeand who had sent him her dear love.

CHAPTER 57.


Another Wedding

Mr Sownds the beadleand Mrs Miff the pew-openerare early at
their posts in the fine church where Mr Dombey was married. A
yellow-faced old gentleman from Indiais going to take unto himself a
young wife this morningand six carriages full of company are
expectedand Mrs Miff has been informed that the yellow-faced old
gentleman could pave the road to church with diamonds and hardly miss
them. The nuptial benediction is to be a superior oneproceeding from
a very reverenda deanand the lady is to be given awayas an
extraordinary presentby somebody who comes express from the Horse
Guards

Mrs Miff is more intolerant of common people this morningthan she
generally is; and she his always strong opinions on that subjectfor
it is associated with free sittings. Mrs Miff is not a student of
political economy (she thinks the science is connected with
dissenters; 'Baptists or Wesleyansor some o' them' she says)but
she can never understand what business your common folks have to be
married. 'Drat 'em' says Mrs Miff 'you read the same things over 'em'
and instead of sovereigns get sixpences!'

Mr Sownds the beadle is more liberal than Mrs Miff - but then he is
not a pew-opener. 'It must be doneMa'am' he says. 'We must marry
'em. We must have our national schools to walk at the head ofand we
must have our standing armies. We must marry 'emMa'am' says Mr
Sownds'and keep the country going.'

Mr Sownds is sitting on the steps and Mrs Miff is dusting in the
churchwhen a young coupleplainly dressedcome in. The mortified
bonnet of Mrs Miff is sharply turned towards themfor she espies in
this early visit indications of a runaway match. But they don't want
to be married - 'Only' says the gentleman'to walk round the
church.' And as he slips a genteel compliment into the palm of Mrs
Miffher vinegary face relaxesand her mortified bonnet and her
spare dry figure dip and crackle.

Mrs Miff resumes her dusting and plumps up her cushions - for the
yellow-faced old gentleman is reported to have tender knees - but
keeps her glazedpew-opening eye on the young couple who are walking
round the church. 'Ahem' coughs Mrs Miff whose cough is drier than
the hay in any hassock in her charge'you'll come to us one of these
morningsmy dearsunless I'm much mistaken!'

They are looking at a tablet on the wallerected to the memory of
someone dead. They are a long way off from Mrs Miffbut Mrs Miff can
see with half an eye how she is leaning on his armand how his head
is bent down over her. 'Wellwell' says Mrs Miff'you might do
worse. For you're a tidy pair!'

There is nothing personal in Mrs Miff's remark. She merely speaks
of stock-in-trade. She is hardly more curious in couples than in
coffins. She is such a sparestraightdry old lady - such a pew of a
woman - that you should find as many individual sympathies in a chip.
Mr Sowndsnowwho is fleshyand has scarlet in his coatis of a
different temperament. He saysas they stand upon the steps watching
the young couple awaythat she has a pretty figurehasn't sheand
as well as he could see (for she held her head down coming out)an
uncommon pretty face. 'AltogetherMrs Miff' says Mr Sownds with a
relish'she is what you may call a rose-bud.'


Mrs Miff assents with a spare nod of her mortified bonnet; but
approves of this so littlethat she inwardly resolves she wouldn't be
the wife of Mr Sownds for any money he could give herBeadle as he
is.

And what are the young couple saying as they leave the churchand
go out at the gate?

'Dear Walterthank you! I can go awaynowhappy.'

'And when we come backFlorencewe will come and see his grave
again.'

Florence lifts her eyesso bright with tearsto his kind face;
and clasps her disengaged hand on that other modest little hand which
clasps his arm.

'It is very earlyWalterand the streets are almost empty yet.
Let us walk.'

'But you will be so tiredmy love.'

'Oh no! I was very tired the first time that we ever walked
togetherbut I shall not be so to-day.' And thus - not much changed she
as innocent and earnest-hearted - heas frankas hopefuland
more proud of her - Florence and Walteron their bridal morningwalk
through the streets together.

Not even in that childish walk of long agowere they so far
removed from all the world about them as to-day. The childish feet of
long agodid not tread such enchanted ground as theirs do now. The
confidence and love of children may be given many timesand will
spring up in many places; but the woman's heart of Florencewith its
undivided treasurecan be yielded only onceand under slight or
changecan only droop and die.

They take the streets that are the quietestand do not go near
that in which her old home stands. It is a fairwarm summer morning
and the sun shines on themas they walk towards the darkening mist
that overspreads the City. Riches are uncovering in shops; jewels
goldand silver flash in the goldsmith's sunny windows; and great
houses cast a stately shade upon them as they pass. But through the
lightand through the shadethey go on lovingly togetherlost to
everything around; thinking of no other richesand no prouder home
than they have now in one another.

Gradually they come into the darkernarrower streetswhere the
sunnow yellowand now redis seen through the mistonly at street
cornersand in small open spaces where there is a treeor one of the
innumerable churchesor a paved way and a flight of stepsor a
curious little patch of gardenor a burying-groundwhere the few
tombs and tombstones are almost black. Lovingly and trustfully
through all the narrow yards and alleys and the shady streets
Florence goesclinging to his armto be his wife.

Her heart beats quicker nowfor Walter tells her that their church
is very near. They pass a few great stacks of warehouseswith waggons
at the doorsand busy carmen stopping up the way - but Florence does
not see or hear them - and then the air is quietand the day is
darkenedand she is trembling in a church which has a strange smell
like a cellar.

The shabby little old manringer of the disappointed bellis
standing in the porchand has put his hat in the font - for he is


quite at home therebeing sexton. He ushers them into an old brown
panelleddusty vestrylike a corner-cupboard with the shelves taken
out; where the wormy registers diffuse a smell like faded snuffwhich
has set the tearful Nipper sneezing.

Youthfuland how beautifulthe young bride looksin this old
dusty placewith no kindred object near her but her husband. There is
a dusty old clerkwho keeps a sort of evaporated news shop underneath
an archway oppositebehind a perfect fortification of posts. There is
a dusty old pew-opener who only keeps herselfand finds that quite
enough to do. There is a dusty old beadle (these are Mr Toots's beadle
and pew-opener of last Sunday)who has something to do with a
Worshipful Company who have got a Hall in the next yardwith a
stained-glass window in it that no mortal ever saw. There are dusty
wooden ledges and cornices poked in and out over the altarand over
the screen and round the galleryand over the inscription about what
the Master and Wardens of the Worshipful Company did in one thousand
six hundred and ninety-four. There are dusty old sounding-boards over
the pulpit and reading-desklooking like lids to be let down on the
officiating ministers in case of their giving offence. There is every
possible provision for the accommodation of dustexcept in the
churchyardwhere the facilities in that respect are very limited. The
CaptainUncle Soland Mr Toots are come; the clergyman is putting on
his surplice in the vestrywhile the clerk walks round himblowing
the dust off it; and the bride and bridegroom stand before the altar.
There is no bridesmaidunless Susan Nipper is one; and no better
father than Captain Cuttle. A man with a wooden legchewing a faint
apple and carrying a blue bag in has handlooks in to see what is
going on; but finding it nothing entertainingstumps off againand
pegs his way among the echoes out of doors.

No gracious ray of light is seen to fall on Florencekneeling at
the altar with her timid head bowed down. The morning luminary is
built outand don't shine there. There is a meagre tree outside
where the sparrows are chirping a little; and there is a blackbird in
an eyelet-hole of sun in a dyer's garretover against the windowwho
whistles loudly whilst the service is performing; and there is the man
with the wooden leg stumping away. The amens of the dusty clerk
appearlike Macbeth'sto stick in his throat a little'; but Captain
Cuttle helps him outand does it with so much goodwill that he
interpolates three entirely new responses of that wordnever
introduced into the service before.

They are marriedand have signed their names in one of the old
sneezy registersand the clergyman's surplice is restored to the
dustand the clergymam is gone home. In a dark corner of the dark
churchFlorence has turned to Susan Nipperand is weeping in her
arms. Mr Toots's eyes are red. The Captain lubricates his nose. Uncle
Sol has pulled down his spectacles from his foreheadand walked out
to the door.

'God bless youSusan; dearest Susan! If you ever can bear witness
to the love I have for Walterand the reason that I have to love him
do it for his sake. Good-bye! Good-bye!'

They have thought it better not to go back to the Midshipmanbut
to part so; a coach is waiting for themnear at hand.

Miss Nipper cannot speak; she only sobs and chokesand hugs her
mistress. Mr Toots advancesurges her to cheer upand takes charge
of her. Florence gives him her hand - gives himin the fulness of her
hearther lips - kisses Uncle Soland Captain Cuttleand is borne
away by her young husband.


But Susan cannot bear that Florence should go away with a mournful
recollection of her. She had meant to be so differentthat she
reproaches herself bitterly. Intent on making one last effort to
redeem her charactershe breaks from Mr Toots and runs away to find
the coachand show a parting smile. The Captaindivining her object
sets off after her; for he feels it his duty also to dismiss them with
a cheerif possible. Uncle Sol and Mr Toots are left behind together
outside the churchto wait for them.

The coach is gonebut the street is steepand narrowand blocked
upand Susan can see it at a stand-still in the distanceshe is
sure. Captain Cuttle follows her as she flies down the hilland waves
his glazed hat as a general signalwhich may attract the right coach
and which may not.

Susan outstrips the Captainand comes up with it. She looks in at
the windowsees Walterwith the gentle face beside himand claps
her hands and screams:

'Miss Floymy darling! look at me! We are all so happy nowdear!
One more good-byemy preciousone more!'

How Susan does itshe don't knowbut she reaches to the window
kisses herand has her arms about her neckin a moment.

We are all so happy nowmy dear Miss Floy!' says Susanwith a
suspicious catching in her breath. 'Youyou won't be angry with me
now. Now will you?'

'AngrySusan!'

'Nono; I am sure you won't. I say you won'tmy petmy dearest!'
exclaims Susan; 'and here's the Captain too - your friend the Captain
you know - to say good-bye once more!'

'Hooroarmy Heart's Delight!' vociferates the Captainwith a
countenance of strong emotion. 'HooroarWal'r my lad. Hooroar!
Hooroar!'

What with the young husband at one windowand the young wife at
the other; the Captain hanging on at this doorand Susan Nipper
holding fast by that; the coach obliged to go on whether it will or
noand all the other carts and coaches turbulent because it
hesitates; there never was so much confusion on four wheels. But Susan
Nipper gallantly maintains her point. She keeps a smiling face upon
her mistresssmiling through her tearsuntil the last. Even when she
is left behindthe Captain continues to appear and disappear at the
doorcrying 'Hooroarmy lad! Hooroarmy Heart's Delight!' with his
shirt-collar in a violent state of agitationuntil it is hopeless to
attempt to keep up with the coach any longer. Finallywhen the coach
is goneSusan Nipperbeing rejoined by the Captainfalls into a
state of insensibilityand is taken into a baker's shop to recover.

Uncle Sol and Mr Toots wait patiently in the churchyardsitting on
the coping-stone of the railingsuntil Captain Cuttle and Susan come
backNeither being at all desirous to speakor to be spoken tothey
are excellent companyand quite satisfied. When they all arrive again
at the little Midshipmanand sit down to breakfastnobody can touch
a morsel. Captain Cuttle makes a feint of being voracious about toast
but gives it up as a swindle. Mr Toots saysafter breakfasthe will
come back in the evening; and goes wandering about the town all day
with a vague sensation upon him as if he hadn't been to bed for a
fortnight.


There is a strange charm in the houseand in the roomin which
they have been used to be togetherand out of which so much is gone.
It aggravatesand yet it soothesthe sorrow of the separation. Mr
Toots tells Susan Nipper when he comes at nightthat he hasn't been
so wretched all day longand yet he likes it. He confides in Susan
Nipperbeing alone with herand tells her what his feelings were
when she gave him that candid opinion as to the probability of Miss
Dombey's ever loving him. In the vein of confidence engendered by
these common recollectionsand their tearsMr Toots proposes that
they shall go out togetherand buy something for supper. Miss Nipper
assentingthey buy a good many little things; andwith the aid of
Mrs Richardsset the supper out quite showily before the Captain and
old Sol came home.

The Captain and old Sol have been on board the shipand have
established Di thereand have seen the chests put aboard. They have
much to tell about the popularity of Walterand the comforts he will
have about himand the quiet way in which it seems he has been
working early and lateto make his cabin what the Captain calls 'a
picter' to surprise his little wife. 'A admiral's cabinmind you'
says the Captain'ain't more trim.'

But one of the Captain's chief delights isthat he knows the big
watchand the sugar-tongsand tea-spoonsare on board: and again
and again he murmurs to himself'Ed'ard Cuttlemy ladyou never
shaped a better course in your life than when you made that there
little property over jintly. You see how the land boreEd'ard' says
the Captain'and it does you creditmy lad.'

The old Instrument-maker is more distraught and misty than he used
to beand takes the marriage and the parting very much to heart. But
he is greatly comforted by having his old allyNed Cuttleat his
side; and he sits down to supper with a grateful and contented face.

'My boy has been preserved and thrives' says old Sol Gills
rubbing his hands. 'What right have I to be otherwise than thankful
and happy!'

The Captainwho has not yet taken his seat at the tablebut who
has been fidgeting about for some timeand now stands hesitating in
his placelooks doubtfully at Mr Gillsand says:

'Sol! There's the last bottle of the old Madeira down below. Would
you wish to have it up to-nightmy boyand drink to Wal'r and his
wife?'

The Instrument-makerlooking wistfully at the Captainputs his
hand into the breast-pocket of his coffee-coloured coatbrings forth
his pocket-bookand takes a letter out.

'To Mr Dombey' says the old man. 'From Walter. To be sent in three
weeks' time. I'll read it.'

'"Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone with me upon a
distant voyage. To be devoted to her is to have no claim on her or
youbut God knows that I am.

'"Whyloving her beyond all earthly thingsI have yetwithout
remorseunited her to the uncertainties and dangers of my lifeI
will not say to you. You know whyand you are her father.

'"Do not reproach her. She has never reproached you.

'"I do not think or hope that you will ever forgive me. There is


nothing I expect less. But if an hour should come when it will comfort
you to believe that Florence has someone ever near herthe great
charge of whose life is to cancel her remembrance of past sorrowI
solemnly assure youyou mayin that hourrest in that belief."'

Solomon puts back the letter carefully in his pocket-bookand puts
back his pocket-book in his coat.

'We won't drink the last bottle of the old Madeira yetNed' says
the old man thoughtfully. 'Not yet.

'Not yet' assents the Captain. 'No. Not yet.'

Susan and Mr Toots are of the same opinion. After a silence they
all sit down to supperand drink to the young husband and wife in
something else; and the last bottle of the old Madeira still remains
among its dust and cobwebsundisturbed.

A few days have elapsedand a stately ship is out at sea
spreading its white wings to the favouring wind.

Upon the deckimage to the roughest man on board of something that
is gracefulbeautifuland harmless - something that it is good and
pleasant to have thereand that should make the voyage prosperous is
Florence. It is nightand she and Walter sit alonewatching the
solemn path of light upon the sea between them and the moon.

At length she cannot see it plainlyfor the tears that fill her
eyes; and then she lays her head down on his breastand puts her arms
around his necksaying'Oh Walterdearest loveI am so happy!'

Her husband holds her to his heartand they are very quietand
the stately ship goes on serenely.

'As I hear the sea' says Florence'and sit watching itit brings
so many days into my mind. It makes me think so much - '

'Of Paulmy love. I know it does.'

Of Paul and Walter. And the voices in the waves are always
whispering to Florencein their ceaseless murmuringof love - of
loveeternal and illimitablenot bounded by the confines of this
worldor by the end of timebut ranging stillbeyond the sea
beyond the skyto the invisible country far away!

CHAPTER 58.

After a Lapse

The sea had ebbed and flowedthrough a whole year. Through a whole
yearthe winds and clouds had come and gone; the ceaseless work of
Time had been performedin storm and sunshine. Through a whole year
the tides of human chance and change had set in their allotted
courses. Through a whole yearthe famous House of Dombey and Son had
fought a fight for lifeagainst cross accidentsdoubtful rumours
unsuccessful venturesunpropitious timesand most of allagainst
the infatuation of its headwho would not contract its enterprises by
a hair's breadthand would not listen to a word of warning that the
ship he strained so hard against the stormwas weakand could not
bear it. The year was outand the great House was down.


One summer afternoon; a yearwanting some odd daysafter the
marriage in the City church; there was a buzz and whisper upon 'Change
of a great failure. A certain cold proud manwell known therewas
not therenor was he represented there. Next day it was noised abroad
that Dombey and Son had stoppedand next night there was a List of
Bankrupts publishedheaded by that name.

The world was very busy nowin soothand had a deal to say. It
was an innocently credulous and a much ill-used world. It was a world
in which there was 'no other sort of bankruptcy whatever. There were
no conspicuous people in ittrading far and wide on rotten banks of
religionpatriotismvirtuehonour. There was no amount worth
mentioning of mere paper in circulationon which anybody lived pretty
handsomelypromising to pay great sums of goodness with no effects.
There were no shortcomings anywherein anything but money. The world
was very angry indeed; and the people especiallywhoin a worse
worldmight have been supposed to be apt traders themselves in shows
and pretenceswere observed to be mightily indignant.

Here was a new inducement to dissipationpresented to that sport
of circumstancesMr Perch the Messenger! It was apparently the fate
of Mr Perch to be always waking upand finding himself famous. He had
but yesterdayas one might saysubsided into private life from the
celebrity of the elopement and the events that followed it; and now he
was made a more important man than everby the bankruptcy. Gliding
from his bracket in the outer office where he now satwatching the
strange faces of accountants and otherswho quickly superseded nearly
all the old clerksMr Perch had but to show himself in the court
outsideorat farthestin the bar of the King's Armsto be asked a
multitude of questionsalmost certain to include that interesting
questionwhat would he take to drink? Then would Mr Perch descant
upon the hours of acute uneasiness he and Mrs Perch had suffered out
at Balls Pondwhen they first suspected 'things was going wrong.'
Then would Mr Perch relate to gaping listenersin a low voiceas if
the corpse of the deceased House were lying unburied in the next room
how Mrs Perch had first come to surmise that things was going wrong by
hearing him (Perch) moaning in his sleep'twelve and ninepence in the
poundtwelve and ninepence in the pound!' Which act of somnambulism
he supposed to have originated in the impression made upon him by the
change in Mr Dombey's face. Then would he inform them how he had once
said'Might I make so bold as askSirare you unhappy in your
mind?' and how Mr Dombey had replied'My faithful Perch - but noit
cannot be!' and with that had struck his hand upon his foreheadand
said'Leave mePerch!' Thenin shortwould Mr Percha victim to
his positiontell all manner of lies; affecting himself to tears by
those that were of a moving natureand really believing that the
inventions of yesterday hadon repetitiona sort of truth about them
to-day.

Mr Perch always closed these conferences by meekly remarkingThat
of coursewhatever his suspicions might have been (as if he had ever
had any!) it wasn't for him to betray his trustwas it? Which
sentiment (there never being any creditors present) was received as
doing great honour to his feelings. Thushe generally brought away a
soothed conscience and left an agreeable impression behind himwhen
he returned to his bracket: again to sit watching the strange faces of
the accountants and othersmaking so free with the great mysteries
the Books; or now and then to go on tiptoe into Mr Dombey's empty
roomand stir the fire; or to take an airing at the doorand have a
little more doleful chat with any straggler whom he knew; or to
propitiatewith various small attentionsthe head accountant: from
whom Mr Perch had expectations of a messengership in a Fire Office
when the affairs of the House should be wound up.


To Major Bagstockthe bankruptcy was quite a calamity. The Major
was not a sympathetic character - his attention being wholly
concentrated on J. B. - nor was he a man subject to lively emotions
except in the physical regards of gasping and choking. But he had so
paraded his friend Dombey at the club; had so flourished him at the
heads of the members in generaland so put them down by continual
assertion of his riches; that the clubbeing but humanwas delighted
to retort upon the Majorby asking himwith a show of great concern
whether this tremendous smash had been at all expectedand how his
friend Dombey bore it. To such questionsthe Majorwaxing very
purplewould reply that it was a bad worldSiraltogether; that
Joey knew a thing or twobut had been doneSirdone like an infant;
that if you had foretold thisSirto J. Bagstockwhen he went
abroad with Dombey and was chasing that vagabond up and down France

J. Bagstock would have pooh-pooh'd you - would have pooh- pooh'd you
Sirby the Lord! That Joe had been deceivedSirtaken in
hoodwinkedblindfoldedbut was broad awake again and staring;
insomuchSirthat if Joe's father were to rise up from the grave
to-morrowhe wouldn't trust the old blade with a penny piecebut
would tell him that his son Josh was too old a soldier to be done
againSir. That he was a suspiciouscrabbedcrankyused-upJ. B.
infidelSir; and that if it were consistent with the dignity of a
rough and tough old Majorof the old schoolwho had had the honour
of being personally known toand commended bytheir late Royal
Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and Yorkto retire to a tub and live in
itby Gad! Sirhe'd have a tub in Pall Mall to-morrowto show his
contempt for mankind!'
Of all thisand many variations of the same tunethe Major would
deliver himself with so many apoplectic symptomssuch rollings of his
headand such violent growls of ill usage and resentmentthat the
younger members of the club surmised he had invested money in his
friend Dombey's Houseand lost it; though the older soldiers and
deeper dogswho knew Joe betterwouldn't hear of such a thing. The
unfortunate Nativeexpressing no opinionsuffered dreadfully; not
merely in his moral feelingswhich were regularly fusilladed by the
Major every hour in the dayand riddled through and throughbut in
his sensitiveness to bodily knocks and bumpswhich was kept
continually on the stretch. For six entire weeks after the bankruptcy
this miserable foreigner lived in a rainy season of boot-jacks and
brushes.

Mrs Chick had three ideas upon the subject of the terrible reverse.
The first was that she could not understand it. The secondthat her
brother had not made an effort. The thirdthat if she had been
invited to dinner on the day of that first partyit never would have
happened; and that she had said soat the time.

Nobody's opinion stayed the misfortunelightened itor made it
heavier. It was understood that the affairs of the House were to be
wound up as they best could be; that Mr Dombey freely resigned
everything he hadand asked for no favour from anyone. That any
resumption of the business was out of the questionas he would listen
to no friendly negotiation having that compromise in view; that he had
relinquished every post of trust or distinction he had heldas a man
respected among merchants; that he was dyingaccording to some; that
he was going melancholy madaccording to others; that he was a broken
manaccording to all.

The clerks dispersed after holding a little dinner of condolence
among themselveswhich was enlivened by comic singingand went off
admirably. Some took places abroadand some engaged in other Houses
at home; some looked up relations in the countryfor whom they


suddenly remembered they had a particular affection; and some
advertised for employment in the newspapers. Mr Perch alone remained
of all the late establishmentsitting on his bracket looking at the
accountantsor starting off itto propitiate the head accountant
who was to get him into the Fire Office. The Counting House soon got
to be dirty and neglected. The principal slipper and dogs' collar
sellerat the corner of the courtwould have doubted the propriety
of throwing up his forefinger to the brim of his hatany moreif Mr
Dombey had appeared there now; and the ticket porterwith his hands
under his white apronmoralised good sound morality about ambition
which (he observed) was notin his opinionmade to rhyme to
perditionfor nothing.

Mr Morfinthe hazel-eyed bachelorwith the hair and whiskers
sprinkled with greywas perhaps the only person within the atmosphere
of the House - its headof courseexcepted - who was heartily and
deeply affected by the disaster that had befallen it. He had treated
Mr Dombey with due respect and deference through many yearsbut he
had never disguised his natural characteror meanly truckled to him
or pampered his master passion for the advancement of his own
purposes. He hadthereforeno self-disrespect to avenge; no
long-tightened springs to release with a quick recoil. He worked early
and late to unravel whatever was complicated or difficult in the
records of the transactions of the House; was always in attendance to
explain whatever required explanation; sat in his old room sometimes
very late at nightstudying points by his mastery of which he could
spare Mr Dombey the pain of being personally referred to; and then
would go home to Islingtonand calm his mind by producing the most
dismal and forlorn sounds out of his violoncello before going to bed.

He was solacing himself with this melodious grumbler one evening
andhaving been much dispirited by the proceedings of the daywas
scraping consolation out of its deepest noteswhen his landlady (who
was fortunately deafand had no other consciousness of these
performances than a sensation of something rumbling in her bones)
announced a lady.

'In mourning' she said.

The violoncello stopped immediately; and the performerlaying it
on the sofa with great tenderness and caremade a sign that the lady
was to come in. He followed directlyand met Harriet Carker on the
stair.

'Alone!' he said'and John here this morning! Is there anything
the mattermy dear? But no' he added'your face tells quite another
story.'

'I am afraid it is a selfish revelation that you see therethen'
she answered.

'It is a very pleasant one' said he; 'andif selfisha novelty
tooworth seeing in you. But I don't believe that.'

He had placed a chair for her by this timeand sat down opposite;
the violoncello lying snugly on the sofa between them.

'You will not be surprised at my coming aloneor at John's not
having told you I was coming' said Harriet; 'and you will believe
thatwhen I tell you why I have come. May I do so now?'

'You can do nothing better.'

'You were not busy?'


He pointed to the violoncello lying on the sofaand said 'I have
beenall day. Here's my witness. I have been confiding all my cares
to it. I wish I had none but my own to tell.'

'Is the House at an end?' said Harrietearnestly.

'Completely at an end.'

'Will it never be resumed?'

'Never.'

The bright expression of her face was not overshadowed as her lips
silently repeated the word. He seemed to observe this with some little
involuntary surprise: and said again:

'Never. You remember what I told you. It has beenall along
impossible to convince him; impossible to reason with him; sometimes
impossible even to approach him. The worst has happened; and the House
has fallennever to be built up any more.'

'And Mr Dombeyis he personally ruined?'

'Ruined.'

'Will he have no private fortune left? Nothing?'

A certain eagerness in her voiceand something that was almost
joyful in her lookseemed to surprise him more and more; to
disappoint him tooand jar discordantly against his own emotions. He
drummed with the fingers of one hand on the tablelooking wistfully
at herand shaking his headsaidafter a pause:

'The extent of Mr Dombey's resources is not accurately within my
knowledge; but though they are doubtless very largehis obligations
are enormous. He is a gentleman of high honour and integrity. Any man
in his position couldand many a man in his position wouldhave
saved himselfby making terms which would have very slightlyalmost
insensiblyincreased the losses of those who had had dealings with
himand left him a remnant to live upon. But he is resolved on
payment to the last farthing of his means. His own words arethat
they will clearor nearly clearthe Houseand that no one can lose
much. AhMiss Harrietit would do us no harm to remember oftener
than we dothat vices are sometimes only virtues carried to excess!
His pride shows well in this.'

She heard him with little or no change in her expressionand with
a divided attention that showed her to be busy with something in her
own mind. When he was silentshe asked him hurriedly:

'Have you seen him lately?'

'No one sees him. When this crisis of his affairs renders it
necessary for him to come out of his househe comes out for the
occasionand again goes homeand shuts himself upand will sea no
one. He has written me a letteracknowledging our past connexion in
higher terms than it deservedand parting from me. I am delicate of
obtruding myself upon him nownever having had much intercourse with
him in better times; but I have tried to do so. I have writtengone
thereentreated. Quite in vain.'

He watched heras in the hope that she would testify some greater
concern than she had yet shown; and spoke gravely and feelinglyas if


to impress her the more; but there was no change in her.

'WellwellMiss Harriet' he saidwith a disappointed air'this
is not to the purpose. You have not come here to hear this. Some other
and pleasanter theme is in your mind. Let it be in minetooand we
shall talk upon more equal terms. Come!'

'Noit is the same theme' returned Harrietwith frank and quick
surprise. 'Is it not likely that it should be? Is it not natural that
John and I should have been thinking and speaking very much of late of
these great changes? Mr Dombeywhom he served so many years - you
know upon what terms - reducedas you describe; and we quite rich!'

Goodtrue faceas that face of hers wasand pleasant as it had
been to himMr Morfinthe hazel-eyed bachelorsince the first time
he had ever looked upon itit pleased him less at that moment
lighted with a ray of exultationthan it had ever pleased him before.

'I need not remind you' said Harrietcasting down her eyes upon
her black dress'through what means our circumstances changed. You
have not forgotten that our brother Jamesupon that dreadful day
left no willno relations but ourselves.'

The face was pleasanter to him nowthough it was pale and
melancholythan it had been a moment since. He seemed to breathe more
cheerily.

'You know' she said'our historythe history of both my
brothersin connexion with the unfortunateunhappy gentlemanof
whom you have spoken so truly. You know how few our wants are - John's
and mine - and what little use we have for moneyafter the life we
have led together for so many years; and now that he is earning an
income that is ample for usthrough your kindness. You are not
unprepared to hear what favour I have come to ask of you?'

'I hardly know. I wasa minute ago. NowI thinkI am not.'

'Of my dead brother I say nothing. If the dead know what we do but
you understand me. Of my living brother I could say much; but what
need I say morethan that this act of dutyin which I have come to
ask your indispensable assistanceis his ownand that he cannot rest
until it is performed!'

She raised her eyes again; and the light of exultation in her face
began to appear beautifulin the observant eyes that watched her.

'Dear Sir' she went on to say'it must be done very quietly and
secretly. Your experience and knowledge will point out a way of doing
it. Mr Dombey mayperhapsbe led to believe that it is something
savedunexpectedlyfrom the wreck of his fortunes; or that it is a
voluntary tribute to his honourable and upright characterfrom some
of those with whom he has had great dealings; or that it is some old
lost debt repaid. There must be many ways of doing it. I know you will
choose the best. The favour I have come to ask isthat you will do it
for us in your own kindgenerousconsiderate manner. That you will
never speak of it to Johnwhose chief happiness in this act of
restitution is to do it secretlyunknownand unapproved of: that
only a very small part of the inheritance may be reserved to usuntil
Mr Dombey shall have possessed the interest of the rest for the
remainder of his life; that you will keep our secretfaithfully - but
that I am sure you will; and thatfrom this timeit may seldom be
whisperedeven between you and mebut may live in my thoughts only
as a new reason for thankfulness to Heavenand joy and pride in my
brother.'


Such a look of exultation there may be on Angels' faces when the
one repentant sinner enters Heavenamong ninety-nine just men. It was
not dimmed or tarnished by the joyful tears that filled her eyesbut
was the brighter for them.

'My dear Harriet' said Mr Morfinafter a silence'I was not
prepared for this. Do I understand you that you wish to make your own
part in the inheritance available for your good purposeas well as
John's?'

'Ohyes' she returned 'When we have shared everything together
for so long a timeand have had no carehopeor purpose apart
could I bear to be excluded from my share in this? May I not urge a
claim to be my brother's partner and companion to the last?'

'Heaven forbid that I should dispute it!' he replied.

'We may rely on your friendly help?' she said. 'I knew we might!'

'I should be a worse man than- than I hope I amor would
willingly believe myselfif I could not give you that assurance from
my heart and soul. You mayimplicitly. Upon my honourI will keep
your secret. And if it should be found that Mr Dombey is so reduced as
I fear he will beacting on a determination that there seem to be no
means of influencingI will assist you to accomplish the designon
which you and John are jointly resolved.'

She gave him her handand thanked him with a cordialhappy face.

'Harriet' he saiddetaining it in his. 'To speak to you of the
worth of any sacrifice that you can make now - above allof any
sacrifice of mere money - would be idle and presumptuous. To put
before you any appeal to reconsider your purpose or to set narrow
limits to itwould beI feelnot less so. I have no right to mar
the great end of a great historyby any obtrusion of my own weak
self. I have every right to bend my head before what you confide to
mesatisfied that it comes from a higher and better source of
inspiration than my poor worldly knowledge. I will say only this: I am
your faithful steward; and I would rather be soand your chosen
friendthan I would be anybody in the worldexcept yourself.'

She thanked him againcordiallyand wished him good-night. 'Are
you going home?' he said. 'Let me go with you.'

'Not to-night. I am not going home now; I have a visit to make
alone. Will you come to-morrow?'

'Wellwell' said he'I'll come to-morrow. In the meantimeI'll
think of thisand how we can best proceed. And perhaps I'll think of
itdear Harrietand - and - think of me a little in connexion with
it.'

He handed her down to a coach she had in waiting at the door; and
if his landlady had not been deafshe would have heard him muttering
as he went back upstairswhen the coach had driven offthat we were
creatures of habitand it was a sorrowful habit to be an old
bachelor.

The violoncello lying on the sofa between the two chairshe took
it upwithout putting away the vacant chairand sat droning on it
and slowly shaking his head at the vacant chairfor a longlong
time. The expression he communicated to the instrument at first
though monstrously pathetic and blandwas nothing to the expression


he communicated to his own faceand bestowed upon the empty chair:
which was so sincerethat he was obliged to have recourse to Captain
Cuttle's remedy more than onceand to rub his face with his sleeve.
By degreeshoweverthe violoncelloin unison with his own frame of
mindglided melodiously into the Harmonious Blacksmithwhich he
played over and over againuntil his ruddy and serene face gleamed
like true metal on the anvil of a veritable blacksmith. In finethe
violoncello and the empty chair were the companions of his
bachelorhood until nearly midnight; and when he took his supperthe
violoncello set up on end in the sofa cornerbig with the latent
harmony of a whole foundry full of harmonious blacksmithsseemed to
ogle the empty chair out of its crooked eyeswith unutterable
intelligence.

When Harriet left the housethe driver of her hired coachtaking
a course that was evidently no new one to himwent in and out by
bye-waysthrough that part of the suburbsuntil he arrived at some
open groundwhere there were a few quiet little old houses standing
among gardens. At the garden-gate of one of these he stoppedand
Harriet alighted.

Her gentle ringing at the bell was responded to by a
dolorous-looking womanof light complexionwith raised eyebrowsand
head drooping on one sidewho curtseyed at sight of herand
conducted her across the garden to the house.

'How is your patientnurseto-night?' said Harriet.

'In a poor wayMissI am afraid. Oh how she do remind me
sometimesof my Uncle's Betsey Jane!' returned the woman of the light
complexionin a sort of doleful rapture.

'In what respect?' asked Harriet.

'Missin all respects' replied the other'except that she's
grown upand Betsey Janewhen at death's doorwas but a child.'

'But you have told me she recovered' observed Harriet mildly; 'so
there is the more reason for hopeMrs Wickam.'

'AhMisshope is an excellent thing for such as has the spirits
to bear it!' said Mrs Wickamshaking her head. 'My own spirits is not
equal to itbut I don't owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so
blest!'

'You should try to be more cheerful' remarked Harriet.

'Thank youMissI'm sure' said Mrs Wickam grimly. 'If I was so
inclinedthe loneliness of this situation - you'll excuse my speaking
so free - would put it out of my powerin four and twenty hours; but
I ain't at all. I'd rather not. The little spirits that I ever hadI
was bereaved of at Brighton some few years agoand I think I feel
myself the better for it.'

In truththis was the very Mrs Wickam who had superseded Mrs
Richards as the nurse of little Pauland who considered herself to
have gained the loss in questionunder the roof of the amiable
Pipchin. The excellent and thoughtful old systemhallowed by long
prescriptionwhich has usually picked out from the rest of mankind
the most dreary and uncomfortable people that could possibly be laid
hold ofto act as instructors of youthfinger-posts to the virtues
matronsmonitorsattendants on sick bedsand the likehad
established Mrs Wickam in very good business as a nurseand had led
to her serious qualities being particularly commended by an admiring


and numerous connexion.

Mrs Wickamwith her eyebrows elevatedand her head on one side
lighted the way upstairs to a cleanneat chamberopening on another
chamber dimly lightedwhere there was a bed. In the first rooman
old woman sat mechanically staring out at the open windowon the
darkness. In the secondstretched upon the bedlay the shadow of a
figure that had spurned the wind and rainone wintry night; hardly to
be recognised nowbut by the long black hair that showed so very
black against the colourless faceand all the white things about it.

Ohthe strong eyesand the weak frame! The eyes that turned so
eagerly and brightly to the door when Harriet came in; the feeble head
that could not raise itselfand moved so slowly round upon its
pillow!

'Alice!' said the visitor's mild voice'am I late to-night?'

'You always seem latebut are always early.'

Harriet had sat down by the bedside nowand put her hand upon the
thin hand lying there.

'You are better?'

Mrs Wickamstanding at the foot of the bedlike a disconsolate
spectremost decidedly and forcibly shook her head to negative this
position.

'It matters very little!' said Alicewith a faint smile. 'Better
or worse to-dayis but a day's difference - perhaps not so much.'

Mrs Wickamas a serious characterexpressed her approval with a
groan; and having made some cold dabs at the bottom of the bedclothes
as feeling for the patient's feet and expecting to find them stony;
went clinking among the medicine bottles on the tableas who should
say'while we are herelet us repeat the mixture as before.'

'No' said Alicewhispering to her visitor'evil coursesand
remorsetravelwantand weatherstorm withinand storm without
have worn my life away. It will not last much longer.

She drew the hand up as she spokeand laid her face against it.

'I lie heresometimesthinking I should like to live until I had
had a little time to show you how grateful I could be! It is a
weaknessand soon passes. Better for you as it is. Better for me!'

How different her hold upon the handfrom what it had been when
she took it by the fireside on the bleak winter evening! Scornrage
defiancerecklessnesslook here! This is the end.

Mrs Wickam having clinked sufficiently among the bottlesnow
produced the mixture. Mrs Wickam looked hard at her patient in the act
of drinkingscrewed her mouth up tighther eyebrows alsoand shook
her headexpressing that tortures shouldn't make her say it was a
hopeless case. Mrs Wickam then sprinkled a little cooling-stuff about
the roomwith the air of a female grave-diggerwho was strewing
ashes on ashesdust on dust - for she was a serious character - and
withdrew to partake of certain funeral baked meats downstairs.

'How long is it' asked Alice'since I went to you and told you
what I had doneand when you were advised it was too late for anyone
to follow?'


'It is a year and more' said Harriet.

'A year and more' said Alicethoughtfully intent upon her face.
'Months upon months since you brought me here!'

Harriet answered 'Yes.'

'Brought me hereby force of gentleness and kindness. Me!' said
Aliceshrinking with her face behind her hand'and made me human by
woman's looks and wordsand angel's deeds!'

Harriet bending over hercomposed and soothed her. By and bye
Alice lying as beforewith the hand against her faceasked to have
her mother called.

Harriet called to her more than oncebut the old woman was so
absorbed looking out at the open window on the darknessthat she did
not hear. It was not until Harriet went to her and touched herthat
she rose upand came.

'Mother' said Alicetaking the hand againand fixing her
lustrous eyes lovingly upon her visitorwhile she merely addressed a
motion of her finger to the old woman'tell her what you know.'

'To-nightmy deary?'

'Aymother' answered Alicefaintly and solemnly'to-night!'

The old womanwhose wits appeared disorderly by alarmremorseor
griefcame creeping along the side of the bedopposite to that on
which Harriet sat; and kneeling downso as to bring her withered face
upon a level with the coverletand stretching out her handso as to
touch her daughter's armbegan:

'My handsome gal - '

Heavenwhat a cry was thatwith which she stopped theregazing
at the poor form lying on the bed!

'Changedlong agomother! Witheredlong ago' said Alice
without looking at her. 'Don't grieve for that now.

'My daughter' faltered the old woman'my gal who'll soon get
betterand shame 'em all with her good looks.'

Alice smiled mournfully at Harrietand fondled her hand a little
closerbut said nothing.

'Who'll soon get betterI say' repeated the old womanmenacing
the vacant air with her shrivelled fist'and who'll shame 'em all
with her good looks - she will. I say she will! she shall!' - as if
she were in passionate contention with some unseen opponent at the
bedsidewho contradicted her - 'my daughter has been turned away
fromand cast outbut she could boast relationship to proud folks
tooif she chose. Ah! To proud folks! There's relationship without
your clergy and your wedding rings - they may make itbut they can't
break it - and my daughter's well related. Show me Mrs Dombeyand
I'll show you my Alice's first cousin.'

Harriet glanced from the old woman to the lustrous eyes intent upon
her faceand derived corroboration from them.

'What!' cried the old womanher nodding head bridling with a


ghastly vanity. 'Though I am old and ugly now- much older by life
and habit than years though- I was once as young as any. Ah! as
pretty tooas many! I was a fresh country wench in my timedarling'
stretching out her arm to Harrietacross the bed'and looked it
too. Down in my countryMrs Dombey's father and his brother were the
gayest gentlemen and the best-liked that came a visiting from London they
have long been deadthough! LordLordthis long while! The
brotherwho was my Ally's fatherlongest of the two.'

She raised her head a littleand peered at her daughter's face; as
if from the remembrance of her own youthshe had flown to the
remembrance of her child's. Thensuddenlyshe laid her face down on
the bedand shut her head up in her hands and arms.

'They were as like' said the old womanwithout looking upas you
could see two brothersso near an age - there wasn't much more than a
year between themas I recollect - and if you could have seen my gal
as I have seen her onceside by side with the other's daughteryou'd
have seenfor all the difference of dress and lifethat they were
like each other. Oh! is the likeness goneand is it my gal - only my
gal - that's to change so!'

'We shall all changemotherin our turn' said Alice.

'Turn!' cried the old woman'but why not hers as soon as my gal's!
The mother must have changed - she looked as old as meand full as
wrinkled through her paint - but she was handsome. What have I done
Iwhat have I done worse than herthat only my gal is to lie there
fading!' With another of those wild criesshe went running out into
the room from which she had come; but immediatelyin her uncertain
moodreturnedand creeping up to Harrietsaid:

'That's what Alice bade me tell youdeary. That's all. I found it
out when I began to ask who she wasand all about heraway in
Warwickshire thereone summer-time. Such relations was no good to me
then. They wouldn't have owned meand had nothing to give me. I
should have asked 'emmaybefor a little moneyafterwardsif it
hadn't been for my Alice; she'd a'most have killed meif I hadI
think She was as proud as t'other in her way' said the old woman
touching the face of her daughter fearfullyand withdrawing her hand
'for all she's so quiet now; but she'll shame 'em with her good looks
yet. Haha! She'll shame 'emwill my handsome daughter!'

Her laughas she retreatedwas worse than her cry; worse than the
burst of imbecile lamentation in which it ended; worse than the doting
air with which she sat down in her old seatand stared out at the
darkness.

The eyes of Alice had all this time been fixed on Harrietwhose
hand she had never released. She said now:

'I have feltlying herethat I should like you to know this. It
might explainI have thoughtsomething that used to help to harden
me. I had heard so muchin my wrongdoingof my neglected dutythat
I took up with the belief that duty had not been done to meand that
as the seed was sownthe harvest grew. I somehow made it out that
when ladies had bad homes and mothersthey went wrong in their way
too; but that their way was not so foul a one as mineand they had
need to bless God for it.' That is all past. It is like a dreamnow
which I cannot quite remember or understand. It has been more and more
like a dreamevery daysince you began to sit hereand to read to
me. I only tell it youas I can recollect it. Will you read to me a
little more?'


Harriet was withdrawing her hand to open the bookwhen Alice
detained it for a moment.

'You will not forget my mother? I forgive herif I have any cause.
I know that she forgives meand is sorry in her heart. You will not
forget her?'

'NeverAlice!'

'A moment yet. Lay your head sodearthat as you read I may see
the words in your kind face.'

Harriet complied and read - read the eternal book for all the
wearyand the heavy-laden; for all the wretchedfallenand
neglected of this earth - read the blessed historyin which the blind
lame palsied beggarthe criminalthe woman stained with shamethe
shunned of all our dainty clayhas each a portionthat no human
prideindifferenceor sophistrythrough all the ages that this
world shall lastcan take awayor by the thousandth atom of a grain
reduce - read the ministry of Him whothrough the round of human
lifeand all its hopes and griefsfrom birth to deathfrom infancy
to agehad sweet compassion forand interest inits every scene and
stageits every suffering and sorrow.

'I shall come' said Harrietwhen she shut the book'very early
in the morning.'

The lustrous eyesyet fixed upon her faceclosed for a moment
then opened; and Alice kissed and blest her.

The same eyes followed her to the door; and in their lightand on
the tranquil facethere was a smile when it was closed.

They never turned away. She laid her hand upon her breast
murmuring the sacred name that had been read to her; and life passed
from her facelike light removed.

Nothing lay thereany longerbut the ruin of the mortal house on
which the rain had beatenand the black hair that had fluttered in
the wintry wind.

CHAPTER 59.

Retribution

Changes have come again upon the great house in the long dull
streetonce the scene of Florence's childhood and loneliness. It is a
great house stillproof against wind and weatherwithout breaches in
the roofor shattered windowsor dilapidated walls; but it is a ruin
none the lessand the rats fly from it.

Mr Towlinson and company areat firstincredulous in respect of
the shapeless rumours that they hear. Cook says our people's credit
ain't so easy shook as that comes tothank God; and Mr Towlinson
expects to hear it reported nextthat the Bank of England's a-going
to breakor the jewels in the Tower to be sold up. Butnext come the
Gazetteand Mr Perch; and Mr Perch brings Mrs Perch to talk it over
in the kitchenand to spend a pleasant evening.

As soon as there is no doubt about itMr Towlinson's main anxiety
is that the failure should be a good round one - not less than a
hundred thousand pound. Mr Perch don't think himself that a hundred


thousand pound will nearly cover it. The womenled by Mrs Perch and
Cookoften repeat 'a hun-dred thou-sand pound!' with awful
satisfaction - as if handling the words were like handling the money;
and the housemaidwho has her eye on Mr Towlinsonwishes she had
only a hundredth part of the sum to bestow on the man of her choice.
Mr Towlinsonstill mindful of his old wrongopines that a foreigner
would hardly know what to do with so much moneyunless he spent it on
his whiskers; which bitter sarcasm causes the housemaid to withdraw in
tears.

But not to remain long absent; for Cookwho has the reputation of
being extremely good-heartedsayswhatever they dolet 'em stand by
one another nowTowlinsonfor there's no telling how soon they may
be divided. They have been in that house (says Cook) through a
funerala weddingand a running-away; and let it not be said that
they couldn't agree among themselves at such a time as the present.
Mrs Perch is immensely affected by this moving addressand openly
remarks that Cook is an angel. Mr Towlinson replies to Cookfar be it
from him to stand in the way of that good feeling which he could wish
to see; and adjourning in quest of the housemaidand presently
returning with that young lady on his arminforms the kitchen that
foreigners is only his funand that him and Anne have now resolved to
take one another for better for worseand to settle in Oxford Market
in the general greengrocery and herb and leech linewhere your kind
favours is particular requested. This announcement is received with
acclamation; and Mrs Perchprojecting her soul into futuritysays
'girls' in Cook's earin a solemn whisper.

Misfortune in the family without feastingin these lower regions
couldn't be. Therefore Cook tosses up a hot dish or two for supper
and Mr Towlinson compounds a lobster salad to be devoted to the same
hospitable purpose. Even Mrs Pipchinagitated by the occasionrings
her belland sends down word that she requests to have that little
bit of sweetbread that was leftwarmed up for her supperand sent to
her on a tray with about a quarter of a tumbler-full of mulled sherry;
for she feels poorly.

There is a little talk about Mr Dombeybut very little. It is
chiefly speculation as to how long he has known that this was going to
happen. Cook says shrewdly'Oh a long timebless you! Take your oath
of that.' And reference being made to Mr Perchhe confirms her view
of the case. Somebody wonders what he'll doand whether he'll go out
in any situation. Mr Towlinson thinks notand hints at a refuge in
one of them genteel almshouses of the better kind. 'Ahwhere he'll
have his little gardenyou know' says Cook plaintively'and bring
up sweet peas in the spring.' 'Exactly so' says Mr Towlinson'and be
one of the Brethren of something or another.' 'We are all brethren'
says Mrs Perchin a pause of her drink. 'Except the sisters' says Mr
Perch. 'How are the mighty fallen!' remarks Cook. 'Pride shall have a
falland it always was and will be so!' observes the housemaid.

It is wonderful how good they feelin making these reflections;
and what a Christian unanimity they are sensible ofin bearing the
common shock with resignation. There is only one interruption to this
excellent state of mindwhich is occasioned by a young kitchen-maid
of inferior rank - in black stockings - whohaving sat with her mouth
open for a long timeunexpectedly discharges from it words to this
effect'Suppose the wages shouldn't be paid!' The company sit for a
moment speechless; but Cook recovering firstturns upon the young
womanand requests to know how she dares insult the familywhose
bread she eatsby such a dishonest suppositionand whether she
thinks that anybodywith a scrap of honour leftcould deprive poor
servants of their pittance? 'Because if that is your religious
feelingsMary Daws' says Cook warmly'I don't know where you mean


to go to.

Mr Towlinson don't know either; nor anybody; and the young
kitchen-maidappearing not to know exactlyherselfand scouted by
the general voiceis covered with confusionas with a garment.

After a few daysstrange people begin to call at the houseand to
make appointments with one another in the dining-roomas if they
lived there. Especiallythere is a gentlemanof a Mosaic Arabian
cast of countenancewith a very massive watch-guardwho whistles in
the drawing-roomandwhile he is waiting for the other gentleman
who always has pen and ink in his pocketasks Mr Towlinson (by the
easy name of 'Old Cock') if he happens to know what the figure of
them crimson and gold hangings might have beenwhen new bought. The
callers and appointments in the dining-room become more numerous every
dayand every gentleman seems to have pen and ink in his pocketand
to have some occasion to use it. At last it is said that there is
going to be a Sale; and then more people arrivewith pen and ink in
their pocketscommanding a detachment of men with carpet capswho
immediately begin to pull up the carpetsand knock the furniture
aboutand to print off thousands of impressions of their shoes upon
the hall and staircase.

The council downstairs are in full conclave all this timeand
having nothing to doperform perfect feats of eating. At lengththey
are one day summoned in a body to Mrs Pipchin's roomand thus
addressed by the fair Peruvian:

'Your master's in difficulties' says Mrs Pipchintartly. 'You
know thatI suppose?'

Mr Towlinsonas spokesmanadmits a general knowledge of the fact.

'And you're all on the look-out for yourselvesI warrant yousays
Mrs Pipchinshaking her head at them.

A shrill voice from the rear exclaims'No more than yourself!'

'That's your opinionMrs Impudenceis it?' says the ireful
Pipchinlooking with a fiery eye over the intermediate heads.

'YesMrs Pipchinit is' replies Cookadvancing. 'And what then
pray?'

'Whythen you may go as soon as you like' says Mrs Pipchin. 'The
sooner the better; and I hope I shall never see your face again.'

With this the doughty Pipchin produces a canvas bag; and tells her
wages out to that dayand a month beyond it; and clutches the money
tightuntil a receipt for the same is duly signedto the last
upstroke; when she grudgingly lets it go. This form of proceeding Mrs
Pipchin repeats with every member of the householduntil all are
paid.

'Now those that choosecan go about their business' says Mrs
Pipchin'and those that choose can stay here on board wages for a
week or soand make themselves useful. Except' says the inflammable
Pipchin'that slut of a cookwho'll go immediately.'

'That' says Cook'she certainly will! I wish you good dayMrs
Pipchinand sincerely wish I could compliment you on the sweetness of
your appearance!'

'Get along with you' says Mrs Pipchinstamping her foot.


Cook sails off with an air of beneficent dignityhighly
exasperating to Mrs Pipchinand is shortly joined below stairs by the
rest of the confederation.

Mr Towlinson then says thatin the first placehe would beg to
propose a little snack of something to eat; and over that snack would
desire to offer a suggestion which he thinks will meet the position in
which they find themselves. The refreshment being producedand very
heartily partaken ofMr Towlinson's suggestion isin effectthat
Cook is goingand that if we are not true to ourselvesnobody will
be true to us. That they have lived in that house a long timeand
exerted themselves very much to be sociable together. (At thisCook
sayswith emotion'Hearhear!' and Mrs Perchwho is there again
and full to the throatsheds tears.) And that he thinksat the
present timethe feeling ought to be 'Go onego all!' The housemaid
is much affected by this generous sentimentand warmly seconds it.
Cook says she feels it's rightand only hopes it's not done as a
compliment to herbut from a sense of duty. Mr Towlinson replies
from a sense of duty; and that now he is driven to express his
opinionshe will openly saythat he does not think it
over-respectable to remain in a house where Sales and such-like are
carrying forwards. The housemaid is sure of it; and relatesin
confirmationthat a strange manin a carpet capofferedthis very
morningto kiss her on the stairs. HereuponMr Towlinson is starting
from his chairto seek and 'smash' the offender; when he is laid hold
on by the ladieswho beseech him to calm himselfand to reflect that
it is easier and wiser to leave the scene of such indecencies at once.
Mrs Perchpresenting the case in a new lighteven shows that
delicacy towards Mr Dombeyshut up in his own roomsimperatively
demands precipitate retreat. 'For what' says the good woman'must
his feelings beif he was to come upon any of the poor servants that
he once deceived into thinking him immensely rich!' Cook is so struck
by this moral considerationthat Mrs Perch improves it with several
pious axiomsoriginal and selected. It becomes a clear case that they
must all go. Boxes are packedcabs fetchedand at dusk that evening
there is not one member of the party left.

The house standslarge and weather-proofin the long dull street;
but it is a ruinand the rats fly from it.

The men in the carpet caps go on tumbling the furniture about; and
the gentlemen with the pens and ink make out inventories of itand
sit upon pieces of furniture never made to be sat uponand eat bread
and cheese from the public-house on other pieces of furniture never
made to be eaten onand seem to have a delight in appropriating
precious articles to strange uses. Chaotic combinations of furniture
also take place. Mattresses and bedding appear in the dining-room; the
glass and china get into the conservatory; the great dinner service is
set out in heaps on the long divan in the large drawing-room; and the
stair-wiresmade into fascesdecorate the marble chimneypieces.
Finallya rugwith a printed bill upon itis hung out from the
balcony; and a similar appendage graces either side of the hall door.

Thenall day longthere is a retinue of mouldy gigs and
chaise-carts in the street; and herds of shabby vampiresJew and
Christianover-run the housesounding the plate-glass minors with
their knucklesstriking discordant octaves on the Grand Piano
drawing wet forefingers over the picturesbreathing on the blades of
the best dinner-knivespunching the squabs of chairs and sofas with
their dirty fiststouzling the feather bedsopening and shutting all
the drawersbalancing the silver spoons and forkslooking into the
very threads of the drapery and linenand disparaging everything.
There is not a secret place in the whole house. Fluffy and snuffy


strangers stare into the kitchen-range as curiously as into the attic
clothes-press. Stout men with napless hats onlook out of the bedroom
windowsand cut jokes with friends in the street. Quietcalculating
spirits withdraw into the dressing-rooms with cataloguesand make
marginal notes thereonwith stumps of pencils. Two brokers invade the
very fire-escapeand take a panoramic survey of the neighbourhood
from the top of the house. The swarm and buzzand going up and down
endure for days. The Capital Modern Household Furniture&c.is on
view.

Then there is a palisade of tables made in the best drawing-room;
and on the capitalfrench-polishedextendingtelescopic range of
Spanish mahogany dining-tables with turned legsthe pulpit of the
Auctioneer is erected; and the herds of shabby vampiresJew and
Christianthe strangers fluffy and snuffyand the stout men with the
napless hatscongregate about it and sit upon everything within
reachmantel-pieces includedand begin to bid. Hothummingand
dusty are the rooms all day; and - high above the heathumand dust

-the head and shouldersvoice and hammerof the Auctioneerare
ever at work. The men in the carpet caps get flustered and vicious
with tumbling the Lots aboutand still the Lots are goinggoing
gone; still coming on. Sometimes there is joking and a general roar.
This lasts all day and three days following. The Capital Modern
Household Furniture&c.is on sale.
Then the mouldy gigs and chaise-carts reappear; and with them come
spring-vans and waggonsand an army of porters with knots. All day
longthe men with carpet caps are screwing at screw-drivers and
bed-winchesor staggering by the dozen together on the staircase
under heavy burdensor upheaving perfect rocks of Spanish mahogany
best rose-woodor plate-glassinto the gigs and chaise-cartsvans
and waggons. All sorts of vehicles of burden are in attendancefrom a
tilted waggon to a wheelbarrow. Poor Paul's little bedstead is carried
off in a donkey-tandem. For nearly a whole weekthe Capital Modern
Household Furniture& c.is in course of removal.

At last it is all gone. Nothing is left about the house but
scattered leaves of catalogueslittered scraps of straw and hayand
a battery of pewter pots behind the hall-door. The men with the
carpet-caps gather up their screw-drivers and bed-winches into bags
shoulder themand walk off. One of the pen-and-ink gentlemen goes
over the house as a last attention; sticking up bills in the windows
respecting the lease of this desirable family mansionand shutting
the shutters. At length he follows the men with the carpet caps. None
of the invaders remain. The house is a ruinand the rats fly from it.

Mrs Pipchin's apartmentstogether with those locked rooms on the
ground-floor where the window-blinds are drawn down closehave been
spared the general devastation. Mrs Pipchin has remained austere and
stony during the proceedingsin her own room; or has occasionally
looked in at the sale to see what the goods are fetchingand to bid
for one particular easy chair. Mrs Pipchin has been the highest bidder
for the easy chairand sits upon her property when Mrs Chick comes to
see her.

'How is my brotherMrs Pipchin?' says Mrs Chick.

'I don't know any more than the deuce' says Mrs Pipchin. 'He never
does me the honour to speak to me. He has his meat and drink put in
the next room to his own; and what he takeshe comes out and takes
when there's nobody there. It's no use asking me. I know no more about
him than the man in the south who burnt his mouth by eating cold plum
porridge."


This the acrimonious Pipchin says with a flounce.

'But good gracious me!' cries Mrs Chick blandly. 'How long is this
to last! If my brother will not make an effortMrs Pipchinwhat is
to become of him? I am sure I should have thought he had seen enough
of the consequences of not making an effortby this timeto be
warned against that fatal error.'

'Hoity toity!' says Mrs Pipchinrubbing her nose. 'There's a great
fussI thinkabout it. It ain't so wonderful a case. People have had
misfortunes before nowand been obliged to part with their furniture.
I'm sure I have!'

'My brother' pursues Mrs Chick profoundly'is so peculiar - so
strange a man. He is the most peculiar man I ever saw. Would anyone
believe that when he received news of the marriage and emigration of
that unnatural child - it's a comfort to menowto remember that I
always said there was something extraordinary about that child: but
nobody minds me - would anybody believeI saythat he should then
turn round upon me and say he had supposedfrom my mannerthat she
had come to my house? Whymy gracious! And would anybody believe that
when I merely say to himPaul, I may be very foolish, and I have no
doubt I am, but I cannot understand how your affairs can have got into
this state,he should actually fly at meand request that I will
come to see him no more until he asks me! Whymy goodness!'

'Ah'!' says Mrs Pipchin. 'It's a pity he hadn't a little more to do
with mines. They'd have tried his temper for him.'

'And what' resumes Mrs Chickquite regardless of Mrs Pipchin's
observations'is it to end in? That's what I want to know. What does
my brother mean to do? He must do something. It's of no use remaining
shut up in his own rooms. Business won't come to him. No. He must go
to it. Then why don't he go? He knows where to goI supposehaving
been a man of business all his life. Very good. Then why not go
there?'

Mrs Chickafter forging this powerful chain of reasoningremains
silent for a minute to admire it.

'Besides' says the discreet ladywith an argumentative air'who
ever heard of such obstinacy as his staying shut up here through all
these dreadful disagreeables? It's not as if there was no place for
him to go to. Of course he could have come to our house. He knows he
is at home thereI suppose? Mr Chick has perfectly bored about it
and I said with my own lipsWhy surely, Paul, you don't imagine that
because your affairs have got into this state, you are the less at
home to such near relatives as ourselves? You don't imagine that we
are like the rest of the world?But no; here he stays all through
and here he is. Whygood gracious mesuppose the house was to be
let! What would he do then? He couldn't remain here then. If he
attempted to do sothere would be an ejectmentan action for Doe
and all sorts of things; and then he must go. Then why not go at first
instead of at last? And that brings me back to what I said just now
and I naturally ask what is to be the end of it?'

'I know what's to be the end of itas far as I am concerned'
replies Mrs Pipchin'and that's enough for me. I'm going to take
myself off in a jiffy.'

'In a whichMrs Pipchin' says Mrs Chick.

'In a jiffy' retorts Mrs Pipchin sharply.


'Ahwell! really I can't blame youMrs Pipchin' says Mrs Chick
with frankness.

'It would be pretty much the same to meif you could' replies the
sardonic Pipchin. 'At any rate I'm going. I can't stop here. I should
be dead in a week. I had to cook my own pork chop yesterdayand I'm
not used to it. My constitution will be giving way next. BesidesI
had a very fair connexion at Brighton when I came here - little
Pankey's folks alone were worth a good eighty pounds a-year to me and
I can't afford to throw it away. I've written to my nieceand she
expects me by this time.'

'Have you spoken to my brother?' inquires Mrs Chick

'Ohyesit's very easy to say speak to him' retorts Mrs Pipchin.
'How is it done? I called out to him yesterdaythat I was no use
hereand that he had better let me send for Mrs Richards. He grunted
something or other that meant yesand I sent. Grunt indeed! If he had
been Mr Pipchinhe'd have had some reason to grunt. Yah! I've no
patience with it!'

Here this exemplary femalewho has pumped up so much fortitude and
virtue from the depths of the Peruvian minesrises from her cushioned
property to see Mrs Chick to the door. Mrs Chickdeploring to the
last the peculiar character of her brothernoiselessly retiresmuch
occupied with her own sagacity and clearness of head.

In the dusk of the evening Mr Toodlebeing off dutyarrives with
Polly and a boxand leaves themwith a sounding kissin the hall of
the empty housethe retired character of which affects Mr Toodle's
spirits strongly.

'I tell you whatPollyme dear' says Mr Toodle'being now an
ingine-driverand well to do in the worldI shouldn't allow of your
coming hereto be made dull-likeif it warn't for favours past. But
favours pastPollyis never to be forgot. To them which is in
adversitybesidesyour face is a cord'l. So let's have another kiss
on itmy dear. You wish no better than to do a right actI know; and
my views isthat it's right and dutiful to do this. Good-night
Polly!'

Mrs Pipchin by this time looms dark in her black bombazeen skirts
black bonnetand shawl; and has her personal property packed up; and
has her chair (late a favourite chair of Mr Dombey's and the dead
bargain of the sale) ready near the street door; and is only waiting
for a fly-vangoing to-night to Brighton on private servicewhich is
to call for herby private contractand convey her home.

Presently it comes. Mrs Pipchin's wardrobe being handed in and
stowed awayMrs Pipchin's chair is next handed inand placed in a
convenient corner among certain trusses of hay; it being the intention
of the amiable woman to occupy the chair during her journey. Mrs
Pipchin herself is next handed inand grimly takes her seat. There is
a snaky gleam in her hard grey eyeas of anticipated rounds of
buttered toastrelays of hot chopsworryings and quellings of young
childrensharp snappings at poor Berryand all the other delights of
her Ogress's castle. Mrs Pipchin almost laughs as the fly-van drives
offand she composes her black bombazeen skirtsand settles herself
among the cushions of her easy chair.

The house is such a ruin that the rats have fledand there is not
one left.

But Pollythough alone in the deserted mansion - for there is no


companionship in the shut-up rooms in which its late master hides his
head - is not alone long. It is night; and she is sitting at work in
the housekeeper's roomtrying to forget what a lonely house it is
and what a history belongs to it; when there is a knock at the hall
dooras loud sounding as any knock can bestriking into such an
empty place. Opening itshe returns across the echoing hall
accompanied by a female figure in a close black bonnet. It is Miss
Toxand Miss Tox's eyes are red.

'OhPolly' says Miss Tox'when I looked in to have a little
lesson with the children just nowI got the message that you left for
me; and as soon as I could recover my spirits at allI came on after
you. Is there no one here but you?'

'Ah! not a soul' says Polly.

'Have you seen him?' whispers Miss Tox.

'Bless you' returns Polly'no; he has not been seen this many a
day. They tell me he never leaves his room.'

'Is he said to be ill?' inquires Miss Tox.

'NoMa'amnot that I know of' returns Polly'except in his
mind. He must be very bad therepoor gentleman!'

Miss Tox's sympathy is such that she can scarcely speak. She is no
chickenbut she has not grown tough with age and celibacy. Her heart
is very tenderher compassion very genuineher homage very real.
Beneath the locket with the fishy eye in itMiss Tox bears better
qualities than many a less whimsical outside; such qualities as will
outliveby many courses of the sunthe best outsides and brightest
husks that fall in the harvest of the great reaper.

It is long before Miss Tox goes awayand before Pollywith a
candle flaring on the blank stairslooks after herfor companydown
the streetand feels unwilling to go back into the dreary houseand
jar its emptiness with the heavy fastenings of the doorand glide
away to bed. But all this Polly does; and in the morning sets in one
of those darkened rooms such matters as she has been advised to
prepareand then retires and enters them no more until next morning
at the same hour. There are bells therebut they never ring; and
though she can sometimes hear a footfall going to and froit never
comes out.

Miss Tox returns early in the day. It then begins to be Miss Tox's
occupation to prepare little dainties - or what are such to her - to
be carried into these rooms next morning. She derives so much
satisfaction from the pursuitthat she enters on it regularly from
that time; and brings daily in her little basketvarious choice
condiments selected from the scanty stores of the deceased owner of
the powdered head and pigtail. She likewise bringsin sheets of
curl-papermorsels of cold meatstongues of sheephalves of fowls
for her own dinner; and sharing these collations with Pollypasses
the greater part of her time in the ruined house that the rats have
fled from: hidingin a fright at every soundstealing in and out
like a criminal; only desiring to be true to the fallen object of her
admirationunknown to himunknown to all the world but one poor
simple woman.

The Major knows it; but no one is the wiser for thatthough the
Major is much the merrier. The Majorin a fit of curiosityhas
charged the Native to watch the house sometimesand find out what
becomes of Dombey. The Native has reported Miss Tox's fidelityand


the Major has nearly choked himself dead with laughter. He is
permanently bluer from that hourand constantly wheezes to himself
his lobster eyes starting out of his head'DammeSirthe woman's a
born idiot!'

And the ruined man. How does he pass the hoursalone?

'Let him remember it in that roomyears to come!' He did remember
it. It was heavy on his mind now; heavier than all the rest.

'Let him remember it in that roomyears to come! The rain that
falls upon the roofthe wind that mourns outside the doormay have
foreknowledge in their melancholy sound. Let him remember it in that
roomyears to come!'

He did remember it. In the miserable night he thought of it; in the
dreary daythe wretched dawnthe ghostlymemory-haunted twilight.
He did remember it. In agonyin sorrowin remorsein despair!
'Papa! Papa! Speak to medear Papa!' He heard the words againand
saw the face. He saw it fall upon the trembling handsand heard the
one prolonged low cry go upward.

He was fallennever to be raised up any more. For the night of his
worldly ruin there was no to-morrow's sun; for the stain of his
domestic shame there was no purification; nothingthank Heavencould
bring his dead child back to life. But that which he might have made
so different in all the Past - which might have made the Past itself
so differentthough this he hardly thought of now - that which was
his own workthat which he could so easily have wrought into a
blessingand had set himself so steadily for years to form into a
curse: that was the sharp grief of his soul.

Oh! He did remember it! The rain that fell upon the roofthe wind
that mourned outside the door that nighthad had foreknowledge in
their melancholy sound. He knewnowwhat he had done. He knewnow
that he had called down that upon his headwhich bowed it lower than
the heaviest stroke of fortune. He knewnowwhat it was to be
rejected and deserted; nowwhen every loving blossom he had withered
in his innocent daughter's heart was snowing down in ashes on him.

He thought of heras she had been that night when he and his bride
came home. He thought of her as she had beenin all the home-events
of the abandoned house. He thoughtnowthat of all around himshe
alone had never changed. His boy had faded into dusthis proud wife
had sunk into a polluted creaturehis flatterer and friend had been
transformed into the worst of villainshis riches had melted away
the very walls that sheltered him looked on him as a stranger; she
alone had turned the same mild gentle look upon him always. Yesto
the latest and the last. She had never changed to him - nor had he
ever changed to her - and she was lost.

Asone by onethey fell away before his mind - his baby- hope
his wifehis friendhis fortune - oh how the mistthrough which he
had seen herclearedand showed him her true self! Ohhow much
better than this that he had loved her as he had his boyand lost her
as he had his boyand laid them in their early grave together!

In his pride - for he was proud yet - he let the world go from him
freely. As it fell awayhe shook it off. Whether he imagined its face
as expressing pity for himor indifference to himhe shunned it
alike. It was in the same degree to be avoidedin either aspect. He
had no idea of any one companion in his miserybut the one he had
driven away. What he would have said to heror what consolation
submitted to receive from herhe never pictured to himself. But he


always knew she would have been true to himif he had suffered her.
He always knew she would have loved him better nowthan at any other
time; he was as certain that it was in her natureas he was that
there was a sky above him; and he sat thinking soin his loneliness
from hour to hour. Day after day uttered this speech; night after
night showed him this knowledge.

It beganbeyond all doubt (however slow it advanced for some
time)in the receipt of her young husband's letterand the certainty
that she was gone. And yet - so proud he was in his ruinor so
reminiscent of her only as something that might have been hisbut was
lost beyond redemption - that if he could have heard her voice in an
adjoining roomhe would not have gone to her. If he could have seen
her in the streetand she had done no more than look at him as she
had been used to lookhe would have passed on with his old cold
unforgiving faceand not addressed heror relaxed itthough his
heart should have broken soon afterwards. However turbulent his
thoughtsor harsh his anger had beenat firstconcerning her
marriageor her husbandthat was all past now. He chiefly thought of
what might have beenand what was not. What waswas all summed up in
this: that she was lostand he bowed down with sorrow and remorse.

And now he felt that he had had two children born to him in that
houseand that between him and the bare wide empty walls there was a
tiemournfulbut hard to rend asunderconnected with a double
childhoodand a double loss. He had thought to leave the house knowing
he must gonot knowing whither - upon the evening of the day
on which this feeling first struck root in his breast; but he resolved
to stay another nightand in the night to ramble through the rooms
once more.

He came out of his solitude when it was the dead of nightand with
a candle in his hand went softly up the stairs. Of all the footmarks
theremaking them as common as the common streetthere was not one
he thoughtbut had seemed at the time to set itself upon his brain
while he had kept closelistening. He looked at their numberand
their hurryand contention - foot treading foot outand upward track
and downward jostling one another - and thoughtwith absolute dread
and wonderhow much he must have suffered during that trialand what
a changed man he had cause to be. He thoughtbesidesoh was there
somewhere in the worlda light footstep that might have worn out in a
moment half those marks! - and bent his headand wept as he went up.

He almost saw itgoing on before. He stoppedlooking up towards
the skylight; and a figurechildish itselfbut carrying a childand
singing as it wentseemed to be there again. Anonit was the same
figurealonestopping for an instantwith suspended breath; the
bright hair clustering loosely round its tearful face; and looking
back at him.

He wandered through the rooms: lately so luxurious; now so bare and
dismal and so changedapparentlyeven in their shape and size. The
press of footsteps was as thick here; and the same consideration of
the suffering he had hadperplexed and terrified him. He began to
fear that all this intricacy in his brain would drive him mad; and
that his thoughts already lost coherence as the footprints didand
were pieced on to one anotherwith the same trackless involutions
and varieties of indistinct shapes.

He did not so much as know in which of these rooms she had lived
when she was alone. He was glad to leave themand go wandering higher
up. Abundance of associations were hereconnected with his false
wifehis false friend and servanthis false grounds of pride; but he
put them all by nowand only recalled miserablyweaklyfondlyhis


two children.

Everywherethe footsteps! They had had no respect for the old room
high upwhere the little bed had been; he could hardly find a clear
space thereto throw himself downon the flooragainst the wall
poor broken manand let his tears flow as they would. He had shed so
many tears herelong agothat he was less ashamed of his weakness in
this place than in any other - perhapswith that consciousnesshad
made excuses to himself for coming here. Herewith stooping
shouldersand his chin dropped on his breasthe had come. Here
thrown upon the bare boardsin the dead of nighthe weptalone - a
proud maneven then; whoif a kind hand could have been stretched
outor a kind face could have looked inwould have risen upand
turned awayand gone down to his cell.

When the day broke he was shut up in his rooms again. He had meant
to go away to-daybut clung to this tie in the house as the last and
only thing left to him. He would go to-morrow. To-morrow came. He
would go to-morrow. Every nightwithin the knowledge of no human
creaturehe came forthand wandered through the despoiled house like
a ghost. Many a morning when the day brokehis altered facedrooping
behind the closed blind in his windowimperfectly transparent to the
light as yetpondered on the loss of his two children. It was one
child no more. He reunited them in his thoughtsand they were never
asunder. Ohthat he could have united them in his past loveand in
deathand that one had not been so much worse than dead!

Strong mental agitation and disturbance was no novelty to himeven
before his late sufferings. It never isto obstinate and sullen
natures; for they struggle hard to be such. Groundlong undermined
will often fall down in a moment; what was undermined here in so many
waysweakenedand crumbledlittle by littlemore and moreas the
hand moved on the dial.

At last he began to think he need not go at all. He might yet give
up what his creditors had spared him (that they had not spared him
morewas his own act)and only sever the tie between him and the
ruined houseby severing that other link -

It was then that his footfall was audible in the late housekeeper's
roomas he walked to and fro; but not audible in its true meaningor
it would have had an appalling sound.

The world was very busy and restless about him. He became aware of
that again. It was whispering and babbling. It was never quiet. This
and the intricacy and complication of the footstepsharassed him to
death. Objects began to take a bleared and russet colour in his eyes.
Dombey and Son was no more - his children no more. This must be
thought ofwellto-morrow.

He thought of it to-morrow; and sitting thinking in his chairsaw
in the glassfrom time to timethis picture:

A spectralhaggardwasted likeness of himselfbrooded and
brooded over the empty fireplace. Now it lifted up its headexamining
the lines and hollows in its face; now hung it down againand brooded
afresh. Now it rose and walked about; now passed into the next room
and came back with something from the dressing-table in its breast.
Nowit was looking at the bottom of the doorand thinking.

Hush! what? It was thinking that if blood were to trickle that way
and to leak out into the hallit must be a long time going so far. It
would move so stealthily and slowlycreeping onwith here a lazy
little pooland there a startand then another little poolthat a


desperately wounded man could only be discovered through its means
either dead or dying. When it had thought of this a long whileit got
up againand walked to and fro with its hand in its breast. He
glanced at it occasionallyvery curious to watch its motionsand he
marked how wicked and murderous that hand looked.

Now it was thinking again! What was it thinking?

Whether they would tread in the blood when it crept so farand
carry it about the house among those many prints of feetor even out
into the street.

It sat downwith its eyes upon the empty fireplaceand as it lost
itself in thought there shone into the room a gleam of light; a ray of
sun. It was quite unmindfuland sat thinking. Suddenly it rosewith
a terrible faceand that guilty hand grasping what was in its breast.
Then it was arrested by a cry - a wildloudpiercingloving
rapturous cry - and he only saw his own reflection in the glassand
at his kneeshis daughter!

Yes. His daughter! Look at her! Look here! Down upon the ground
clinging to himcalling to himfolding her handspraying to him.

'Papa! Dearest Papa! Pardon meforgive me! I have come back to ask
forgiveness on my knees. I never can be happy morewithout it!'

Unchanged still. Of all the worldunchanged. Raising the same face
to hisas on that miserable night. Asking his forgiveness!

'Dear Papaoh don't look strangely on me! I never meant to leave
you. I never thought of itbefore or afterwards. I was frightened
when I went awayand could not think. PapadearI am changed. I am
penitent. I know my fault. I know my duty better now. Papadon't cast
me offor I shall die!'

He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms about her neck;
he felt her put her own round his; he felt her kisses on his face; he
felt her wet cheek laid against his own; he felt - ohhow deeply! all
that he had done.

Upon the breast that he had bruisedagainst the heart that he had
almost brokenshe laid his facenow covered with his handsand
saidsobbing:

'PapaloveI am a mother. I have a child who will soon call
Walter by the name by which I call you. When it was bornand when I
knew how much I loved itI knew what I had done in leaving you.
Forgive medear Papa! oh say God bless meand my little child!'

He would have said itif he could. He would have raised his hands
and besought her for pardonbut she caught them in her ownand put
them downhurriedly.

'My little child was born at seaPapa I prayed to God (and so did
Walter for me) to spare methat I might come home. The moment I could
landI came back to you. Never let us be parted any morePapa. Never
let us be parted any more!'

His headnow greywas encircled by her arm; and he groaned to
think that neverneverhad it rested so before.

'You will come home with mePapaand see my baby. A boyPapa.
His name is Paul. I think - I hope - he's like - '


Her tears stopped her.

'Dear Papafor the sake of my childfor the sake of the name we
have given himfor my sakepardon Walter. He is so kind and tender
to me. I am so happy with him. It was not his fault that we were
married. It was mine. I loved him so much.'

She clung closer to himmore endearing and more earnest.

'He is the darling of my heartPapa I would die for him. He will
love and honour you as I will. We will teach our little child to love
and honour you; and we will tell himwhen he can understandthat you
had a son of that name onceand that he diedand you were very
sorry; but that he is gone to Heavenwhere we all hope to see him
when our time for resting comes. Kiss mePapaas a promise that you
will be reconciled to Walter - to my dearest husband - to the father
of the little child who taught me to come backPapa Who taught me to
come back!'

As she clung closer to himin another burst of tearshe kissed
her on her lipsandlifting up his eyessaid'Oh my Godforgive
mefor I need it very much!'

With that he dropped his head againlamenting over and caressing
herand there was not a sound in all the house for a longlong time;
they remaining clasped in one another's armsin the glorious sunshine
that had crept in with Florence.

He dressed himself for going outwith a docile submission to her
entreaty; and walking with a feeble gaitand looking backwith a
trembleat the room in which he had been so long shut upand where
he had seen the picture in the glasspassed out with her into the
hall. Florencehardly glancing round herlest she should remind him
freshly of their last parting - for their feet were on the very stones
where he had struck her in his madness - and keeping close to him
with her eyes upon his faceand his arm about herled him out to a
coach that was waiting at the doorand carried him away.

ThenMiss Tox and Polly came out of their concealmentand exulted
tearfully. And then they packed his clothesand booksand so forth
with great care; and consigned them in due course to certain persons
sent by Florencein the eveningto fetch them. And then they took a
last cup of tea in the lonely house.

'And so Dombey and Sonas I observed upon a certain sad occasion'
said Miss Toxwinding up a host of recollections'is indeed a
daughterPollyafter all.'

'And a good one!' exclaimed Polly.

'You are right' said Miss Tox; 'and it's a credit to youPolly
that you were always her friend when she was a little child. You were
her friend long before I wasPolly' said Miss Tox; 'and you're a
good creature. Robin!'

Miss Tox addressed herself to a bullet-headed young manwho
appeared to be in but indifferent circumstancesand in depressed
spiritsand who was sitting in a remote corner. Risinghe disclosed
to view the form and features of the Grinder.

'Robin' said Miss Tox'I have just observed to your motheras
you may have heardthat she is a good creature.

'And so she isMiss' quoth the Grinderwith some feeling.


'Very wellRobin' said Miss Tox'I am glad to hear you say so.
NowRobinas I am going to give you a trialat your urgent request
as my domesticwith a view to your restoration to respectabilityI
will take this impressive occasion of remarking that I hope you will
never forget that you haveand have always hada good motherand
that you will endeavour so to conduct yourself as to be a comfort to
her.'

'Upon my soul I willMiss' returned the Grinder. 'I have come
through a good dealand my intentions is now as straightfor'ard
Missas a cove's - '

'I must get you to break yourself of that wordRobinif you
Please' interposed Miss Toxpolitely.

'If you pleaseMissas a chap's - '

'ThankeeRobinno' returned Miss Tox'I should prefer
individual.'

'As a indiwiddle's' said the Grinder.

'Much better' remarked Miss Toxcomplacently; 'infinitely more
expressive!'

' - can be' pursued Rob. 'If I hadn't been and got made a Grinder
onMiss and Motherwhich was a most unfortunate circumstance for a
young co - indiwiddle.'

'Very good indeed' observed Miss Toxapprovingly.

' - and if I hadn't been led away by birdsand then fallen into a
bad service' said the Grinder'I hope I might have done better. But
it's never too late for a - '

'Indi - ' suggested Miss Tox.

' - widdle' said the Grinder'to mend; and I hope to mendMiss
with your kind trial; and wishingMothermy love to fatherand
brothers and sistersand saying of it.'

'I am very glad indeed to hear it' observed Miss Tox. 'Will you
take a little bread and butterand a cup of teabefore we go
Robin?'

'ThankeeMiss' returned the Grinder; who immediately began to use
his own personal grinders in a most remarkable manneras if he had
been on very short allowance for a considerable period.

Miss Toxbeingin good timebonneted and shawledand Polly too
Rob hugged his motherand followed his new mistress away; so much to
the hopeful admiration of Pollythat something in her eyes made
luminous rings round the gas-lamps as she looked after him. Polly then
put out her lightlocked the house-doordelivered the key at an
agent's hard byand went home as fast as she could go; rejoicing in
the shrill delight that her unexpected arrival would occasion there.
The great housedumb as to all that had been suffered in itand the
changes it had witnessedstood frowning like a dark mute on the
street; baulking any nearer inquiries with the staring announcement
that the lease of this desirable Family Mansion was to be disposed of.

CHAPTER 60.


Chiefly Matrimonial

The grand half-yearly festival holden by Doctor and Mrs Blimberon
which occasion they requested the pleasure of the company of every
young gentleman pursuing his studies in that genteel establishmentat
an early partywhen the hour was half-past seven o'clockand when
the object was quadrilleshad duly taken placeabout this time; and
the young gentlemenwith no unbecoming demonstrations of levityhad
betaken themselvesin a state of scholastic repletionto their own
homes. Mr Skettles had repaired abroadpermanently to grace the
establishment of his father Sir Barnet Skettleswhose popular manners
had obtained him a diplomatic appointmentthe honours of which were
discharged by himself and Lady Skettlesto the satisfaction even of
their own countrymen and countrywomen: which was considered almost
miraculous. Mr Tozernow a young man of lofty staturein Wellington
bootswas so extremely full of antiquity as to be nearly on a par
with a genuine ancient Roman in his knowledge of English: a triumph
that affected his good parents with the tenderest emotionsand caused
the father and mother of Mr Briggs (whose learninglike ill-arranged
luggagewas so tightly packed that he couldn't get at anything he
wanted) to hide their diminished heads. The fruit laboriously gathered
from the tree of knowledge by this latter young gentlemanin fact
had been subjected to so much pressurethat it had become a kind of
intellectual Norfolk Biffinand had nothing of its original form or
flavour remaining. Master Bitherstone nowon whom the forcing system
had the happier and not uncommon effect of leaving no impression
whateverwhen the forcing apparatus ceased to workwas in a much
more comfortable plight; and being then on shipboardbound for
Bengalfound himself forgettingwith such admirable rapiditythat
it was doubtful whether his declensions of noun-substantives would
hold out to the end of the voyage.

When Doctor Blimberin pursuance of the usual coursewould have
said to the young gentlemenon the morning of the party'Gentlemen
we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next month' he
departed from the usual courseand said'Gentlemenwhen our friend
Cincinnatus retired to his farmhe did not present to the senate any
Roman who he sought to nominate as his successor.' But there is a
Roman here' said Doctor Blimberlaying his hand on the shoulder of
Mr FeederB.A.adolescens imprimis gravis et doctusgentlemenwhom
Ia retiring Cincinnatuswish to present to my little senateas
their future Dictator. Gentlemenwe will resume our studies on the
twenty-fifth of next monthunder the auspices of Mr FeederB.A.' At
this (which Doctor Blimber had previously called upon all the parents
and urbanely explained)the young gentlemen cheered; and Mr Tozeron
behalf of the restinstantly presented the Doctor with a silver
inkstandin a speech containing very little of the mother-tonguebut
fifteen quotations from the Latinand seven from the Greekwhich
moved the younger of the young gentlemen to discontent and envy: they
remarking'Ohah. It was all very well for old Tozerbut they
didn't subscribe money for old Tozer to show off withthey supposed;
did they? What business was it of old Tozer's more than anybody
else's? It wasn't his inkstand. Why couldn't he leave the boys'
property alone?' and murmuring other expressions of their
dissatisfactionwhich seemed to find a greater relief in calling him
old Tozerthan in any other available vent.

Not a word had been said to the young gentlemennor a hint
droppedof anything like a contemplated marriage between Mr Feeder
B.A.and the fair Cornelia Blimber. Doctor Blimberespecially
seemed to take pains to look as if nothing would surprise him more;


but it was perfectly well known to all the young gentlemen
neverthelessand when they departed for the society of their
relations and friendsthey took leave of Mr Feeder with awe.

Mr Feeder's most romantic visions were fulfilled. The Doctor had
determined to paint the house outsideand put it in thorough repair;
and to give up the businessand to give up Cornelia. The painting and
repairing began upon the very day of the young gentlemen's departure
and now behold! the wedding morning was comeand Corneliain a new
pair of spectacleswas waiting to be led to the hymeneal altar.

The Doctor with his learned legsand Mrs Blimber in a lilac
bonnetand Mr FeederB.A.with his long knuckles and his bristly
head of hairand Mr Feeder's brotherthe Reverend Alfred Feeder
M.A.who was to perform the ceremonywere all assembled in the
drawing-roomand Cornelia with her orange-flowers and bridesmaids had
just come downand lookedas of olda little squeezed in
appearancebut very charmingwhen the door openedand the weak-eyed
young manin a loud voicemade the following proclamation:

'MR AND MRS TOOTS!'

Upon which there entered Mr Tootsgrown extremely stoutand on
his arm a lady very handsomely and becomingly dressedwith very
bright black eyes. 'Mrs Blimber' said Mr Toots'allow me to present
my wife.'

Mrs Blimber was delighted to receive her. Mrs Blimber was a little
condescendingbut extremely kind.

'And as you've known me for a long timeyou know' said Mr Toots
'let me assure you that she is one of the most remarkable women that
ever lived.'

'My dear!' remonstrated Mrs Toots.

'Upon my word and honour she is' said Mr Toots. 'I - I assure you
Mrs Blimbershe's a most extraordinary woman.'

Mrs Toots laughed merrilyand Mrs Blimber led her to Cornelia. Mr
Toots having paid his respects in that direction and having saluted
his old preceptorwho saidin allusion to his conjugal state'Well
TootswellToots! So you are one of usare youToots?' - retired
with Mr FeederB.A.into a window.

Mr FeederB.A.being in great spiritsmade a spar at Mr Toots
and tapped him skilfully with the back of his hand on the breastbone.

'Wellold Buck!' said Mr Feeder with a laugh. 'Well! Here we are!
Taken in and done for. Eh?'

'Feeder' returned Mr Toots. 'I give you joy. If you're as - as- as
perfectly blissful in a matrimonial lifeas I am myselfyou'll have
nothing to desire.'

'I don't forget my old friendsyou see' said Mr Feeder. 'I ask em
to my weddingToots.'

'Feeder' replied Mr Toots gravely'the fact isthat there were
several circumstances which prevented me from communicating with you
until after my marriage had been solemnised. In the first placeI had
made a perfect Brute of myself to youon the subject of Miss Dombey;
and I felt that if you were asked to any wedding of mineyou would
naturally expect that it was with Miss Dombeywhich involved


explanationsthat upon my word and honourat that crisiswould have
knocked me completely over. In the second placeour wedding was
strictly private; there being nobody present but one friend of myself
and Mrs Toots'swho is a Captain in - I don't exactly know in what'
said Mr Toots'but it's of no consequence. I hopeFeederthat in
writing a statement of what had occurred before Mrs Toots and myself
went abroad upon our foreign tourI fully discharged the offices of
friendship.'

'Tootsmy boy' said Mr Feedershaking his hands'I was joking.'

'And nowFeeder' said Mr Toots'I should be glad to know what
you think of my union.'

'Capital!' returned Mr Feeder.

'You think it's capitaldo youFeeder?'said Mr Toots solemnly.
'Then how capital must it be to Me! For you can never know what an
extraordinary woman that is.'

Mr Feeder was willing to take it for granted. But Mr Toots shook
his headand wouldn't hear of that being possible.

'You see' said Mr Toots'what I wanted in a wife was - in short
was sense. MoneyFeederI had. Sense I - I had notparticularly.'

Mr Feeder murmured'Ohyesyou hadToots!' But Mr Toots said:

'NoFeederI had not. Why should I disguise it? I had not. I knew
that sense was There' said Mr Tootsstretching out his hand towards
his wife'in perfect heaps. I had no relation to object or be
offendedon the score of station; for I had no relation. I have never
had anybody belonging to me but my guardianand himFeederI have
always considered as a Pirate and a Corsair. Thereforeyou know it
was not likely' said Mr Toots'that I should take his opinion.'

'No' said Mr Feeder.

'Accordingly' resumed Mr Toots'I acted on my own. Bright was the
day on which I did so! Feeder! Nobody but myself can tell what the
capacity of that woman's mind is. If ever the Rights of Womenand all
that kind of thingare properly attended toit will be through her
powerful intellect - Susanmy dear!' said Mr Tootslooking abruptly
out of the windows 'pray do not exert yourself!'

'My dear' said Mrs Toots'I was only talking.'

'Butmy love' said Mr Toots'pray do not exert yourself. You
really must be careful. Do notmy dear Susanexert yourself. She's
so easily excited' said Mr Tootsapart to Mrs Blimber'and then she
forgets the medical man altogether.'

Mrs Blimber was impressing on Mrs Toots the necessity of caution
when Mr FeederB.A.offered her his armand led her down to the
carriages that were waiting to go to church. Doctor Blimber escorted
Mrs Toots. Mr Toots escorted the fair bridearound whose lambent
spectacles two gauzy little bridesmaids fluttered like moths. Mr
Feeder's brotherMr Alfred FeederM.A.had already gone onin
advanceto assume his official functions.

The ceremony was performed in an admirable manner. Corneliawith
her crisp little curls'went in' as the Chicken might have said
with great composure; and Doctor Blimber gave her awaylike a man who
had quite made up his mind to it. The gauzy little bridesmaids


appeared to suffer most. Mrs Blimber was affectedbut gently so; and
told the Reverend Mr Alfred FeederM.A.on the way homethat if she
could only have seen Cicero in his retirement at Tusculumshe would
not have had a wishnowungratified.

There was a breakfast afterwardslimited to the same small party;
at which the spirits of Mr FeederB.A.were tremendousand so
communicated themselves to Mrs Toots that Mr Toots was several times
heard to observeacross the table'My dear Susandon't exert
yourself!' The best of it wasthat Mr Toots felt it incunbent on him
to make a speech; and in spite of a whole code of telegraphic
dissuasions from Mrs Tootsappeared on his legs for the first time in
his life.

'I really' said Mr Toots'in this housewhere whatever was done
to me in the way of - of any mental confusion sometimes - which is of
no consequence and I impute to nobody - I was always treated like one
of Doctor Blimber's familyand had a desk to myself for a
considerable period - can - not - allow - my friend Feeder to be - '

Mrs Toots suggested 'married.'

'It may not be inappropriate to the occasionor altogether
uninteresting' said Mr Toots with a delighted face'to observe that
my wife is a most extraordinary womanand would do this much better
than myself - allow my friend Feeder to be married - especially to - '

Mrs Toots suggested 'to Miss Blimber.'

'To Mrs Feedermy love!' said Mr Tootsin a subdued tone of
private discussion: "'whom God hath joined you know, let no man" don't
you know? I cannot allow my friend Feeder to be married especially
to Mrs Feeder - without proposing their - their - Toasts;
and may' said Mr Tootsfixing his eyes on his wifeas if for
inspiration in a high flight'may the torch of Hymen be the beacon of
joyand may the flowers we have this day strewed in their pathbe
the - the banishers of- of gloom!'

Doctor Blimberwho had a taste for metaphorwas pleased with
thisand said'Very goodToots! Very well saidindeedToots!' and
nodded his head and patted his hands. Mr Feeder made in replya comic
speech chequered with sentiment. Mr Alfred FeederM.Awas afterwards
very happy on Doctor and Mrs Blimber; Mr FeederB.A.scarcely less
soon the gauzy little bridesmaids. Doctor Blimber thenin a
sonorous voicedelivered a few thoughts in the pastoral style
relative to the rushes among which it was the intention of himself and
Mrs Blimber to dwelland the bee that would hum around their cot.
Shortly after whichas the Doctor's eyes were twinkling in a
remarkable mannerand his son-in-law had already observed that time
was made for slavesand had inquired whether Mrs Toots sangthe
discreet Mrs Blimber dissolved the sittingand sent Cornelia away
very cool and comfortablein a post-chaisewith the man of her heart

Mr and Mrs Toots withdrew to the Bedford (Mrs Toots had been there
before in old timesunder her maiden name of Nipper)and there found
a letterwhich it took Mr Toots such an enormous time to readthat
Mrs Toots was frightened.

'My dear Susan' said Mr Toots'fright is worse than exertion.
Pray be calm!'

'Who is it from?' asked Mrs Toots.

'Whymy love' said Mr Toots'it's from Captain Gills. Do not


excite yourself. Walters and Miss Dombey are expected home!'

'My dear' said Mrs Tootsraising herself quickly from the sofa
very pale'don't try to deceive mefor it's no usethey're come
home - I see it plainly in your face!'

'She's a most extraordinary woman!' exclaimed Mr Tootsin
rapturous admiration. 'You're perfectly rightmy lovethey have come
home. Miss Dombey has seen her fatherand they are reconciled!'

'Reconciled!' cried Mrs Tootsclapping her hands.

'My dear' said Mr Toots; 'pray do not exert yourself. Do remember
the medical man! Captain Gills says - at least he don't saybut I
imaginefrom what I can make outhe means - that Miss Dombey has
brought her unfortunate father away from his old houseto one where
she and Walters are living; that he is lying very ill there - supposed
to be dying; and that she attends upon him night and day.'

Mrs Toots began to cry quite bitterly.

'My dearest Susan' replied Mr Toots'dodoif you possibly can
remember the medical man! If you can'tit's of no consequence - but
do endeavour to!'

His wifewith her old manner suddenly restoredso pathetically
entreated him to take her to her precious pether little mistress
her own darlingand the likethat Mr Tootswhose sympathy and
admiration were of the strongest kindconsented from his very heart
of hearts; and they agreed to depart immediatelyand present
themselves in answer to the Captain's letter.

Now some hidden sympathies of thingsor some coincidenceshad
that day brought the Captain himself (toward whom Mr and Mrs Toots
were soon journeying) into the flowery train of wedlock; not as a
principalbut as an accessory. It happened accidentallyand thus:

The Captainhaving seen Florence and her baby for a momentto his
unbounded contentand having had a long talk with Walterturned out
for a walk; feeling it necessary to have some solitary meditation on
the changes of human affairsand to shake his glazed hat profoundly
over the fall of Mr Dombeyfor whom the generosity and simplicity of
his nature were awakened in a lively manner. The Captain would have
been very lowindeedon the unhappy gentleman's accountbut for the
recollection of the baby; which afforded him such intense satisfaction
whenever it arosethat he laughed aloud as he went along the street
andindeedmore than oncein a sudden impulse of joythrew up his
glazed hat and caught it again; much to the amazement of the
spectators. The rapid alternations of light and shade to which these
two conflicting subjects of reflection exposed the Captainwere so
very trying to his spiritsthat he felt a long walk necessary to his
composure; and as there is a great deal in the influence of harmonious
associationshe chosefor the scene of this walkhis old
neighbourhooddown among the mastoarand block makers
ship-biscuit bakerscoal-whipperspitch-kettlessailorscanals
docksswing-bridgesand other soothing objects.

These peaceful scenesand particularly the region of Limehouse
Hole and thereaboutswere so influential in calming the Captainthat
he walked on with restored tranquillityand wasin factregaling
himselfunder his breathwith the ballad of Lovely Pegwhenon
turning a cornerhe was suddenly transfixed and rendered speechless
by a triumphant procession that he beheld advancing towards him.


This awful demonstration was headed by that determined woman Mrs
MacStingerwhopreserving a countenance of inexorable resolution
and wearing conspicuously attached to her obdurate bosom a stupendous
watch and appendageswhich the Captain recognised at a glance as the
property of Bunsbyconducted under her arm no other than that
sagacious mariner; hewith the distraught and melancholy visage of a
captive borne into a foreign landmeekly resigning himself to her
will. Behind them appeared the young MacStingersin a bodyexulting.
Behind themM~ two ladies of a terrible and steadfast
aspectleading between them a short gentleman in a tall hatwho
likewise exulted. In the wakeappeared Bunsby's boybearing
umbrellas. The whole were in good marching order; and a dreadful
smartness that pervaded the party would have sufficiently announced
if the intrepid countenances of the ladies had been wantingthat it
was a procession of sacrificeand that the victim was Bunsby.

The first impulse of the Captain was to run away. This also
appeared to be the first impulse of Bunsbyhopeless as its execution
must have proved. But a cry of recognition proceeding from the party
and Alexander MacStinger running up to the Captain with open armsthe
Captain struck.

'WellCap'en Cuttle!' said Mrs MacStinger. 'This is indeed a
meeting! I bear no malice nowCap'en Cuttle - you needn't fear that
I'm a going to cast any reflections. I hope to go to the altar in
another spirit.' Here Mrs MacStinger pausedand drawing herself up
and inflating her bosom with a long breathsaidin allusion to the
victim'My 'usbandCap'en Cuttle!'

The abject Bunsby looked neither to the right nor to the leftnor
at his bridenor at his friendbut straight before him at nothing.
The Captain putting out his handBunsby put out his; butin answer
to the Captain's greetingspake no word.

'Cap'en Cuttle' said Mrs MacStinger'if you would wish to heal up
past animositiesand to see the last of your friendmy 'usbandas a
single personwe should be 'appy of your company to chapel. Here is a
lady here' said Mrs MacStingerturning round to the more intrepid of
the two'my bridesmaidthat will be glad of your protectionCap'en
Cuttle.'

The short gentleman in the tall hatwho it appeared was the
husband of the other ladyand who evidently exulted at the reduction
of a fellow creature to his own conditiongave place at thisand
resigned the lady to Captain Cuttle. The lady immediately seized him
andobserving that there was no time to losegave the wordin a
strong voiceto advance.

The Captain's concern for his friendnot unmingledat firstwith
some concern for himself - for a shadowy terror that he might be
married by violencepossessed himuntil his knowledge of the service
came to his reliefand remembering the legal obligation of saying'I
will' he felt himself personally safe so long as he resolvedif
asked any questiondistinctly to reply I won't' - threw him into a
profuse perspiration; and rendered himfor a timeinsensible to the
movements of the processionof which he now formed a featureand to
the conversation of his fair companion. But as he became less
agitatedhe learnt from this lady that she was the widow of a Mr
Bokumwho had held an employment in the Custom House; that she was
the dearest friend of Mrs MacStingerwhom she considered a pattern
for her sex; that she had often heard of the Captainand now hoped he
had repented of his past life; that she trusted Mr Bunsby knew what a
blessing he had gainedbut that she feared men seldom did know what
such blessings wereuntil they had lost them; with more to the same


purpose.

All this timethe Captain could not but observe that Mrs Bokum
kept her eyes steadily on the bridegroomand that whenever they came
near a court or other narrow turning which appeared favourable for
flightshe was on the alert to cut him off if he attempted escape.
The other ladytooas well as her husbandthe short gentleman with
the tall hatwere plainly on guardaccording to a preconcerted plan;
and the wretched man was so secured by Mrs MacStingerthat any effort
at self-preservation by flight was rendered futile. Thisindeedwas
apparent to the mere populacewho expressed their perception of the
fact by jeers and cries; to all of whichthe dread MacStinger was
inflexibly indifferentwhile Bunsby himself appeared in a state of
unconsciousness.

The Captain made many attempts to accost the philosopherif only
in a monosyllable or a signal; but always failedin consequence of
the vigilance of the guardand the difficultyat all times peculiar
to Bunsby's constitutionof having his attention aroused by any
outward and visible sign whatever. Thus they approached the chapela
neat whitewashed edificerecently engaged by the Reverend
Melchisedech Howlerwho had consentedon very urgent solicitation
to give the world another two years of existencebut had informed his
followers thatthenit must positively go.

While the Reverend Melchisedech was offering up some extemporary
orisonsthe Captain found an opportunity of growling in the
bridegroom's ear:

'What cheermy ladwhat cheer?'

To which Bunsby repliedwith a forgetfulness of the Reverend
Melchisedechwhich nothing but his desperate circumstances could have
excused:

'D-----d bad'

'Jack Bunsby' whispered the Captain'do you do this hereof your
own free will?'

Mr Bunsby answered 'No.'

'Why do you do itthenmy lad?' inquired the Captainnot
unnaturally.

Bunsbystill lookingand always looking with an immovable
countenanceat the opposite side of the worldmade no reply.

'Why not sheer off?' said the Captain. 'Eh?' whispered Bunsbywith
a momentary gleam of hope. 'Sheer off' said the Captain.

'Where's the good?' retorted the forlorn sage. 'She'd capter me
agen.

'Try!' replied the Captain. 'Cheer up! Come! Now's your time. Sheer
offJack Bunsby!'

Jack Bunsbyhoweverinstead of profiting by the advicesaid in a
doleful whisper:

'It all began in that there chest o' yourn. Why did I ever conwoy
her into port that night?'

'My lad' faltered the Captain'I thought as you had come over


her; not as she had come over you. A man as has got such opinions as
you have!'

Mr Bunsby merely uttered a suppressed groan.

'Come!' said the Captainnudging him with his elbow'now's your
time! Sheer off! I'll cover your retreat. The time's a flying. Bunsby!
It's for liberty. Will you once?'

Bunsby was immovable. 'Bunsby!' whispered the Captain'will you
twice ?' Bunsby wouldn't twice.

'Bunsby!' urged the Captain'it's for liberty; will you three
times? Now or never!'

Bunsby didn't thenand didn't ever; for Mrs MacStinger immediately
afterwards married him.

One of the most frightful circumstances of the ceremony to the
Captainwas the deadly interest exhibited therein by Juliana
MacStinger; and the fatal concentration of her facultieswith which
that promising childalready the image of her parentobserved the
whole proceedings. The Captain saw in this a succession of man-traps
stretching out infinitely; a series of ages of oppression and
coercionthrough which the seafaring line was doomed. It was a more
memorable sight than the unflinching steadiness of Mrs Bokum and the
other ladythe exultation of the short gentleman in the tall hator
even the fell inflexibility of Mrs MacStinger. The Master MacStingers
understood little of what was going onand cared less; being chiefly
engagedduring the ceremonyin treading on one another's half-boots;
but the contrast afforded by those wretched infants only set off and
adorned the precocious woman in Juliana. Another year or twothe
Captain thoughtand to lodge where that child waswould be
destruction.

The ceremony was concluded by a general spring of the young family
on Mr Bunsbywhom they hailed by the endearing name of fatherand
from whom they solicited half-pence. These gushes of affection over
the procession was about to issue forth againwhen it was delayed for
some little time by an unexpected transport on the part of Alexander
MacStinger. That dear childit seemedconnecting a chapel with
tombstoneswhen it was entered for any purpose apart from the
ordinary religious exercisescould not be persuaded but that his
mother was now to be decently interredand lost to him for ever. In
the anguish of this convictionhe screamed with astonishing force
and turned black in the face. However touching these marks of a tender
disposition were to his motherit was not in the character of that
remarkable woman to permit her recognition of them to degenerate into
weakness. Thereforeafter vainly endeavouring to convince his reason
by shakespokesbawlings-outand similar applications to his head
she led him into the airand tried another method; which was
manifested to the marriage party by a quick succession of sharp
soundsresembling applauseand subsequentlyby their seeing
Alexander in contact with the coolest paving-stone in the court
greatly flushedand loudly lamenting.

The procession being then in a condition to form itself once more
and repair to Brig Placewhere a marriage feast was in readiness
returned as it had come; not without the receiptby Bunsbyof many
humorous congratulations from the populace on his recently-acquired
happiness. The Captain accompanied it as far as the house-doorbut
being made uneasy by the gentler manner of Mrs Bokumwhonow that
she was relieved from her engrossing duty - for the watchfulness and
alacrity of the ladies sensibly diminished when the bridegroom was


safely married - had greater leisure to show an interest in his
behalfthere left it and the captive; faintly pleading an
appointmentand promising to return presently. The Captain had
another cause for uneasinessin remorsefully reflecting that he had
been the first means of Bunsby's entrapmentthough certainly without
intending itand through his unbounded faith in the resources of that
philosopher.

To go back to old Sol Gills at the wooden Midshipman'sand not
first go round to ask how Mr Dombey was - albeit the house where he
lay was out of Londonand away on the borders of a fresh heath - was
quite out of the Captain's course. So he got a lift when he was tired
and made out the journey gaily.

The blinds were pulled downand the house so quietthat the
Captain was almost afraid to knock; but listening at the doorhe
heard low voices withinvery near itandknocking softlywas
admitted by Mr Toots. Mr Toots and his wife hadin factjust arrived
there; having been at the Midshipman's to seek himand having there
obtained the address.

They were not so recently arrivedbut that Mrs Toots had caught
the baby from somebodytaken it in her armsand sat down on the
stairshugging and fondling it. Florence was stooping down beside
her; and no one could have said which Mrs Toots was hugging and
fondling mostthe mother or the childor which was the tenderer
Florence of Mrs Tootsor Mrs Toots of heror both of the baby; it
was such a little group of love and agitation.

'And is your Pa very illmy darling dear Miss Floy?' asked Susan.

'He is veryvery ill' said Florence. 'ButSusandearyou must
not speak to me as you used to speak. And what's this?' said Florence
touching her clothesin amazement. 'Your old dressdear? Your old
capcurlsand all?'

Susan burst into tearsand showered kisses on the little hand that
had touched her so wonderingly.

'My dear Miss Dombey' said Mr Tootsstepping forward'I'll
explain. She's the most extraordinary woman. There are not many to
equal her! She has always said - she said before we were marriedand
has said to this day - that whenever you came homeshe'd come to you
in no dress but the dress she used to serve you infor fear she might
seem strange to youand you might like her less. I admire the dress
myself' said Mr Toots'of all things. I adore her in it! My dear
Miss Dombeyshe'll be your maid againyour nurseall that she ever
wasand more. There's no change in her. ButSusanmy dear' said Mr
Tootswho had spoken with great feeling and high admiration'all I
ask isthat you'll remember the medical manand not exert yourself
too much!'

CHAPTER 61.

Relenting

Florence had need of help. Her father's need of it was soreand
made the aid of her old friend invaluable. Death stood at his pillow.
A shadealreadyof what he had beenshattered in mindand
perilously sick in bodyhe laid his weary head down on the bed his
daughter's hands prepared for himand had never raised it since.


She was always with him. He knew hergenerally; thoughin the
wandering of his brainhe often confused the circumstances under
which he spoke to her. Thus he would address hersometimesas if his
boy were newly dead; and would tell herthat although he had said
nothing of her ministering at the little bedsideyet he had seen it he
had seen it; and then would hide his face and soband put out his
worn hand. Sometimes he would ask her for herself. 'Where is
Florence?' 'I am herePapaI am here.' 'I don't know her!' he would
cry. 'We have been parted so longthat I don't know her!' and then a
staring dread would he upon himuntil she could soothe his
perturbation; and recall the tears she tried so hardat other times
to dry.

He rambled through the scenes of his old pursuits - through many
where Florence lost him as she listened - sometimes for hours. He
would repeat that childish question'What is money?' and ponder on
itand think about itand reason with himselfmore or less
connectedlyfor a good answer; as if it had never been proposed to
him until that moment. He would go on with a musing repetition of the
title of his old firm twenty thousand timesand at every one of them
would turn his head upon his pillow. He would count his children - one

-two - stopand go backand begin again in the same way.
But this was when his mind was in its most distracted state. In all
the other phases of its illnessand in those to which it was most
constantit always turned on Florence. What he would oftenest do was
this: he would recall that night he had so recently rememberedthe
night on which she came down to his roomand would imagine that his
heart smote himand that he went out after herand up the stairs to
seek her. Thenconfounding that time with the later days of the many
footstepshe would be amazed at their numberand begin to count them
as he followed her. Hereof a suddenwas a bloody footstep going on
among the others; and after it there began to beat intervalsdoors
standing openthrough which certain terrible pictures were seenin
mirrorsof haggard menconcealing something in their breasts. Still
among the many footsteps and the bloody footsteps here and therewas
the step of Florence. Still she was going on before. Still the
restless mind wentfollowing and countingever fartherever higher
as to the summit of a mighty tower that it took years to climb.

One day he inquired if that were not Susan who had spoken a long
while ago.

Florence said 'Yesdear Papa;' and asked him would he like to see
her?

He said 'very much.' And Susanwith no little trepidationshowed
herself at his bedside.

It seemed a great relief to him. He begged her not to go; to
understand that he forgave her what she had said; and that she was to
stay. Florence and he were very different nowhe saidand very
happy. Let her look at this! He meant his drawing the gentle head down
to his pillowand laying it beside him.

He remained like this for days and weeks. At lengthlyingthe
faint feeble semblance of a manupon his bedand speaking in a voice
so low that they could only hear him by listening very near to his
lipshe became quiet. It was dimly pleasant to him nowto lie there
with the window openlooking out at the summer sky and the trees:
andin the eveningat the sunset. To watch the shadows of the clouds
and leavesand seem to feel a sympathy with shadows. It was natural
that he should. To himlife and the world were nothing else.


He began to show now that he thought of Florence's fatigue: and
often taxed his weakness to whisper to her'Go and walkmy dearest
in the sweet air. Go to your good husband!' One time when Walter was
in his roomhe beckoned him to come nearand to stoop down; and
pressing his handwhispered an assurance to him that he knew he could
trust him with his child when he was dead.

It chanced one eveningtowards sunsetwhen Florence and Walter
were sitting in his room togetheras he liked to see themthat
Florencehaving her baby in her armsbegan in a low voice to sing to
the little fellowand sang the old tune she had so often sung to the
dead child: He could not bear it at the time; he held up his trembling
handimploring her to stop; but next day he asked her to repeat it
and to do so often of an evening: which she did. He listeningwith
his face turned away.

Florence was sitting on a certain time by his windowwith her
work-basket between her and her old attendantwho was still her
faithful companion. He had fallen into a doze. It was a beautiful
eveningwith two hours of light to come yet; and the tranquillity and
quiet made Florence very thoughtful. She was lost to everything for
the momentbut the occasion when the so altered figure on the bed had
first presented her to her beautiful Mama; when a touch from Walter
leaning on the back of her chairmade her start.

'My dear' said Walter'there is someone downstairs who wishes to
speak to you.

She fancied Walter looked graveand asked him if anything had
happened.

'Nonomy love!' said Walter. 'I have seen the gentleman myself
and spoken with him. Nothing has happened. Will you come?'

Florence put her arm through his; and confiding her father to the
black-eyed Mrs Tootswho sat as brisk and smart at her work as
black-eyed woman couldaccompanied her husband downstairs. In the
pleasant little parlour opening on the gardensat a gentlemanwho
rose to advance towards her when she came inbut turned offby
reason of some peculiarity in his legsand was only stopped by the
table.

Florence then remembered Cousin Feenixwhom she had not at first
recognised in the shade of the leaves. Cousin Feenix took her hand
and congratulated her upon her marriage.

'I could have wishedI am sure' said Cousin Feenixsitting down
as Florence satto have had an earlier opportunity of offering my
congratulations; butin point of factso many painful occurrences
have happenedtreadingas a man may sayon one another's heels
that I have been in a devil of a state myselfand perfectly unfit for
every description of society. The only description of society I have
kepthas been my own; and it certainly is anything but flattering to
a man's good opinion of his own sourcesto know thatin point of
facthe has the capacity of boring himself to a perfectly unlimited
extent.'

Florence divinedfrom some indefinable constraint and anxiety in
this gentleman's manner - which was always a gentleman'sin spite of
the harmless little eccentricities that attached to it - and from
Walter's manner no lessthat something more immediately tending to
some object was to follow this.


'I have been mentioning to my friend Mr Gayif I may be allowed to
have the honour of calling him so' said Cousin Feenix'that I am
rejoiced to hear that my friend Dombey is very decidedly mending. I
trust my friend Dombey will not allow his mind to be too much preyed
uponby any mere loss of fortune. I cannot say that I have ever
experienced any very great loss of fortune myself: never having had
in point of factany great amount of fortune to lose. But as much as
I could loseI have lost; and I don't find that I particularly care
about it. I know my friend Dombey to be a devilish honourable man; and
it's calculated to console my friend Dombey very muchto knowthat
this is the universal sentiment. Even Tommy Screwzer- a man of an
extremely bilious habitwith whom my friend Gay is probably
acquainted - cannot say a syllable in disputation of the fact.'

Florence feltmore than everthat there was something to come;
and looked earnestly for it. So earnestlythat Cousin Feenix
answeredas if she had spoken.

'The fact is' said Cousin Feenix'that my friend Gay and myself
have been discussing the propriety of entreating a favour at your
hands; and that I have the consent of my friend Gay - who has met me
in an exceedingly kind and open mannerfor which I am very much
indebted to him - to solicit it. I am sensible that so amiable a lady
as the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey will not
require much urging; but I am happy to knowthat I am supported by my
friend Gay's influence and approval. As in my parliamentary timewhen
a man had a motion to make of any sort - which happened seldom in
those daysfor we were kept very tight in handthe leaders on both
sides being regular Martinetswhich was a devilish good thing for the
rank and filelike myselfand prevented our exposing ourselves
continuallyas a great many of us had a feverish anxiety to do - as'
in my parliamentary timeI was about to saywhen a man had leave to
let off any little private popgunit was always considered a great
point for him to say that he had the happiness of believing that his
sentiments were not without an echo in the breast of Mr Pitt; the
pilotin point of factwho had weathered the storm. Upon whicha
devilish large number of fellows immediately cheeredand put him in
spirits. Though the fact isthat these fellowsbeing under orders to
cheer most excessively whenever Mr Pitt's name was mentionedbecame
so proficient that it always woke 'em. And they were so entirely
innocent of what was going onotherwisethat it used to be commonly
said by Conversation Brown - four-bottle man at the Treasury Board
with whom the father of my friend Gay was probably acquaintedfor it
was before my friend Gay's time - that if a man had risen in his
placeand said that he regretted to inform the house that there was
an Honourable Member in the last stage of convulsions in the Lobby
and that the Honourable Member's name was Pittthe approbation would
have been vociferous.'

This postponement of the pointput Florence in a flutter; and she
looked from Cousin Feenix to Walterin increasing agitatioN

'My love' said Walter'there is nothing the matter.

'There is nothing the matterupon my honour' said Cousin Feenix;
'and I am deeply distressed at being the means of causing you a
moment's uneasiness. I beg to assure you that there is nothing the
matter. The favour that I have to ask issimply - but it really does
seem so exceedingly singularthat I should be in the last degree
obliged to my friend Gay if he would have the goodness to break the in
point of factthe ice' said Cousin Feenix.

Walter thus appealed toand appealed to no less in the look that
Florence turned towards himsaid:


'My dearestit is no more than this. That you will ride to London
with this gentlemanwhom you know.

'And my friend Gayalso - I beg your pardon!' interrupted Cousin
Feenix.

And with me - and make a visit somewhere.'

'To whom?' asked Florencelooking from one to the other.

'If I might entreat' said Cousin Feenix'that you would not press
for an answer to that questionI would venture to take the liberty of
making the request.'

'Do you knowWalter?'

'Yes.'

'And think it right?'

'Yes. Only because I am sure that you would too. Though there may
be reasons I very well understandwhich make it better that nothing
more should be said beforehand.'

'If Papa is still asleepor can spare me if he is awakeI will go
immediately' said Florence. And rising quietlyand glancing at them
with a look that was a little alarmed but perfectly confidingleft
the room.

When she came backready to bear them companythey were talking
togethergravelyat the window; and Florence could not but wonder
what the topic wasthat had made them so well acquainted in so short
a time. She did not wonder at the look of pride and love with which
her husband broke off as she entered; for she never saw himbut that
rested on her.

'I will leave' said Cousin Feenix'a card for my friend Dombey
sincerely trusting that he will pick up health and strength with every
returning hour. And I hope my friend Dombey will do me the favour to
consider me a man who has a devilish warm admiration of his character
asin point of facta British merchant and a devilish upright
gentleman. My place in the country is in a most confounded state of
dilapidationbut if my friend Dombey should require a change of air
and would take up his quarters therehe would find it a remarkably
healthy spot - as it need befor it's amazingly dull. If my friend
Dombey suffers from bodily weaknessand would allow me to recommend
what has frequently done myself goodas a man who has been extremely
queer at timesand who lived pretty freely in the days when men lived
very freelyI should saylet it be in point of fact the yolk of an
eggbeat up with sugar and nutmegin a glass of sherryand taken in
the morning with a slice of dry toast. Jacksonwho kept the
boxing-rooms in Bond Street - man of very superior qualifications
with whose reputation my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted - used to
mention that in training for the ring they substituted rum for sherry.
I should recommend sherry in this caseon account of my friend Dombey
being in an invalided condition; which might occasion rum to fly - in
point of fact to his head - and throw him into a devil of a state.'

Of all thisCousin Feenix delivered himself with an obviously
nervous and discomposed air. Thengiving his arm to Florenceand
putting the strongest possible constraint upon his wilful legswhich
seemed determined to go out into the gardenhe led her to the door
and handed her into a carriage that was ready for her reception.


Walter entered after himand they drove away.

Their ride was six or eight miles long. When they drove through
certain dull and stately streetslying westward in Londonit was
growing dusk. Florence hadby this timeput her hand in Walter's;
and was looking very earnestlyand with increasing agitationinto
every new street into which they turned.

When the carriage stoppedat lastbefore that house in Brook
Streetwhere her father's unhappy marriage had been celebrated
Florence said'Walterwhat is this? Who is here?' Walter cheering
herand not replyingshe glanced up at the house-frontand saw that
all the windows were shutas if it were uninhabited. Cousin Feenix
had by this time alightedand was offering his hand.

'Are you not comingWalter?'

'NoI will remain here. Don't tremble there is nothing to fear
dearest Florence.'

'I know thatWalterwith you so near. I am sure of thatbut - '

The door was softly openedwithout any knockand Cousin Feenix
led her out of the summer evening air into the close dull house. More
sombre and brown than everit seemed to have been shut up from the
wedding-dayand to have hoarded darkness and sadness ever since.

Florence ascended the dusky staircasetrembling; and stoppedwith
her conductorat the drawing-room door. He opened itwithout
speakingand signed an entreaty to her to advance into the inner
roomwhile he remained there. Florenceafter hesitating an instant
complied.

Sitting by the window at a tablewhere she seemed to have been
writing or drawingwas a ladywhose headturned away towards the
dying lightwas resting on her hand. Florence advancingdoubtfully
all at once stood stillas if she had lost the power of motion. The
lady turned her head.

'Great Heaven!' she said'what is this?'

'Nono!' cried Florenceshrinking back as she rose up and putting
out her hands to keep her off. 'Mama!'

They stood looking at each other. Passion and pride had worn it
but it was the face of Edithand beautiful and stately yet. It was
the face of Florenceand through all the terrified avoidance it
expressedthere was pity in itsorrowa grateful tender memory. On
each facewonder and fear were painted vividly; each so still and
silentlooking at the other over the black gulf of the irrevocable past.

Florence was the first to change. Bursting into tearsshe said
from her full heart'OhMamaMama! why do we meet like this? Why
were you ever kind to me when there was no one elsethat we should
meet like this?'

Edith stood before herdumb and motionless. Her eyes were fixed
upon her face.

'I dare not think of that' said Florence'I am come from Papa's
sick bed. We are never asunder now; we never shall be' any more. If
you would have me ask his pardonI will do itMama. I am almost sure
he will grant it nowif I ask him. May Heaven grant it to youtoo


and comfort you!'

She answered not a word.

'Walter - I am married to himand we have a son' said Florence
timidly - 'is at the doorand has brought me here. I will tell him
that you are repentant; that you are changed' said Florencelooking
mournfully upon her; 'and he will speak to Papa with meI know. Is
there anything but this that I can do?'

Edithbreaking her silencewithout moving eye or limbanswered
slowly:

'The stain upon your nameupon your husband'son your child's.
Will that ever be forgivenFlorence?'

'Will it ever beMama? It is! Freelyfreelyboth by Walter and
by me. If that is any consolation to youthere is nothing that you
may believe more certainly. You do not - you do not' faltered
Florence'speak of Papa; but I am sure you wish that I should ask him
for his forgiveness. I am sure you do.'

She answered not a word.

'I will!' said Florence. 'I will bring it youif you will let me;
and thenperhapswe may take leave of each othermore like what we
used to be to one another. I have not' said Florence very gentlyand
drawing nearer to her'I have not shrunk back from youMamabecause
I fear youor because I dread to be disgraced by you. I only wish to
do my duty to Papa. I am very dear to himand he is very dear to me.
But I never can forget that you were very good to me. Ohpray to
Heaven' cried Florencefalling on her bosom'pray to HeavenMama
to forgive you all this sin and shameand to forgive me if I cannot
help doing this (if it is wrong)when I remember what you used to
be!'

Edithas if she fell beneath her touchsunk down on her knees
and caught her round the neck.

'Florence!' she cried. 'My better angel! Before I am mad again
before my stubbornness comes back and strikes me dumbbelieve me
upon my soul I am innocent!'

'Mama!'

'Guilty of much! Guilty of that which sets a waste between us
evermore. Guilty of what must separate methrough the whole remainder
of my lifefrom purity and innocence - from youof all the earth.
Guilty of a blind and passionate resentmentof which I do not
cannotwill noteven nowrepent; but not guilty with that dead man.
Before God!'

Upon her knees upon the groundshe held up both her handsand
swore it.

'Florence!' she said'purest and best of natures- whom I love who
might have changed me long agoand did for a time work some
change even in the woman that I am- believe meI am innocent of
that; and once moreon my desolate heartlet me lay this dear head
for the last time!'

She was moved and weeping. Had she been oftener thus in older days
she had been happier now.


'There is nothing else in all the world' she said'that would
have wrung denial from me. No loveno hatredno hopeno threat. I
said that I would dieand make no sign. I could have done soand I
wouldif we had never metFlorence.

'I trust' said Cousin Feenixambling in at the doorand
speakinghalf in the roomand half out of it'that my lovely and
accomplished relative will excuse my havingby a little stratagem
effected this meeting. I cannot say that I wasat firstwholly
incredulous as to the possibility of my lovely and accomplished
relative havingvery unfortunatelycommitted herself with the
deceased person with white teeth; because in point of factone does
seein this world - which is remarkable for devilish strange
arrangementsand for being decidedly the most unintelligible thing
within a man's experience - very odd conjunctions of that sort. But as
I mentioned to my friend DombeyI could not admit the criminality of
my lovely and accomplished relative until it was perfectly
established. And feelingwhen the deceased person wasin point of
factdestroyed in a devilish horrible mannerthat her position was a
very painful one - and feeling besides that our family had been a
little to blame in not paying more attention to herand that we are a
careless family - and also that my auntthough a devilish lively
womanhad perhaps not been the very best of mothers - I took the
liberty of seeking her in Franceand offering her such protection as
a man very much out at elbows could offer. Upon which occasionmy
lovely and accomplished relative did me the honour to express that she
believed I wasin my waya devilish good sort of fellow; and that
therefore she put herself under my protection. Which in point of fact
I understood to be a kind thing on the part of my lovely and
accomplished relativeas I am getting extremely shakyand have
derived great comfort from her solicitude.'

Edithwho had taken Florence to a sofamade a gesture with her
hand as if she would have begged him to say no more.

'My lovely and accomplished relative' resumed Cousin Feenixstill
ambling about at the door'will excuse meiffor her satisfaction
and my ownand that of my friend Dombeywhose lovely and
accomplished daughter we so much admireI complete the thread of my
observations. She will remember thatfrom the firstshe and I never
alluded to the subject of her elopement. My impressioncertainlyhas
always beenthat there was a mystery in the affair which she could
explain if so inclined. But my lovely and accomplished relative being
a devilish resolute womanI knew that she was notin point of fact
to be trifled withand therefore did not involve myself in any
discussions. Butobserving latelythat her accessible point did
appear to be a very strong description of tenderness for the daughter
of my friend Dombeyit occurred to me that if I could bring about a
meetingunexpected on both sidesit might lead to beneficial
results. Thereforewe being in Londonin the present private way
before going to the South of Italythere to establish ourselvesin
point of factuntil we go to our long homeswhich is a devilish
disagreeable reflection for a manI applied myself to the discovery
of the residence of my friend Gay - handsome man of an uncommonly
frank dispositionwho is probably known to my lovely and accomplished
relative - and had the happiness of bringing his amiable wife to the
present place. And now' said Cousin Feenixwith a real and genuine
earnestness shining through the levity of his manner and his slipshod
speech'I do conjure my relativenot to stop half waybut to set
rightas far as she canwhatever she has done wrong - not for the
honour of her familynot for her own famenot for any of those
considerations which unfortunate circumstances have induced her to
regard as hollowand in point of factas approaching to humbug - but
because it is wrongand not right.'


Cousin Feenix's legs consented to take him away after this; and
leaving them alone togetherhe shut the door.

Edith remained silent for some minuteswith Florence sitting close
beside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.

'I debated with myself a long time' she said in a low voice
'whether to write this at allin case of dying suddenly or by
accidentand feeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberatedever
sincewhen and how to destroy it. Take itFlorence. The truth is
written in it.'

'Is it for Papa?' asked Florence.

'It is for whom you will' she answered. 'It is given to youand
is obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.'

Again they sat silentin the deepening darkness.

'Mama' said Florence'he has lost his fortune; he has been at the
point of death; he may not recovereven now. Is there any word that I
shall say to him from you?'

'Did you tell me' asked Edith'that you were very dear to him?'

'Yes!' said Florencein a thrilling voice.

'Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.

'No more?' said Florence after a pause.

'Tell himif he asksthat I do not repent of what I have done not
yet - for if it were to do again to-morrowI should do it. But if
he is a changed man - '

She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence's
hand that stopped her.

'But that being a changed manhe knowsnowit would never be.
Tell him I wish it never had been.'

'May I say' said Florence'that you grieved to hear of the
afflictions he has suffered?'

'Not' she replied'if they have taught him that his daughter is
very dear to him. He will not grieve for them himselfone dayif
they have brought that lessonFlorence.'

'You wish well to himand would have him happy. I am sure you
would!' said Florence. 'Oh! let me be ableif I have the occasion at
some future timeto say so?'

Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly before herand did
not reply until Florence had repeated her entreaty; when she drew her
hand within her armand saidwith the same thoughtful gaze upon the
night outside:

'Tell him that ifin his own presenthe can find any reason to
compassionate my pastI sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him
that ifin his own presenthe can find a reason to think less
bitterly of meI asked him to do so. Tell himthatdead as we are
to one anothernever more to meet on this side of eternityhe knows
there is one feeling in common between us nowthat there never was


before.'

Her sternness seemed to yieldand there were tears in her dark
eyes.

'I trust myself to that' she said'for his better thoughts of me
and mine of him. When he loves his Florence mosthe will hate me
least. When he is most proud and happy in her and her childrenhe
will be most repentant of his own part in the dark vision of our
married life. At that timeI will be repentant too - let him know it
then - and think that when I thought so much of all the causes that
had made me what I wasI needed to have allowed more for the causes
that had made him what he was. I will trythento forgive him his
share of blame. Let him try to forgive me mine!'

'Oh Mama!' said Florence. 'How it lightens my hearteven in such a
strange meeting and partingto hear this!'

'Strange words in my own ears' said Edith'and foreign to the
sound of my own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I
have given him occasion to believe meI think I could have said them
stillhearing that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him
when you are dearestever feel that he is most forbearing in his
thoughts of me - that I am most forbearing in my thoughts of him!
Those are the last words I send him! Nowgoodbyemy life!'

She clasped her in her armsand seemed to pour out all her woman's
soul of love and tenderness at once.

'This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your
head! My own dear Florencemy sweet girlfarewell!'

'To meet again!' cried Florence.

'Never again! Never again! When you leave me in this dark room
think that you have left me in the grave. Remember only that I was
onceand that I loved you!'

And Florence left herseeing her face no morebut accompanied by
her embraces and caresses to the last.

Cousin Feenix met her at the doorand took her down to Walter in
the dingy dining roomupon whose shoulder she laid her head weeping.

'I am devilish sorry' said Cousin Feenixlifting his wristbands
to his eyes in the simplest manner possibleand without the least
concealment'that the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend
Dombey and amiable wife of my friend Gayshould have had her
sensitive nature so very much distressed and cut up by the interview
which is just concluded. But I hope and trust I have acted for the
bestand that my honourable friend Dombey will find his mind relieved
by the disclosures which have taken place. I exceedingly lament that
my friend Dombey should have got himselfin point of factinto the
devil's own state of conglomeration by an alliance with our family;
but am strongly of opinion that if it hadn't been for the infernal
scoundrel Barker - man with white teeth - everything would have gone
on pretty smoothly. In regard to my relative who does me the honour to
have formed an uncommonly good opinion of myselfI can assure the
amiable wife of my friend Gaythat she may rely on my beingin point
of facta father to her. And in regard to the changes of human life
and the extraordinary manner in which we are perpetually conducting
ourselvesall I can say iswith my friend Shakespeare - man who
wasn't for an age but for all timeand with whom my friend Gay is no
doubt acquainted - that its like the shadow of a dream.'


CHAPTER 62.

Final

A bottle that has been long excluded from the light of dayand is
hoary with dust and cobwebshas been brought into the sunshine; and
the golden wine within it sheds a lustre on the table.

It is the last bottle of the old Madiera.

'You are quite rightMr Gills' says Mr Dombey. 'This is a very
rare and most delicious wine.'

The Captainwho is of the partybeams with joy. There is a very
halo of delight round his glowing forehead.

'We always promised ourselvesSir' observes Mr Gills' Ned and
myselfI mean - '

Mr Dombey nods at the Captainwho shines more and more with
speechless gratification.

'-that we would drink thisone day or otherto Walter safe at
home: though such a home we never thought of. If you don't object to
our old whimSirlet us devote this first glass to Walter and his
wife.'

'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Dombey. 'Florencemy child' and
turns to kiss her.

'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Toots.

'To Wal'r and his wife!' exclaims the Captain. 'Hooroar!' and the
Captain exhibiting a strong desire to clink his glass against some
other glassMr Dombeywith a ready handholds out his. The others
follow; and there is a blithe and merry ringingas of a little peal
of marriage bells.

Other buried wine grows olderas the old Madeira did in its time;
and dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.

Mr Dombey is a white-haired gentlemanwhose face bears heavy marks
of care and suffering; but they are traces of a storm that has passed
on for everand left a clear evening in its track.

Ambitious projects trouble him no more. His only pride is in his
daughter and her husband. He has a silentthoughtfulquiet manner
and is always with his daughter. Miss Tox is not infrequently of the
family partyand is quite devoted to itand a great favourite. Her
admiration of her once stately patron isand has been ever since the
morning of her shock in Princess's Placeplatonicbut not weakened
in the least.

Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his fortunesbut a
certain annual sum that comes he knows not howwith an earnest
entreaty that he will not seek to discoverand with the assurance
that it is a debtand an act of reparation. He has consulted with his
old clerk about thiswho is clear it may be honourably acceptedand
has no doubt it arises out of some forgotten transaction in the times


of the old House.

That hazel-eyed bachelora bachelor no moreis married nowand
to the sister of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief
sometimesbut seldom. There is a reason in the greyhaired Junior's
historyand yet a stronger reason in his namewhy he should keep
retired from his old employer; and as he lives with his sister and her
husbandthey participate in that retirement. Walter sees them
sometimes - Florence too - and the pleasant house resounds with
profound duets arranged for the Piano-Forte and Violoncelloand with
the labours of Harmonious Blacksmiths.

And how goes the wooden Midshipman in these changed days? Whyhere
he still isright leg foremosthard at work upon the hackney
coachesand more on the alert than everbeing newly painted from his
cocked hat to his buckled shoes; and up above himin golden
charactersthese names shine refulgentGILLS AND CUTTLE.

Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman achieve beyond
his usual easy trade. But they do sayin a circuit of some half-mile
round the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Marketthat some of Mr Gills's
old investments are coming out wonderfully well; and that instead of
being behind the time in those respectsas he supposedhe wasin
trutha little before itand had to wait the fulness of the time and
the design. The whisper is that Mr Gills's money has begun to turn
itselfand that it is turning itself over and over pretty briskly.
Certain it is thatstanding at his shop-doorin his coffee-coloured
suitwith his chronometer in his pocketand his spectacles on his
foreheadhe don't appear to break his heart at customers not coming
but looks very jovial and contentedthough full as misty as of yore.

As to his partnerCaptain Cuttlethere is a fiction of a business
in the Captain's mind which is better than any reality. The Captain is
as satisfied of the Midshipman's importance to the commerce and
navigation of the countryas he could possibly beif no ship left
the Port of London without the Midshipman's assistance. His delight in
his own name over the dooris inexhaustible. He crosses the street
twenty times a dayto look at it from the other side of the way; and
invariably sayson these occasions'Ed'ard Cuttlemy ladif your
mother could ha' know'd as you would ever be a man o' sciencethe
good old creetur would ha' been took aback in-deed!'

But here is Mr Toots descending on the Midshipman with violent
rapidityand Mr Toots's face is very red as he bursts into the little
parlour.

'Captain Gills' says Mr Toots'and Mr SolsI am happy to inform
you that Mrs Toots has had an increase to her family.

'And it does her credit!' cries the Captain.

'I give you joyMr Toots!' says old Sol.

'Thank'ee' chuckles Mr Toots'I'm very much obliged to you. I
knew that you'd be glad to hearand so I came down myself. We're
positively getting onyou know. There's Florenceand Susanand now
here's another little stranger.'

'A female stranger?' inquires the Captain.

'YesCaptain Gills' says Mr Toots'and I'm glad of it. The
oftener we can repeat that most extraordinary womanmy opinion is
the better!'


'Stand by!' says the Captainturning to the old case-bottle with
no throat - for it is eveningand the Midshipman's usual moderate
provision of pipes and glasses is on the board. 'Here's to herand
may she have ever so many more!'

'Thank'eeCaptain Gills' says the delighted Mr Toots. 'I echo the
sentiment. If you'll allow meas my so doing cannot be unpleasant to
anybodyunder the circumstancesI think I'll take a pipe.'

Mr Toots begins to smokeaccordinglyand in the openness of his
heart is very loquacious.

'Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has
given of her excellent senseCaptain Gills and Mr Sols' said Mr
Toots'I think none is more remarkable than the perfection with which
she has understood my devotion to Miss Dombey.'

Both his auditors assent.

'Because you know' says Mr Toots'I have never changed my
sentiments towards Miss Dombey. They are the same as ever. She is the
same bright vision to meat presentthat she was before I made
Walters's acquaintance. When Mrs Toots and myself first began to talk
of - in shortof the tender passionyou knowCaptain Gills.'

'Ayaymy lad' says the Captain'as makes us all slue round for
which you'll overhaul the book - '

'I shall certainly do soCaptain Gills' says Mr Tootswith great
earnestness; 'when we first began to mention such subjectsI
explained that I was what you may call a Blighted Floweryou know.'

The Captain approves of this figure greatly; and murmurs that no
flower as blowsis like the rose.

'But Lord bless me' pursues Mr Toots'she was as entirely
conscious of the state of my feelings as I was myself. There was
nothing I could tell her. She was the only person who could have stood
between me and the silent Tomband she did itin a manner to command
my everlasting admiration. She knows that there's nobody in the world
I look up toas I do to Miss Dombey. Knows that there's nothing on
earth I wouldn't do for Miss Dombey. She knows that I consider Miss
Dombey the most beautifulthe most amiablethe most angelic of her
sex. What is her observation upon that? The perfection of sense. "My
dearyou're right. I think so too."'

'And so do I!' says the Captain.

'So do I' says Sol Gills.

'Then' resumes Mr Tootsafter some contemplative pulling at his
pipeduring which his visage has expressed the most contented
reflection'what an observant woman my wife is! What sagacity she
possesses! What remarks she makes! It was only last nightwhen we
were sitting in the enjoyment of connubial bliss - whichupon my word
and honouris a feeble term to express my feelings in the society of
my wife - that she said how remarkable it was to consider the present
position of our friend Walters. "Here observes my wife, he is
released from sea-goingafter that first long voyage with his young
bride" - as you know he wasMr Sols.'

'Quite true' says the old Instrument-makerrubbing his hands.

'Here he is,says my wifereleased from that, immediately;


appointed by the same establishment to a post of great trust and
confidence at home; showing himself again worthy; mounting up the
ladder with the greatest expedition; beloved by everybody; assisted by
his uncle at the very best possible time of his fortunes- which I
think is the caseMr Sols? My wife is always correct.'

'Why yesyes - some of our lost shipsfreighted with goldhave
come hometruly' returns old Sollaughing. 'Small craftMr Toots
but serviceable to my boy!'

'Exactly so' says Mr Toots. 'You'll never find my wife wrong.
Here he is,says that most remarkable womanso situated, - and
what follows? What follows?observed Mrs Toots. Now pray remark
Captain Gillsand Mr Solsthe depth of my wife's penetration. "Why
thatunder the very eye of Mr Dombeythere is a foundation going on
upon which a - an Edifice;" that was Mrs Toots's word' says Mr Toots
exultingly'is gradually rising, perhaps to equal, perhaps excel,
that of which he was once the head, and the small beginnings of which
(a common fault, but a bad one, Mrs Toots said) escaped his memory.
Thus,said my wifefrom his daughter, after all, another Dombey and
Son will ascend- no "rise;" that was Mrs Toots's word "
triumphant!"'

Mr Tootswith the assistance of his pipe - which he is extremely
glad to devote to oratorical purposesas its proper use affects him
with a very uncomfortable sensation - does such grand justice to this
prophetic sentence of his wife'sthat the Captainthrowing away his
glazed hat in a state of the greatest excitementcries:

'Sol Gillsyou man of science and my ould pardnerwhat did I tell
Wal'r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business?
Was it this here quotationTurn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of
London, and when you are old you will never depart from it. Was it
them wordsSol Gills?'

'It certainly wasNed' replied the old Instrument-maker. 'I
remember well.'

'Then I tell you what' says the Captainleaning back in his
chairand composing his chest for a prodigious roar. 'I'll give you
Lovely Peg right through; and stand byboth on youfor the chorus!'

Buried wine grows olderas the old Madeira didin its time; and
dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.

Autumn days are shiningand on the sea-beach there are often a
young ladyand a white-haired gentleman. With themor near themare
two children: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their
company.

The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boytalks with
himhelps him in his playattends upon himwatches him as if he
were the object of his life. If he be thoughtfulthe white-haired
gentleman is thoughtful too; and sometimes when the child is sitting
by his sideand looks up in his faceasking him questionshe takes
the tiny hand in hisand holding itforgets to answer. Then the
child says:

'Whatgrandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again?'

'YesPaul. But he was weakand you are very strong.'

'Oh yesI am very strong.'


'And he lay on a little bed beside the seaand you can run about.'

And so they range away againbusilyfor the white-haired
gentleman likes best to see the child free and stirring; and as they
go about togetherthe story of the bond between them goes aboutand
follows them.

But no oneexcept Florenceknows the measure of the white-haired
gentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The
child herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He
hoards her in his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face.
He cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a
slightwhen there is none. He steals away to look at herin her
sleep. It pleases him to have her comeand wake him in the morning.
He is fondest of her and most loving to herwhen there is no creature
by. The child says thensometimes:

'Dear grandpapawhy do you cry when you kiss me?'

He only answers'Little Florence! little Florence!' and smooths
away the curls that shade her earnest eyes.

The voices in the waves speak low to him of Florenceday and night

-plainest when hehis blooming daughterand her husbandbeside
them in the eveningor sit at an open windowlistening to their
roar. They speak to him of Florence and his altered heart; of Florence
and their ceaseless murmuring to her of the loveeternal and
illimitableextending stillbeyond the seabeyond the skyto the
invisible country far away.
Never from the mighty sea may voices rise too lateto come between
us and the unseen region on the other shore! Betterfar betterthat
they whispered of that region in our childish earsand the swift
river hurried us away!

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Domby and Sonby Dickens

End of the

PREFACE OF 1848

I cannot forego my usual opportunity of saying
farewell to my readers in this greetingplace
though I have only to acknowledge the unbounded
warmth and earnestness of their sympathy in every
stage of the journey we have just concluded.

If any of them have felt a sorrow in one of the
principal incidents on which this fiction turnsI
hope it may be a sorrow of that sort which endears
the sharers in itone to another. This is not
unselfish in me. I may claim to have felt itat least
as much as anybody else; and I would fain be
remembered kindly for my part in the experience.


DEVONSHIRE TERRACE
Twenty-Fourth March1848.

PREFACE OF 1867

I make so bold as to believe that the faculty (or the habit) of
correctly observing the characters of menis a rare one. I have not
even foundwithin my experiencethat the faculty (or the habit) of
correctly observing so much as the faces of menis a general one
by any means. The two commonest mistakes in judgement that I
suppose to arise from the former defaultarethe confounding of
shyness with arrogance - a very common mistake indeed - and the
not understanding that an obstinate nature exists in a perpetual
struggle with itself.

Mr Dombey undergoes no violent changeeither in this bookor
in real life. A sense of his injustice is within himall along. The
more he represses itthe more unjust he necessarily is. Internal
shame and external circumstances may bring the contest to a close
in a weekor a day; butit has been a contest for yearsand is only
fought out after a long balance of victory.

I began this book by the Lake of Genevaand went on with it
for some months in Francebefore pursuing it in England. The
association between the writing and the place of writing is so
curiously strong in my mindthat at this dayalthough I knowin
my fancyevery stair in the little midshipman's houseand could
swear to every pew in the church in which Florence was married
or to every young gentleman's bedstead in Doctor Blimber's
establishmentI yet confusedly imagine Captain Cuttle as secluding
himself from Mrs MacStinger among the mountains of Switzerland.
Similarlywhen I am reminded by any chance of what it was
that the waves were always sayingmy remembrance wanders for
a whole winter night about the streets of Paris - as I restlessly did
with a heavy hearton the night when I had written the chapter in
which my little friend and I parted company.